I am taking a poll and your opinion is very important to me.
Last night after a long day at an amusement park with all of our clients and their children, I really really wanted to take a hot bath. You might even say I needed it because it was way hotter than I anticipated it would get at 7:00 in the morning and so I proceeded to dress for the arctic tundra in a down puffy vest, jeans, and wool socks. Thank you, Dallas Raines. So when I finally got home, I headed straight for the bathroom and started running the water. I dumped in my prized Lush products and proceeded to grab a book, a lighter for my candles, and throw all of my sweaty clothes in the laundry. I came back to the bathroom five minutes later expecting to see a full, frothy, steamy tub of bubbles. So you can understand that I was more than disappointed to see a nearly empty bathtub. I kept staring at the water thinking somehow it would start to rise; however, in the two minutes I stood there absolutely nothing happened. Or should I say, nothing happened other than my beloved Lush products disappeared down the drain and the water level did not break the .4cm mark.
Curious, I got into the tub thinking that maybe my body would somehow displace the puddle of water and somehow make it feel 10 inches deep. (That's what she said?!) I flipped the lever back and forth that controls the drain and finally had the revelation that when my landlord had my pipes fixed yet again the week before, my landlord's genius brother-turned-handyman must have broken my drain stopper. I sank back against the cold porcelain in sheer disgust and exhaustion, fighting the realization that my bath was just not going to happen. Just as my back hit the ice cold of defeat, my heel brushed against the drain and I had the awesome epiphany that my heel was the exact same size as the diameter of my drain. You see where this story is going at this point and so now you are thinking, does she stick her foot in? Or does she have some pride, get out, and place a phone call to her landlord?
Like I said, I was tired, sweaty, and now freezing from the cold porcelain of my tub. My book was in hand and the candles were lit and I am not going to lie. I stuck my foot in.
A couple chapters later, I was sufficiently relaxed and content with the fact that I had made good use of my very expensive bath products, which were a gift from a very dear friend. (Thank you, Ragon!) I like to think this was more of a deft maneuver, at most bordering on "boughetto," which is a term coined by my favorite Atlanta Housewife and former member of Xscape, and means a combination of bourgeois (expensive Lush products) and ghetto (my foot is in the drain). But the real question is....what do you think?
Friday, October 29, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Good night, sleep tight...
For those of you who know me personally, you know that rarely am I able to post a blog in a timely manner. Now, this is not because I am a particularly slow typer or a chronic editor of my own work. This is due to the fact that what I typically blog about are subjects which are a little painful and hard to admit to the public at large (or at least all 12 of my followers, 10 if you don't count my parents). It takes me awhile to process these traumas before I can share. So what I am about to tell you hits a little close to home. So close, you could even say it was in my very own bed.
For the past year at work we have been battling, like much of the country, or at least Niketown and the Roosevelt Hotel in New York, a problem with bed bugs. It's bound to happen in close communities, especially when you are dealing with the homeless population, and especially when you work for a nonprofit with limited resources. Needless to say, this situation has been a plague upon my pre-existing anxiety disorder. Every time anyone at work even mentions being bit in one of our housing projects, I start feeling itchy. I realize the lunacy of it, but it's sincerely out of my control. Once again, I am a therapist and so I know this is what we call a compulsion. I can't help it...and if you don't believe that this is how it works, watch the show Hoarders on A&E. Talk about compulsions. My apartment is actually usually quite clean and orderly (and now, especially minimalist) in spite of the fact that I have two pets. This comes from being raised by a mother who had a close, personal relationship with the vacuum cleaner throughout my childhood. Apparently, compulsions are genetic, which is a fact that came in handy when I had to later make a phone call to my landlord.
So, rewind several weeks when we had reached our pique of bed bug infestation at work. The agency was finally breaking down and exterminating the entire apartment building our clients live in and the staff was being forced to help the clients prepare. "You mean we are supposed to go into their apartments where we know there are bed bugs and help them pack everything in preparation for extermination?" My boss did not look too happy with my apparently elitest sounding questions, so I shut my mouth and made up my mind to assist from the doorway. It just so happened that our infestation coincided with the news media sensationalizing bed bug outbreaks pretty much every hour on the hour. "Breaking news: we're going to show you more creepy looking pictures of bed bugs while you are eating your breakfast." Thank you, Matt Lauer and Meredith Vieira.
I know myself, and I know I should have turned off the television a long time ago. I know that a few years ago when gas prices were being hiked up higher and higher and almost reached $5/gallon here in LA, I was convinced (along with some very compelling writers at TIME magazine) that it was connected to the impending global food shortage and I was picturing myself withering away from starvation after being forced to eat nothing but rice for four years on end. I know that at the mention of salmonella poisoning on the news I am much happier to toss everything from my refrigerator and dog food pantry than to risk the pooch and I eating fecal matter and dying. (How embarassing of a eulogy would that be?!) And I know that I could only be forced to watch so many news stories on bed bugs and see so many bites on clients at work before I was convinced that I had a few extra roommates myself, I type as I continue to scratch my arms furiously.
Questions I should have asked myself: 1) Do you have any bites on your arms and legs? 2) Have you seen any actual bugs on your linens, clothes, or sheets?
Had I asked myself these questions, I probably could have avoided a three-day panic attack and dropping a week's salary at Bed, Bath, & Beyond. However, I did not, and instead, what I did was notice a few small, brown flecks at the bottom of my laundry basket when I was doing my laundry one Sunday. And I have already told you about my Monday morning breakfast convo with Matt and Meredith, which then got me thinking: were the little brown flecks at the bottom of my laundry basket evidence that I was officially bringing my work home with me? So I did the only rational thing one could do which was to call my most equally-neurotic friend on my way to work.
Questions she could have asked me: 1) Do you have any bites on your arms and legs? 2) Have you seen any actual bugs on your linens, clothes, or sheets?
Now, to her credit, I was pretty much already convinced I was infested and thus doomed to shave my head, burn all of my furniture, clothes, and linens, sell my car (because after all, I hadn't sprung for the leather seats and therefore the cloth was most likely infested as well) and then move to a new apartment. It's not like I was asking her to talk me down off the ledge; I was telling her to help me crawl out the 54th floor window. Her advice: "Check your mattress."
After a painfully long, eight hour work day, I walked through my front door, ignored my hyper-active, hungry pooch and went straight to the mattresses. Yes, it was Godfather-style, but no, not in the way you think. And sure enough there were exactly four of the same little brown flecks I had seen in the bottom of my laundry basket. Begin: panic mode. I immediately stifled a sob and then ripped the sheets off of my bed, bundled them up with the pillows and my duvet cover. I marched back out the front door with said linens in hand and made a deposit straight into the dumpster. There was no way I was going to sleep for one more second in sheets or on pillows that I had been sharing with new found friends from work. Fortunately, I did have the wherewithal to strip the duvet cover off of my down comforter, rather than simply throw everything away. Now that would have been excessive. Plus, I figured that I could dry clean the comforter and that would surely erase any memories of creepy bedfellows.
I then proceeded to make a few panic-stricken phone calls to friends and my parents, none of whom could really understand me and all of whom suggested I call my landlord and (not in so many words) get a grip. The phone call to my landlord did nothing but secure the notion that I was a dirty slob as her response to me was, "In all my years, I have never had a tenant get bed bugs." Nice. In all your years you probably never had a tenant with a pathological penchant for catastrophizing either. But like I said, my mother trained me well, and in the many times my landlord has been in and out of the apartment this past summer (see "Just call me the Godfather"), she knew I was right.
Fast forward two hours later, all my clothes were in piles separated by what was to be thrown away, what was going be donated to Goodwill (assuming they didn't mind traces of creepy crawlies), what could be washed and what would have to go to the dry cleaners along with my comforter. I stopped the mental tally in my head somewhere around $1000 to replace the linens and wash or dry clean everything I owned. A small price to pay to be able to truly live alone. A knock on the door proved to be my afore-mentioned equally neurotic friend, as well as two other more rational ones, to make sure I hadn't yet slit my wrists in panic. Needless to say, all were surprised when I shoved a ziplock baggy with one of the critters I caught in their faces. In retrospect, was it surprise or perhaps something more like disgust? This shock, if you will, quickly turned to empathy after the roomful of iphone "bed bug" google images confirmed we had a positive ID. The exterminator will come and it will all be over soon, they cooed, over the sound of my garbage can taking a shower. (Don't ask, but it made sense at the time. Disinfect everything.)
