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.
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