The rest of the story is fairly anti-climactic. The exterminator came out and after less than 30 seconds in my apartment confirmed that I had fallen victim to the media hype (along with about 40 other cases she had recently seen - maybe she was just trying to make me feel better, but it worked). My four friends were not bed bugs, but in fact, a rather harmless, non-breeding, non-invasive critter known as the cigarette beetle. "But I don't even smoke!" I exclaimed to her before my nerves had yet to calm down. I interpreted the look she gave me then as sympathy, but maybe it was disappointment in the finder's fee she would no longer be receiving because her company would not be able to charge my landlord a ridiculous amount of money to rid the apartment of bed bugs. Whatever the case, I was elated. Until I thought about the dumpster full of my former belongings. Again, in an attempt to make me feel better, the exterminator suggested I get them back out. Um, hello? Did you not just pick up on the fact that I would rather have no sheets or linens and but half of my former wardrobe rather than be surrounded by things that had once touched the idea of a bed bug? And now you are suggesting I crawl into my dumpster to re-outfit my bed? No, thank you.
Fortunately for me, Bed, Bath, & Beyond was in the middle of some great sales, and this all happened right around the time I would have conducted my biannual apartment (and life) scrub-down anyway. Truthfully, it was cathartic to rid myself of anything that hadn't seen the light outside of my closet in over a year, even if it was an interesting piece of wood I found in a store in Belize. And fortunately for me as well, cigarette beetles are not something you get from being dirty, a bad tenant, bad employee, or bad daughter, but in fact, something you carry into your home in boxes, which means that I could have brought them in along with a new pair of shoes. Or at least that is the story I am telling myself, and that is how I am falling asleep at night. So sleep tight, and don't let...well, you know how the story ends.
For the past year at work we have been battling, like much of the country, or at least Niketown and the Roosevelt Hotel in New York, a problem with bed bugs. It's bound to happen in close communities, especially when you are dealing with the homeless population, and especially when you work for a nonprofit with limited resources. Needless to say, this situation has been a plague upon my pre-existing anxiety disorder. Every time anyone at work even mentions being bit in one of our housing projects, I start feeling itchy. I realize the lunacy of it, but it's sincerely out of my control. Once again, I am a therapist and so I know this is what we call a compulsion. I can't help it...and if you don't believe that this is how it works, watch the show Hoarders on A&E. Talk about compulsions. My apartment is actually usually quite clean and orderly (and now, especially minimalist) in spite of the fact that I have two pets. This comes from being raised by a mother who had a close, personal relationship with the vacuum cleaner throughout my childhood. Apparently, compulsions are genetic, which is a fact that came in handy when I had to later make a phone call to my landlord.
So, rewind several weeks when we had reached our pique of bed bug infestation at work. The agency was finally breaking down and exterminating the entire apartment building our clients live in and the staff was being forced to help the clients prepare. "You mean we are supposed to go into their apartments where we know there are bed bugs and help them pack everything in preparation for extermination?" My boss did not look too happy with my apparently elitest sounding questions, so I shut my mouth and made up my mind to assist from the doorway. It just so happened that our infestation coincided with the news media sensationalizing bed bug outbreaks pretty much every hour on the hour. "Breaking news: we're going to show you more creepy looking pictures of bed bugs while you are eating your breakfast." Thank you, Matt Lauer and Meredith Vieira.
I know myself, and I know I should have turned off the television a long time ago. I know that a few years ago when gas prices were being hiked up higher and higher and almost reached $5/gallon here in LA, I was convinced (along with some very compelling writers at TIME magazine) that it was connected to the impending global food shortage and I was picturing myself withering away from starvation after being forced to eat nothing but rice for four years on end. I know that at the mention of salmonella poisoning on the news I am much happier to toss everything from my refrigerator and dog food pantry than to risk the pooch and I eating fecal matter and dying. (How embarassing of a eulogy would that be?!) And I know that I could only be forced to watch so many news stories on bed bugs and see so many bites on clients at work before I was convinced that I had a few extra roommates myself, I type as I continue to scratch my arms furiously.
Questions I should have asked myself: 1) Do you have any bites on your arms and legs? 2) Have you seen any actual bugs on your linens, clothes, or sheets?
Had I asked myself these questions, I probably could have avoided a three-day panic attack and dropping a week's salary at Bed, Bath, & Beyond. However, I did not, and instead, what I did was notice a few small, brown flecks at the bottom of my laundry basket when I was doing my laundry one Sunday. And I have already told you about my Monday morning breakfast convo with Matt and Meredith, which then got me thinking: were the little brown flecks at the bottom of my laundry basket evidence that I was officially bringing my work home with me? So I did the only rational thing one could do which was to call my most equally-neurotic friend on my way to work.
Questions she could have asked me: 1) Do you have any bites on your arms and legs? 2) Have you seen any actual bugs on your linens, clothes, or sheets?
Now, to her credit, I was pretty much already convinced I was infested and thus doomed to shave my head, burn all of my furniture, clothes, and linens, sell my car (because after all, I hadn't sprung for the leather seats and therefore the cloth was most likely infested as well) and then move to a new apartment. It's not like I was asking her to talk me down off the ledge; I was telling her to help me crawl out the 54th floor window. Her advice: "Check your mattress."
After a painfully long, eight hour work day, I walked through my front door, ignored my hyper-active, hungry pooch and went straight to the mattresses. Yes, it was Godfather-style, but no, not in the way you think. And sure enough there were exactly four of the same little brown flecks I had seen in the bottom of my laundry basket. Begin: panic mode. I immediately stifled a sob and then ripped the sheets off of my bed, bundled them up with the pillows and my duvet cover. I marched back out the front door with said linens in hand and made a deposit straight into the dumpster. There was no way I was going to sleep for one more second in sheets or on pillows that I had been sharing with new found friends from work. Fortunately, I did have the wherewithal to strip the duvet cover off of my down comforter, rather than simply throw everything away. Now that would have been excessive. Plus, I figured that I could dry clean the comforter and that would surely erase any memories of creepy bedfellows.
I then proceeded to make a few panic-stricken phone calls to friends and my parents, none of whom could really understand me and all of whom suggested I call my landlord and (not in so many words) get a grip. The phone call to my landlord did nothing but secure the notion that I was a dirty slob as her response to me was, "In all my years, I have never had a tenant get bed bugs." Nice. In all your years you probably never had a tenant with a pathological penchant for catastrophizing either. But like I said, my mother trained me well, and in the many times my landlord has been in and out of the apartment this past summer (see "Just call me the Godfather"), she knew I was right.
Fast forward two hours later, all my clothes were in piles separated by what was to be thrown away, what was going be donated to Goodwill (assuming they didn't mind traces of creepy crawlies), what could be washed and what would have to go to the dry cleaners along with my comforter. I stopped the mental tally in my head somewhere around $1000 to replace the linens and wash or dry clean everything I owned. A small price to pay to be able to truly live alone. A knock on the door proved to be my afore-mentioned equally neurotic friend, as well as two other more rational ones, to make sure I hadn't yet slit my wrists in panic. Needless to say, all were surprised when I shoved a ziplock baggy with one of the critters I caught in their faces. In retrospect, was it surprise or perhaps something more like disgust? This shock, if you will, quickly turned to empathy after the roomful of iphone "bed bug" google images confirmed we had a positive ID. The exterminator will come and it will all be over soon, they cooed, over the sound of my garbage can taking a shower. (Don't ask, but it made sense at the time. Disinfect everything.)
The rest of the story is fairly anti-climactic. The exterminator came out and after less than 30 seconds in my apartment confirmed that I had fallen victim to the media hype (along with about 40 other cases she had recently seen - maybe she was just trying to make me feel better, but it worked). My four friends were not bed bugs, but in fact, a rather harmless, non-breeding, non-invasive critter known as the cigarette beetle. "But I don't even smoke!" I exclaimed to her before my nerves had yet to calm down. I interpreted the look she gave me then as sympathy, but maybe it was disappointment in the finder's fee she would no longer be receiving because her company would not be able to charge my landlord a ridiculous amount of money to rid the apartment of bed bugs. Whatever the case, I was elated. Until I thought about the dumpster full of my former belongings. Again, in an attempt to make me feel better, the exterminator suggested I get them back out. Um, hello? Did you not just pick up on the fact that I would rather have no sheets or linens and but half of my former wardrobe rather than be surrounded by things that had once touched the idea of a bed bug? And now you are suggesting I crawl into my dumpster to re-outfit my bed? No, thank you.
Fortunately for me, Bed, Bath, & Beyond was in the middle of some great sales, and this all happened right around the time I would have conducted my biannual apartment (and life) scrub-down anyway. Truthfully, it was cathartic to rid myself of anything that hadn't seen the light outside of my closet in over a year, even if it was an interesting piece of wood I found in a store in Belize. And fortunately for me as well, cigarette beetles are not something you get from being dirty, a bad tenant, bad employee, or bad daughter, but in fact, something you carry into your home in boxes, which means that I could have brought them in along with a new pair of shoes. Or at least that is the story I am telling myself, and that is how I am falling asleep at night. So sleep tight, and don't let...well, you know how the story ends.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Breaking up is hard to do...
Especially when there was never technically a relationship. Even if there was, I tend to be of the mindset that it isn't actually all that difficult to ignore emails, voice mails, and text messages. I am not saying this is the most mature way to do it, but it has proven to be pretty effective for me in the past. Which brings me to the southern "gentleman" of late...You may remember him as Prince In-Case-I-Ever-Have-Amnesia-My-Last-Name-is-Tattooed-on-my-Stomach-which-is-oh-so-Charming, aka Sleazy Dwarf (See Hi Ho, Hi Ho).
I thought he would take the hint when I stopped returning his text messages due to the fact that they made me feel like I was talking to a sleazy lounge singer with a sneer on his face and gray chest hair popping out of his dangerously unbuttoned shirt: "Hey, gorgeous..." The messages appeared to be picking up where a previous conversation had left off...only we had never really had that previous conversation. Imagine my surprise when, after a week of ignored text messages, I checked my voice mail at 2:00 in the afternoon and heard the sound of what I vaguely remembered as his voice. Remember, it was 7:30 in the morning, before coffee, when we met. "Hey there...was just calling to tell you how gorgeous you are and I hope you are having a good day. I'm headed to work myself and you will probably be heading home to watch a movie, eat some popcorn, and snuggle up on the couch in a blanket. Sounds fun, hope you have a good time. Call me..."
While I usually save chat abbreviations for conversations with teenagers and complete idiots, I believe this occasion calls for a WTF?! My first thought was, is this guy serious? Is this a sick fantasy of his? What makes him think I am going home to watch a movie? And then it all became clear. He had the wrong number. He thought he was texting and calling someone else he had met and perhaps exchanged some form of communication regarding this other person's need to be called nothing but "gorgeous," her penchant for leaving work at 2:00 in the afternoon, curling up under blankets when it is 85 degrees outside, and her love of popcorn. I hate popcorn. Unless it is covered in sugar, which turns it into kettle and not pop corn. But how would he know any of this given we spoke for about 30 seconds at a coffee shop 2 weeks ago? I digress. I didn't want to embarass him by calling back and telling him that he made this mistake, so I hit 7 to delete and went on about my work.
Ok, I lied. I hit 9 to save. It was funny and I might need a good laugh in the near future.
But I did ignore the voicemail, as well as the subsequent text messages that followed...and then all was quiet on the Verizon frontier. I didn't hear anything for several days. I had just started to feel bad, thinking, maybe this all could have been eliminated if I had done the mature thing and texted him right away to say "not interested in your completely narcissistic business cards and choice of career." Just as I had come to terms with the fact that I will most definitely do the responsible and honest thing next time, ding! Text message: 11:00 on Thursday night. You guessed it, "Hey gorgeous, what's up?" Now, I had just committed to doing the responsible thing, so clearly I had to let him know he had the wrong person. And also awkwardly explain why I was only responding to every 17th message of his.
Me: Hey there! Sorry have been MIA. I knew it was going to be brutal work-wise. I feel like I should be up front, although maybe unnecessary given we haven't reeeeally met. :) I'm not really in to casually dating right now. It was great meeting u and u seem like super nice guy, esp for 730 am! Hope u understand!
Subtext: Hey, I guess you are forcing me to explain why I have been ignoring you. Remember I blew you off at first by saying I was just really busy at work right now? Well, I meant it, dummy. So now I need to really hammer this one in. Not. Interested. But I am going to tell you you seem nice to soften the blow and try to ensure you don't start angrily stalking my coffee shop. I had a bad experience in that department recently and want to take precautions. (See Rose Garden)
Prince Sleazy: Haha, that's cool CinderelLA. Crazy busy too. Been working and getting ready to fly to the Caribbean with some friends. Taking a private jet to a private island. Should be fun. but ummm..wish we could hang out. Suite yourself. :) I look like a scrub at 7 am. Haha. Your totally missing out.
Prince Sleazy: :) Seriously.
Me: Seriously? So you used my first name which shows me that you did know it was me and are officially just a freak. A private island? Private jet? You mean some producer you've worked with in the past took pity on you and hired you to be errand boy on his next pleasure trip? Well, good for you! Get a dictionary to read on the plane. You can't spell.
Just kidding. What I actually said: Wow - have a great time - and take care!
Subtext: Not impressed. Now leave me alone.
Prince Sleazy: Haha u think I'm lying. U too. Silly rabbit.
Me: Not at all. Hollywood and all that is just not my scene... And trix are for kids.
Subtext: I do think you're lying. My douche bag radar starting going off the second you handed me your business card. Silly rabbit? Who's the child now, a-hole?
Prince Sleazy: More like Malibu. Later.
Me: Ciao - nice meeting you again.
Subtext: Still not impressed. And you told me you live in Venice, not Malibu, so don't think I have mistaken you for someone who owns a house on the hill where Jennifer Aniston and Pamela Anderson live.
So it looks like I have learned yet another lesson. I guess NBC wasn't kidding when they started that "The More You Know" campaign. You really do never stop learning, thanks to television, bad dates, and the wonders of text messaging.
I thought he would take the hint when I stopped returning his text messages due to the fact that they made me feel like I was talking to a sleazy lounge singer with a sneer on his face and gray chest hair popping out of his dangerously unbuttoned shirt: "Hey, gorgeous..." The messages appeared to be picking up where a previous conversation had left off...only we had never really had that previous conversation. Imagine my surprise when, after a week of ignored text messages, I checked my voice mail at 2:00 in the afternoon and heard the sound of what I vaguely remembered as his voice. Remember, it was 7:30 in the morning, before coffee, when we met. "Hey there...was just calling to tell you how gorgeous you are and I hope you are having a good day. I'm headed to work myself and you will probably be heading home to watch a movie, eat some popcorn, and snuggle up on the couch in a blanket. Sounds fun, hope you have a good time. Call me..."
While I usually save chat abbreviations for conversations with teenagers and complete idiots, I believe this occasion calls for a WTF?! My first thought was, is this guy serious? Is this a sick fantasy of his? What makes him think I am going home to watch a movie? And then it all became clear. He had the wrong number. He thought he was texting and calling someone else he had met and perhaps exchanged some form of communication regarding this other person's need to be called nothing but "gorgeous," her penchant for leaving work at 2:00 in the afternoon, curling up under blankets when it is 85 degrees outside, and her love of popcorn. I hate popcorn. Unless it is covered in sugar, which turns it into kettle and not pop corn. But how would he know any of this given we spoke for about 30 seconds at a coffee shop 2 weeks ago? I digress. I didn't want to embarass him by calling back and telling him that he made this mistake, so I hit 7 to delete and went on about my work.
Ok, I lied. I hit 9 to save. It was funny and I might need a good laugh in the near future.
But I did ignore the voicemail, as well as the subsequent text messages that followed...and then all was quiet on the Verizon frontier. I didn't hear anything for several days. I had just started to feel bad, thinking, maybe this all could have been eliminated if I had done the mature thing and texted him right away to say "not interested in your completely narcissistic business cards and choice of career." Just as I had come to terms with the fact that I will most definitely do the responsible and honest thing next time, ding! Text message: 11:00 on Thursday night. You guessed it, "Hey gorgeous, what's up?" Now, I had just committed to doing the responsible thing, so clearly I had to let him know he had the wrong person. And also awkwardly explain why I was only responding to every 17th message of his.
Me: Hey there! Sorry have been MIA. I knew it was going to be brutal work-wise. I feel like I should be up front, although maybe unnecessary given we haven't reeeeally met. :) I'm not really in to casually dating right now. It was great meeting u and u seem like super nice guy, esp for 730 am! Hope u understand!
Subtext: Hey, I guess you are forcing me to explain why I have been ignoring you. Remember I blew you off at first by saying I was just really busy at work right now? Well, I meant it, dummy. So now I need to really hammer this one in. Not. Interested. But I am going to tell you you seem nice to soften the blow and try to ensure you don't start angrily stalking my coffee shop. I had a bad experience in that department recently and want to take precautions. (See Rose Garden)
Prince Sleazy: Haha, that's cool CinderelLA. Crazy busy too. Been working and getting ready to fly to the Caribbean with some friends. Taking a private jet to a private island. Should be fun. but ummm..wish we could hang out. Suite yourself. :) I look like a scrub at 7 am. Haha. Your totally missing out.
Prince Sleazy: :) Seriously.
Me: Seriously? So you used my first name which shows me that you did know it was me and are officially just a freak. A private island? Private jet? You mean some producer you've worked with in the past took pity on you and hired you to be errand boy on his next pleasure trip? Well, good for you! Get a dictionary to read on the plane. You can't spell.
Just kidding. What I actually said: Wow - have a great time - and take care!
Subtext: Not impressed. Now leave me alone.
Prince Sleazy: Haha u think I'm lying. U too. Silly rabbit.
Me: Not at all. Hollywood and all that is just not my scene... And trix are for kids.
Subtext: I do think you're lying. My douche bag radar starting going off the second you handed me your business card. Silly rabbit? Who's the child now, a-hole?
Prince Sleazy: More like Malibu. Later.
Me: Ciao - nice meeting you again.
Subtext: Still not impressed. And you told me you live in Venice, not Malibu, so don't think I have mistaken you for someone who owns a house on the hill where Jennifer Aniston and Pamela Anderson live.
So it looks like I have learned yet another lesson. I guess NBC wasn't kidding when they started that "The More You Know" campaign. You really do never stop learning, thanks to television, bad dates, and the wonders of text messaging.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Hi Ho, Hi Ho...
For the record, I am not going to make a habit of taking requests; however, after my last posting, a good friend of mine asked that maybe I try and come up with something a bit more inspirational. More inspirational than a restraining order? I thought (see “Rose Garden”). The truth is, I had been thinking that my posts had taken a dark turn as of late anyway, so I welcomed the challenge and immediately tabled the next three blog ideas I had. I don’t know that I would call this inspirational, but I will say that no men with shovels will be making an appearance and I have yet to pull the pin on my can of mace.
Recently some friends and I went to the Hollywood Forever Cemetery where on Saturday nights in the summer they host an event called Cinespia. Basically, a bunch of hipsters bring picnics, blankets, and wine, as well as whatever herbs they grow in their “garden” and watch movies projected onto the side of a crematorium. Mausoleum, whatever.
Note: my friends and I do not fall into the hipster category; however, we are a fun group of people who enjoy the odd goings-on that city life in LA provides. Unlike hipsters, we shower regularly, have normal looking haircuts, and don’t find copious amounts of facial hair or skin tight jeans on men to be even remotely attractive. Well, at least most of us don’t. Hence, movie night in a cemetery. I promise you that is as creepy as this gets.
The movie was an old Dudley Moore flick called Bedazzled that none of us were too excited to see. We were, on the other hand, very excited to use my friend’s new roll-up picnic table and my new set of outdoor dishes. (Like I said, no hipsters here.) Needless to say, two bottles of champagne in, the sun set, and the film started rolling. I was fully prepared to doze off if need be, because really, what is more peaceful than a nap underneath the stars surrounded by centuries of dead people? Who am I kidding? This is LA and nothing here was built before the 60s, but I digress. To my surprise, there was no chance for a nap because 15 minutes in, I was hooked. The basic plot is that Dudley Moore is in love with a girl he works with who doesn’t even know he is alive. One day, he has a run in with a man who turns out to be Satan who grants him seven wishes in return for his soul. (It’s always the same with Satan now, isn’t it? I wonder when he will join the rest of the 21st century and start accepting Visa instead of souls.) Dudley Moore then spends the next two hours realizing that nothing he wishes for turns out to bring him the gratification he expected. Case in point: his first wish. Because he has never gotten up the courage to talk to the love of his life, his wish is to be able to hold an interesting conversation with her. Cut to: Dudley Moore and his true love frolicking through the city on an afternoon date, Dudley using words so big even he didn’t know he knew how to use them. She’s laughing, he’s laughing, and then he invites her in to his apartment and she agrees to continue the date. So imagine his surprise when he goes in to make his move and she starts screaming, “Rape!” at the top of her lungs.
After deep introspection, our man Dud then realizes a wish for conversation is not going to cut it. So he proceeds to wish for marriage and power and the ability to buy her whatever she wants, only to watch her consummate their marriage with the pool boy instead of him. More introspection, and minutes later he is wishing for reciprocal love. Only this time although, she is in love with Dud, she is married to his best friend and the guilt she feels over cheating on her husband is so overwhelming she can’t go through with the affair. Seven disappointments, and deadly sins, later, Dudley realizes things were better off before he tried controlling his universe, namely because he was unable to imagine the depth of his own soul and what he wanted out of life, thus unable to know exactly what would make him happy. His happiness would not derive from being able to talk to the woman of his dreams, much less be married to her, or even be mutually in love.
So why was this so inspiring? (Remember, I promised inspiration, just not necessarily yours. Or did I even promise that?) I realized I was Dudley Moore. No, I don’t have helmet hair, bad teeth (thanks to my parents’ Nazi-like control over me wearing my retainer), or even a cool accent. So, let me explain.
About a month ago, I was at a music festival with my girlfriends and started getting chatted up by an attractive South American man at Whiskey A Go-Go. Cute accent? Check. Dark, curly hair? Check. Shares my love of Stella Artois? Check. And then I found out that he was a child psychologist in the San Diego school district, we both wanted to have three children, and he wanted to visit my family on the east coast at Christmas. My heart melted. He is cute and sensitive and wants to meet my parents already.
So sensitive that as it turns out, he has already married another unsuspecting woman. One of my girlfriends noticed the shiny wedding band on his ring finger and inconspicuously pointed it out to me. I, in turn, not so inconspicuously blurted out, “So you’re married?” I like to cut right to the chase.
He proceeded to try to convince me that he only wore a wedding band because his friends told him he would attract more girls that way. I’m not going to lie, the Stellas made me believe it. But only for one round…or maybe it was two. In any event, as soon as my South American went to the bathroom, I asked El Cheater’s friend, “So how long has he been married?” He didn’t blink an eye. “Seven years.”
When my hot blooded, Latin American returned, I informed him that whatever kind of girl he thought I was, I most certainly was not. “What kind of girl would that be?” Either the kind of girl who goes for married men, or the kind of girl who believes that you are just wearing a wedding band to attract women. Take your pick. I proceeded to walk away, at which point he got down on his knees, arms reaching towards me, yelling over the din of a Guns ‘n Roses cover band, “But I don’t love her! I am getting divorced! I already have a lawyer! And I don’t loooove her!”
I get it, Beelzebub. The exotic looks, cute accent, and willingness to talk children right away are not necessarily the answers. Especially when there is a good chance the dude is already talking babies, or better, making babies, with his wife. For the record, it was totally him who asked the children and family questions. I am well aware of the fact that I am far from ready for either of these things. So, on to lesson #2.
Recently I went to a training for work in a part of town a tad out of my comfort zone. This part of town is known as “the Valley.” Hipsters definitely don’t venture to the valley, but like I said, my friends and I are not to be confused with hipsters. We still don’t venture too far outside of city lines, and this story could be why. I had had trouble finding the training location earlier that morning, so I was parked a few blocks away from the building and had a nice little jaunt to get back to my car. Along the way, I was not really paying attention to my surroundings, namely because I was distracted by the $200,000 Mercedes that kept driving by. It was a beautiful car…and then the driver pulled up beside me. I thought, “Oh no, this guy is going to ask me for directions and I am in a strange place (known as the Valley) and I am going to have to tell him there is a good chance I am going to get lost trying to find my way back to the freeway myself.” And then he pulled out the cheesiest, most classic line in the universe…and I fell for it. “What is a girl like you doing in this part of town?” Maybe I shouldn’t say I fell for it, because really what happened then is I started to panic thinking, IS this a bad part of town? How could I have not noticed that before? Is that really an autobody shop across the street or a front for a major drug operation for the Russian mafia? I guess I was feeling vulnerable, or simply blinded by the flashy sports car (which most definitely would have had its own navigation system installed in it), but I gave him my number and a few weeks later we went out. He’s a protector, I justified to myself.
When he walked into the sushi restaurant we met at (I suggested meeting instead of being picked up – the gardener taught me that lesson) I was instantly reminded of the Sex and the City episode when Samantha begins to be chatted up at a hotel bar by a somewhat attractive fireball of a guy. A few minutes in, she determines he is the male version of her, and she is insanely attracted to him as a result. So, she takes him up on the offer to go upstairs to his room. Now, don’t worry. Those were not the thoughts running through my head when he walked in the door. The next sequence of SATC events include Samantha’s soon-to-be lover jumping (yes, jumping) off his barstool, because he is a solid foot shorter than she is. He is her perfect guy and practically a midget. And she looks disgusted. I am not saying that Prince My-Car-Makes-Me-Appear-Charming was my dream man, but truthfully, I never would have talked to this guy had I met him standing up. Maybe that makes me shallow, because yes, I do realize that I have already mentioned I was blinded by his $200,000 car, but everything about him was trying to make up for his height…as well as the fact that he still lives at home with his mother and grandmother. I suppose I could also afford a luxury car if I hadn’t blown 5 years’ salary on superfluous expenses…like rent. Lesson noted.
My last lesson in love of late occurred over a cup of coffee. I know I am a dreamer, and I have watched way too many romantic comedies, but even nearing the big 3-0, I refuse to give up the idea of that perfect “how we met” story. So when I walked into the donut shop on the corner, where I pick up a cup of cinnamon coffee several mornings a week and noticed an attractive guy my age in a Duke sweatshirt noticing me, I was flattered and a little excited. I slipped the girl behind the counter my money, grabbed my cup of coffee (they expect me now; it’s my Cheers) and headed to the condiments bar to drown my coffee in sugar as usual. I then hear a “So, coffee, huh?” over my shoulder. Playing it cool, I reply with a “Yep” and hold it up in a mock cheers. “So you’re going to work, huh?” Oh dear, this Duke graduate was definitely not at the top of his class. But I am certain he wasn’t mixed up with those lacrosse players who hired that stripper, and well…you know the rest of that story. Again, I give a “yep” and put the lid on the cup, as I start to head towards the door. I tried not to be judgmental regarding his conversation skills because granted, who is a conversationalist at 7:30 in the morning before coffee? I get it, but I had a report to finish waiting for me at the office and Duke was going to have to think quicker on his toes than “coffee” and “work” as I am holding a cup in a coffee shop on a Tuesday morning.
I guess he works well under pressure because he blurted out a few niceties and I was again swooning over this southern gentleman. I promptly decided this could be a cute “how we met” story, so I gave him my number and turned to leave once again. I was actually excited for him to call at this point. Then, he says, “Wait – let me give you my card.” I started to think, well don’t bother, because if you aren’t going to call, then I most certainly am not going to, but he didn’t need to be exposed to my idiosyncrasies this early on. And before 8am. Instead, I took the card and walked out the door. Imagine my surprise when I see a picture of a guy somewhat resembling Duke with much shorter hair, shirtless, in sunglasses. Yikes. Eminem was not a good look for him. Thank goodness he has grown his hair out, I thought. I then turned it over and almost spit out my first gulp of coffee. This picture was of Duke in his board shorts, next to a pool, next to a half-naked woman with her pelvis thrust toward the camera. What the hell kind of service was he trying to sell with this card? And why in God’s name would he think I was in the market for it wearing my J.Crew slacks and silk blouse at 7:30 in the morning?
Naturally, as soon as I got to work, I put the unfinished report on the back burner and logged right on to his website. An actor. Go figure. So he was selling himself. I received a series of text messages over the next few days that read somewhere between, “Hey gorgeous, just wanted to tell you how gorgeous you are” and “Yeah, so I just got back from the beach where I was catching some rad waves.” I guess actors have time for such things during the day. Let me tell you, therapists do not. And frankly, it irritated me more than anything that he had the resources to have this fancy website and surf all afternoon with the measly list of credits he was flaunting as I was running around the hood busting my ass doing real work. But I digress, and I am definitely not bitter. Just definitely not going out with Prince In-Case-I-Ever-Have-Amnesia-My-Last-Name-is-Tattooed-on-my-Stomach-which-is-oh-so-Charming. Because yes, there was a picture of that too.
Apparently I have a lot to learn from Sir Dudley Moore. He got it figured out in a mere two hours and I am pushing the big 30th deadline. It’s not like I am out there desperate to meet someone, making deals with the devil in order to avoid being alone. I have a pretty fulfilling life. My non-hipster friends and I have fun doing both hipster and preppy things alike. I stay busy and schedule alone time because I enjoy it and I know it keeps me sane. I would like to think that I won’t be solo forever, but for now I am not willing to risk encountering 4 additional deadly sins, I mean dwarfs, I mean dates, in the process. Shorty, Slimy, and Sleazy were enough for me.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
I never promised you a rose garden...
Before I begin, let me tell you what you are going to think. You are going to think, “What the hell was she thinking?!” Or some version of, “Well, she gets what she deserves.” Something like that. It’s been awhile since I’ve posted, I realize. But I’ve been busy collecting restraining orders and joining the witness protection program. Let me explain.
A few months back on my regular morning walk with my ridiculously adorable, geriatric pooch (it’s a short walk) I noticed the buildings down the street from me were getting a bit of a face lift in the form of landscaping and a paint job. I’m not going to lie; I was a little jealous. When was my landlord going to decide to renovate the outside of my prison barracks, I mean, apartment building? In any event, after seeing the landscaper hard at work for a whole week, my envy got the better of me, and I threw out a “Hey, it’s looking really nice!” At which point he must have heard, “Hey stud, I think you are the man of my dreams and I’m ready to be wooed by your ability to manhandle a plant and randomly come by my apartment uninvited.” But I’m getting ahead of myself.
A week of small talk turned into a rose bush waiting for me on my doorstep when I came home from work one day. Well that’s totally unnecessary…and not at all inappropriate or weird, I thought. Well maybe weird. But that only registered a few days later when he greeted me on my morning walk with, “Good morning! Did you like your rose bush? I came by this weekend to see if you liked it.” At the time I thought to myself, well that’s odd that he would come by after hours. But being a therapist and highly trained in what to do with uncomfortable feelings, I decided to repress them, because after all, you don’t want to hurt the creepy gardener’s feelings.
I thought it was strange that when I would see him cross the street in the morning to be on my side of the sidewalk I would feel a pit in my stomach, but again, feelings? What feelings? (Said the therapist.) So it wasn’t until I was recounting the full story to a friend of mine who has a louder internal alarm system than I do that my red flags were raised. Or should I say, her red flags were raised and she hit me over the head with the flagpole. I decided to tell my neighbors about the situation just so they would be aware that if a random gardener was lurking about the building, he was not an invited guest. With or without a rose bush…or a shovel.
The neighbors were also alarmed at some of the comments he had made, namely that when he asked me out and I responded with a flat out “No,” his retort was, “Oh, I like that. It’s ok; I’ll wait.” (Is it just me or did I did I see an evil gleam in that eye?) So they decided to join me on my next morning stroll to get a visual. It felt a little vigilante-style, but hey, this is LA. It’s not like I live in Beverly Hills and a girl’s got to look out for herself. Plus it’s not like my grandmotherly shih-tzu is any kind of watch dog in the event he did show up one day with a shovel. So off we went. To get a visual.
I was surprised when my very dear neighbor decided to make contact. She greeted him with a “Hey! You!” as he crossed the street to greet the both of us. Surprise quickly turned to delight (fear, whatever) when she gave him a friendly warning that we have a tight-knit group of neighbors in our building and none of us, especially me, want him hanging around anymore. Got it? And if that wasn’t enough, she threw out there the fact that she works (worked, whatever) for a high-ranking city official and a phone call would be enough to put an end to a small time landscaping business. By the end of the exchange we were all pretty shaken up, or at least the two of us were, and he quickly took off in his truck. I’m so lucky to have such protective neighbors, I thought.
And things really did quiet down there for awhile. Of course, by awhile I mean the week that I went out of town. Right before I left he paid me a little visit outside of my apartment building. Technically he didn’t enter the courtyard, so I suppose there was no cause for a phone call to a high-ranking city official. However, he was just waiting outside of the gate in his truck and made some attempt to rope me into conversation once again. I waved him on and kept walking, thinking, I am so glad to be getting out of town in a few days.
Fast forward a week later and there he is again. Mind you, I have intentionally changed around my morning routine. The pooch and I walk a different route than before, at different times than before, and I may or may not be carrying a pocket full of pepper spray now. Needless to say, there he was in his truck. He waited until he saw which direction I was going to go, parked and got out of his truck to secure a front row seat to my walk standing on the corner of my street, arms folded across his chest. I could feel his eyes burning holes into my back, so on our way back, I made sure to do a little mad dogging myself. I hoped my look was saying, “I see you staring, a-hole, and just because you forced me to change my routine doesn’t mean I am scared of you.” In my head I was thinking, “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. That’s it; I’m going to the police.” Which is exactly what I did that night after work.
I gave myself a little pep talk right before walking into the police station, which is a pretty intimidating place to be at 9:00 at night, and not at all like stations on Law & Order. (Read: Chris Maloney was not there to greet me with a look of concern and two big, muscle-y arms). Instead, two friendly looking police officers, one older, one young and semi-cute, verified the fact that no crime had been committed and therefore I could not file an official police report. However, they would take an unofficial report and increase patrol on my street in the mornings. They encouraged me to get a restraining order, which I said felt a little like overkill, because after all, it was me that started talking to him first. Clearly I gave him the wrong impression, I told them, as I recounted the story of our “first date.” The officers and I bantered back and forth a few minutes - they told me to stop flirting with the help; I told them I’m not used to y’all people in these little ole parts a’town seeing as how I’m originally from the South. They said they understood, until I told them I’ve been out here 5 years. I know, I know, I get it. I should walk staring straight ahead, saying hi to no one, pepper spray locked and loaded. Less risk for creepy interactions.
The older of the two cops got called to the back, leaving me and the cute one to finish up business. I dried my tears and thanked him for his time and his promise to have a chat with the lawn guy should he encounter him on a patrol. I went to say goodbye and out of habit went to use his first name. I quickly realized I didn’t know it because that’s not usually how police officers usually introduce themselves. “Hi, I’m Paul. I am going to give you a ticket today for driving 87 in a 25. Have a nice one!” So instead, halfway through my goodbye, I choked out a “Thanks again, Officerrrr…” that sounded halfway between a come-on and a sneer. I flashed him a smile, thinking that would somehow make up for the really strange goodbye. There I go again, flirting with the help, he was going to think. And there went my credibility, I thought, as well as any chance with this real-life knight in shining armor…or at least this one with a badge.
A few months back on my regular morning walk with my ridiculously adorable, geriatric pooch (it’s a short walk) I noticed the buildings down the street from me were getting a bit of a face lift in the form of landscaping and a paint job. I’m not going to lie; I was a little jealous. When was my landlord going to decide to renovate the outside of my prison barracks, I mean, apartment building? In any event, after seeing the landscaper hard at work for a whole week, my envy got the better of me, and I threw out a “Hey, it’s looking really nice!” At which point he must have heard, “Hey stud, I think you are the man of my dreams and I’m ready to be wooed by your ability to manhandle a plant and randomly come by my apartment uninvited.” But I’m getting ahead of myself.
A week of small talk turned into a rose bush waiting for me on my doorstep when I came home from work one day. Well that’s totally unnecessary…and not at all inappropriate or weird, I thought. Well maybe weird. But that only registered a few days later when he greeted me on my morning walk with, “Good morning! Did you like your rose bush? I came by this weekend to see if you liked it.” At the time I thought to myself, well that’s odd that he would come by after hours. But being a therapist and highly trained in what to do with uncomfortable feelings, I decided to repress them, because after all, you don’t want to hurt the creepy gardener’s feelings.
I thought it was strange that when I would see him cross the street in the morning to be on my side of the sidewalk I would feel a pit in my stomach, but again, feelings? What feelings? (Said the therapist.) So it wasn’t until I was recounting the full story to a friend of mine who has a louder internal alarm system than I do that my red flags were raised. Or should I say, her red flags were raised and she hit me over the head with the flagpole. I decided to tell my neighbors about the situation just so they would be aware that if a random gardener was lurking about the building, he was not an invited guest. With or without a rose bush…or a shovel.
The neighbors were also alarmed at some of the comments he had made, namely that when he asked me out and I responded with a flat out “No,” his retort was, “Oh, I like that. It’s ok; I’ll wait.” (Is it just me or did I did I see an evil gleam in that eye?) So they decided to join me on my next morning stroll to get a visual. It felt a little vigilante-style, but hey, this is LA. It’s not like I live in Beverly Hills and a girl’s got to look out for herself. Plus it’s not like my grandmotherly shih-tzu is any kind of watch dog in the event he did show up one day with a shovel. So off we went. To get a visual.
I was surprised when my very dear neighbor decided to make contact. She greeted him with a “Hey! You!” as he crossed the street to greet the both of us. Surprise quickly turned to delight (fear, whatever) when she gave him a friendly warning that we have a tight-knit group of neighbors in our building and none of us, especially me, want him hanging around anymore. Got it? And if that wasn’t enough, she threw out there the fact that she works (worked, whatever) for a high-ranking city official and a phone call would be enough to put an end to a small time landscaping business. By the end of the exchange we were all pretty shaken up, or at least the two of us were, and he quickly took off in his truck. I’m so lucky to have such protective neighbors, I thought.
And things really did quiet down there for awhile. Of course, by awhile I mean the week that I went out of town. Right before I left he paid me a little visit outside of my apartment building. Technically he didn’t enter the courtyard, so I suppose there was no cause for a phone call to a high-ranking city official. However, he was just waiting outside of the gate in his truck and made some attempt to rope me into conversation once again. I waved him on and kept walking, thinking, I am so glad to be getting out of town in a few days.
Fast forward a week later and there he is again. Mind you, I have intentionally changed around my morning routine. The pooch and I walk a different route than before, at different times than before, and I may or may not be carrying a pocket full of pepper spray now. Needless to say, there he was in his truck. He waited until he saw which direction I was going to go, parked and got out of his truck to secure a front row seat to my walk standing on the corner of my street, arms folded across his chest. I could feel his eyes burning holes into my back, so on our way back, I made sure to do a little mad dogging myself. I hoped my look was saying, “I see you staring, a-hole, and just because you forced me to change my routine doesn’t mean I am scared of you.” In my head I was thinking, “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. That’s it; I’m going to the police.” Which is exactly what I did that night after work.
I gave myself a little pep talk right before walking into the police station, which is a pretty intimidating place to be at 9:00 at night, and not at all like stations on Law & Order. (Read: Chris Maloney was not there to greet me with a look of concern and two big, muscle-y arms). Instead, two friendly looking police officers, one older, one young and semi-cute, verified the fact that no crime had been committed and therefore I could not file an official police report. However, they would take an unofficial report and increase patrol on my street in the mornings. They encouraged me to get a restraining order, which I said felt a little like overkill, because after all, it was me that started talking to him first. Clearly I gave him the wrong impression, I told them, as I recounted the story of our “first date.” The officers and I bantered back and forth a few minutes - they told me to stop flirting with the help; I told them I’m not used to y’all people in these little ole parts a’town seeing as how I’m originally from the South. They said they understood, until I told them I’ve been out here 5 years. I know, I know, I get it. I should walk staring straight ahead, saying hi to no one, pepper spray locked and loaded. Less risk for creepy interactions.
The older of the two cops got called to the back, leaving me and the cute one to finish up business. I dried my tears and thanked him for his time and his promise to have a chat with the lawn guy should he encounter him on a patrol. I went to say goodbye and out of habit went to use his first name. I quickly realized I didn’t know it because that’s not usually how police officers usually introduce themselves. “Hi, I’m Paul. I am going to give you a ticket today for driving 87 in a 25. Have a nice one!” So instead, halfway through my goodbye, I choked out a “Thanks again, Officerrrr…” that sounded halfway between a come-on and a sneer. I flashed him a smile, thinking that would somehow make up for the really strange goodbye. There I go again, flirting with the help, he was going to think. And there went my credibility, I thought, as well as any chance with this real-life knight in shining armor…or at least this one with a badge.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Just call me the Godfather…or my own fairy godmother
For over a year now I have been admiring the hardwood floors that my landlord has been installing in everyone’s units as tenants have been moving out before new families moved in. When my next door neighbors got them a year ago without having to move, I was downright jealous. How come they got them and I didn’t? As it turns out, they got them by agreeing to sign another year lease. Too bad I have commitment issues.
At the time I found this out, I had been in my apartment for a year and a half, had recently painted the walls my favorite shades of turquoise and gold, and had no plans of moving in the near or even not-so-near future. But to sign another lease cementing the fact that I absolutely could NOT move for 12 whole months was more than my commitment-phobe self could handle. I mean, what would happen if my dream job running the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children landed in my lap and required me to move to Washington DC or I got a book deal that allowed me to run off to Italy to write? What if a member of my family took ill and I had to pack my bags and leave? What if I had a nervous breakdown, lost my job, or decided to run off to Vegas and get married? That was 15 months ago and I have yet to rope my friends into another pizza, beer, and moving day fiasco. The truth is, I like the fact that I have been at the same address for going on three years. I have gotten to know my neighbors and enjoy having a drink with them in our courtyard when we all come home from a night out around the same time. I know all the idiosyncrasies of my apartment – namely that to light the front left burner on my stove, I need to use a long-handled lighter, but to light the front right burner, I need to wait until the smell of gas makes me want to open the windows and run before the flame is going to catch. I’m not moving any time soon and yet the prospect of signing my name on the dotted line for yet another year incites shallow breathing, sweaty palms, and hives.
Fortunately, some of the afore-mentioned “idiosyncrasies” recently allowed me to engage in what some might call extortion.
As it turns out my bath tub faucet’s tendency to leak - despite being shut off - as well as vacillate between having Niagara Falls and an IV-drip for water pressure was an indication that the pipes in my building were no longer considered “old” but had moved into the category of “must be replaced immediately before the entire building explodes like a fire hydrant on a summer day in Brooklyn in 1963.” The plumbers were hired, walls were busted down, floors were jack hammered, and my dog and I floated around like a homeless pair taking advantage of friends’ couches. While all of this was annoying, especially considering these “professionals” didn’t like to clean up after themselves or wipe off their shoes before coming into my apartment, California Renters’ Penal Code didn’t really give me much room for complaint because my landlords were, in fact, taking care of the problem in a relatively timely manner. However, coming home to empty soda cans and open bags of candy from my refrigerator and cupboards did give me reason to call an attorney.
The first time it happened, I weighed the amount of energy it would take to complain about having my cupboards rummaged through against the cost of a soda, and after scrubbing my floors for the 6th time this year (usually this is only a bi-annual occurrence, see "Spring Awakening"), found that I just didn’t have it in me. The second time it happened, I was ready to explode like a fire hydrant on a summer day in Brooklyn in 1963 – wait, have I used that reference already? I got on the phone with my landlord to file an official complaint.
“Ummm, hi…this is me from Apartment #? I just wanted to let you know about what happened when I came home from work today? I had empty soda cans from my refrigerator on my counter that were not there when I left this morning. And the other day I came home and a bag of candy that I had just bought was ripped open with empty wrappers laying around it…I’m not really one to complain, but this just really makes me nervous given the fact that people have been coming in and out a lot lately? And if they are so careless as to leave the trash out, it makes me wonder what else of mine they might be going through?” Namely my underwear door, you sickos. I know all about how most plumbers are ex-cons. I saw that 20/20.
Twenty minutes later, my landlord showed up at my front door, apologizing profusely, demanding the empty cans so she could have them dusted for finger prints. She wanted to know if there was anything she could do. Even if I requested cash value for what had been taken, I would not have been able to buy myself lunch. And really, it was not about the money. I feel violated, y’all.
I think Oprah would have called this an “Aha!” moment. “Well, while I have you here, I have noticed that all the other units have gotten hardwood floors in the past year…and I was wondering if there were any plans to have them installed in my unit any time soon?”
She shot me a look that I am pretty sure read: You had this planned the whole time you very innocent looking, yet evil, extortionist. What she said was: “Ok, I do that for you.”
Score one for Cinderella. Commitment issues or not, it feels pretty good to get what you want.
At the time I found this out, I had been in my apartment for a year and a half, had recently painted the walls my favorite shades of turquoise and gold, and had no plans of moving in the near or even not-so-near future. But to sign another lease cementing the fact that I absolutely could NOT move for 12 whole months was more than my commitment-phobe self could handle. I mean, what would happen if my dream job running the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children landed in my lap and required me to move to Washington DC or I got a book deal that allowed me to run off to Italy to write? What if a member of my family took ill and I had to pack my bags and leave? What if I had a nervous breakdown, lost my job, or decided to run off to Vegas and get married? That was 15 months ago and I have yet to rope my friends into another pizza, beer, and moving day fiasco. The truth is, I like the fact that I have been at the same address for going on three years. I have gotten to know my neighbors and enjoy having a drink with them in our courtyard when we all come home from a night out around the same time. I know all the idiosyncrasies of my apartment – namely that to light the front left burner on my stove, I need to use a long-handled lighter, but to light the front right burner, I need to wait until the smell of gas makes me want to open the windows and run before the flame is going to catch. I’m not moving any time soon and yet the prospect of signing my name on the dotted line for yet another year incites shallow breathing, sweaty palms, and hives.
Fortunately, some of the afore-mentioned “idiosyncrasies” recently allowed me to engage in what some might call extortion.
As it turns out my bath tub faucet’s tendency to leak - despite being shut off - as well as vacillate between having Niagara Falls and an IV-drip for water pressure was an indication that the pipes in my building were no longer considered “old” but had moved into the category of “must be replaced immediately before the entire building explodes like a fire hydrant on a summer day in Brooklyn in 1963.” The plumbers were hired, walls were busted down, floors were jack hammered, and my dog and I floated around like a homeless pair taking advantage of friends’ couches. While all of this was annoying, especially considering these “professionals” didn’t like to clean up after themselves or wipe off their shoes before coming into my apartment, California Renters’ Penal Code didn’t really give me much room for complaint because my landlords were, in fact, taking care of the problem in a relatively timely manner. However, coming home to empty soda cans and open bags of candy from my refrigerator and cupboards did give me reason to call an attorney.
The first time it happened, I weighed the amount of energy it would take to complain about having my cupboards rummaged through against the cost of a soda, and after scrubbing my floors for the 6th time this year (usually this is only a bi-annual occurrence, see "Spring Awakening"), found that I just didn’t have it in me. The second time it happened, I was ready to explode like a fire hydrant on a summer day in Brooklyn in 1963 – wait, have I used that reference already? I got on the phone with my landlord to file an official complaint.
“Ummm, hi…this is me from Apartment #? I just wanted to let you know about what happened when I came home from work today? I had empty soda cans from my refrigerator on my counter that were not there when I left this morning. And the other day I came home and a bag of candy that I had just bought was ripped open with empty wrappers laying around it…I’m not really one to complain, but this just really makes me nervous given the fact that people have been coming in and out a lot lately? And if they are so careless as to leave the trash out, it makes me wonder what else of mine they might be going through?” Namely my underwear door, you sickos. I know all about how most plumbers are ex-cons. I saw that 20/20.
Twenty minutes later, my landlord showed up at my front door, apologizing profusely, demanding the empty cans so she could have them dusted for finger prints. She wanted to know if there was anything she could do. Even if I requested cash value for what had been taken, I would not have been able to buy myself lunch. And really, it was not about the money. I feel violated, y’all.
I think Oprah would have called this an “Aha!” moment. “Well, while I have you here, I have noticed that all the other units have gotten hardwood floors in the past year…and I was wondering if there were any plans to have them installed in my unit any time soon?”
She shot me a look that I am pretty sure read: You had this planned the whole time you very innocent looking, yet evil, extortionist. What she said was: “Ok, I do that for you.”
Score one for Cinderella. Commitment issues or not, it feels pretty good to get what you want.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Shaken, stirred...or a pack rat?
What is it about going home that sparks such deep, inquisitive introspection? People write entire novels about it. Direct movies. These books and movies make you laugh, cry, want to book a flight home to see your mother, revert back to your own childhood. Or drink heavily. I’ll start with a blog…and I make no promises (I say as I sip my martini).
When I was home recently my mother roped me into her spring cleaning frenzy (at least I know I come by it honestly) and in an effort to downsize, had me go through what seemed like 183 Rubbermaid containers full of every possible possession from my childhood. We’re talking love letters, dried flowers, candy hearts from 1992 (which I dared my younger brother to eat and he did and they did not kill him or even give him a stomach ache. Good for you, Brachs!). I think my mother felt bad about forcing me to go through all of these things on my vacation, but what I did not want to tell her was that I secretly loved it. There is nothing like reading through 10+ year old love letters that makes you all warm and fuzzy inside. What I did not realize was that I might possibly be considered a hoarder. I mean, really, who saves 18 year-old candy? I couldn’t even tell you whom I was so thrilled to have received a candy heart by that said “Be Mine” that I decided to cryogenically freeze it for all eternity, but I definitely ascribed meaning to it at some point in my life.
Perhaps equally as great a revelation was that middle and high-schoolers, and even college students as my more recent treasures proved, are capable of such desperate, intense emotions it’s almost laughable. Sure, I remember break-ups being dramatic and gut-wrenching, but nothing else captures that moment when you discover the typed lyrics of “Semi-charmed life” by Third Eye Blind tucked underneath the windshield wiper of your car as that very same saved piece of paper nestled inside your tear-stained journal. It was my ex-boyfriend’s attempt to prove to me that he was officially accepting the fact that I broke up with him. I had to call my mom and have her excuse me from the rest of school that fateful 11th grade day. I could hear her rolling her eyes on the other end of the line when I called her from the main office to convince her that I absolutely could not remain in school the rest of the day without embarrassing myself due to the amount of tears I was going to shed when I read and reread the lyrics for the 52nd time. “I took the hit that I was given, then I bumped again…I want something else to get me through this…” We loved torturing ourselves. (Apparently this particular ex-boyfriend now tortures himself with cocaine, among other more hard-care substances, as I have heard through the high school grapevine, but I do not take any ownership of Prince 90s-alternative-band-lyrics-and-cocaine-make-me-charming’s recent addictions.)
Either I really had something when I was younger that drew men (ok, let’s be real, boys) to me and I have lost whatever it was as an adult or we were all just hormonal messes. I am hoping it was the latter. I have not received such intensely ‘honest’ love letters since my early 20s. Maybe I should go back to refusing to go on dates with boys until they write me a poem. In sonnet form. And make it iambic pentameter. (Yep, I said that. And yep, I got one in return. It’s part of the reason I ended up relocating my life to the west coast. Maybe I need more stringent criteria other than one’s ability to more than likely google “love sonnet in iambic pentameter” for moving in with someone.)
Yes, the drama is fun, but if a UPS package can incite hives (see "Mirror, Mirror"), what the hell would happen to me if I stumbled upon a letter attached to the windshield of my rabbit at this point in my life? I can only imagine the 911 call I would be placing, followed by the frantic call to one of my inner circle and then my mother to say that I am officially giving up and moving home. So I am going to assume that the trade-off for that kind of intensity is a certified, grown-up, hive-free relationship full of love and support, and not candy hearted affirmations, and real dialogue instead of one-hit wonders who can seemingly explain what we’re feeling so much better than ourselves.
**Disclaimer: Before you get any ideas, about two sips in, I remembered that I absolutely detest martinis and proceeded to dump it down the drain. I guess there's hope for me yet...
When I was home recently my mother roped me into her spring cleaning frenzy (at least I know I come by it honestly) and in an effort to downsize, had me go through what seemed like 183 Rubbermaid containers full of every possible possession from my childhood. We’re talking love letters, dried flowers, candy hearts from 1992 (which I dared my younger brother to eat and he did and they did not kill him or even give him a stomach ache. Good for you, Brachs!). I think my mother felt bad about forcing me to go through all of these things on my vacation, but what I did not want to tell her was that I secretly loved it. There is nothing like reading through 10+ year old love letters that makes you all warm and fuzzy inside. What I did not realize was that I might possibly be considered a hoarder. I mean, really, who saves 18 year-old candy? I couldn’t even tell you whom I was so thrilled to have received a candy heart by that said “Be Mine” that I decided to cryogenically freeze it for all eternity, but I definitely ascribed meaning to it at some point in my life.
Perhaps equally as great a revelation was that middle and high-schoolers, and even college students as my more recent treasures proved, are capable of such desperate, intense emotions it’s almost laughable. Sure, I remember break-ups being dramatic and gut-wrenching, but nothing else captures that moment when you discover the typed lyrics of “Semi-charmed life” by Third Eye Blind tucked underneath the windshield wiper of your car as that very same saved piece of paper nestled inside your tear-stained journal. It was my ex-boyfriend’s attempt to prove to me that he was officially accepting the fact that I broke up with him. I had to call my mom and have her excuse me from the rest of school that fateful 11th grade day. I could hear her rolling her eyes on the other end of the line when I called her from the main office to convince her that I absolutely could not remain in school the rest of the day without embarrassing myself due to the amount of tears I was going to shed when I read and reread the lyrics for the 52nd time. “I took the hit that I was given, then I bumped again…I want something else to get me through this…” We loved torturing ourselves. (Apparently this particular ex-boyfriend now tortures himself with cocaine, among other more hard-care substances, as I have heard through the high school grapevine, but I do not take any ownership of Prince 90s-alternative-band-lyrics-and-cocaine-make-me-charming’s recent addictions.)
Either I really had something when I was younger that drew men (ok, let’s be real, boys) to me and I have lost whatever it was as an adult or we were all just hormonal messes. I am hoping it was the latter. I have not received such intensely ‘honest’ love letters since my early 20s. Maybe I should go back to refusing to go on dates with boys until they write me a poem. In sonnet form. And make it iambic pentameter. (Yep, I said that. And yep, I got one in return. It’s part of the reason I ended up relocating my life to the west coast. Maybe I need more stringent criteria other than one’s ability to more than likely google “love sonnet in iambic pentameter” for moving in with someone.)
Yes, the drama is fun, but if a UPS package can incite hives (see "Mirror, Mirror"), what the hell would happen to me if I stumbled upon a letter attached to the windshield of my rabbit at this point in my life? I can only imagine the 911 call I would be placing, followed by the frantic call to one of my inner circle and then my mother to say that I am officially giving up and moving home. So I am going to assume that the trade-off for that kind of intensity is a certified, grown-up, hive-free relationship full of love and support, and not candy hearted affirmations, and real dialogue instead of one-hit wonders who can seemingly explain what we’re feeling so much better than ourselves.
**Disclaimer: Before you get any ideas, about two sips in, I remembered that I absolutely detest martinis and proceeded to dump it down the drain. I guess there's hope for me yet...
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