The Adnostic

Erika, Jen, and I have just arrived at the hotel for BlogHer and I have already managed to completely embarrass myself.

We were unpacking the car and I looked up to see a skinny blonde with dangly earrings and her friend participating in much the same chore. For a moment I wasn't sure, so I took a few seconds to confirm my suspicions before I abandoned my sense of shame and decorum, which is all too easily left at the door....

"DOOCE!!!!!"

The skinny blonde looked up and smiled nervously and I ran over gushing like a teenage girl who made eye contact with Justin Timberlake and interpreted it as an invitation to make out with him.

I shook Heather's hand vigorously, introduced my companions by name and web address (I was clearly loosing it), and Heather's friend then greeted as though I were acting rationally, "Hi, I'm Maggie."

"Mighty Girl!!!! I love your stuff!"

"Thanks, we're really excited to be here."

"Me too! I know it must be hard to tell."

[polite laughter]

I then had the good sense to back away, slowly, and leave them be.

When we got to the hotel room, Jen started laughing. "Lauren, I have seen you in front of cute boys and rockers, and I have never seen you like that. Ever."

"I really lost it. Didn't I?"

"Yes, you really did. At least we know where your priorities are - a well written blog!"

My parents agreed to buy me a Nokia 7610 for my birthday, but in order to do so I had to officially switch from AT&T to Cingular and order my phone directly from Nokia which will hopefully be delivered before I leave for BlogHer.

In the mean time, I am cell phone-less. The only way my friends can contact me is via e-mail and AIM. Sorry if I haven't returned someone's call or been slow to respond to a text message. I'll be back to full connectivity soon.

I promise.

I hope.

I pray.

I pray a lot.

I haven't prayed this hard in a long time. Please Lord; please have FedEx deliver my lovely new phone before the end of Thursday's working day.

Should I bargain? Lord, if you deliver my phone before the end of the day on Thursday, I'll subscribe to KCRW. I'll stop telling homeless people on my porch to fuck off, even if they started it. I'll take pretty pictures of your wonders and post them to my blog - sunsets, Millbrook and Katanga, flowers, and girls who violate the international regulations on wearing ultra-low rise jeans in public.

Could I get anymore desperate?!

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Adendum (7/27/05):

My prayers have been answered. I'm really going to miss being able to swear at homeless people.

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Adendum (7/28/05):

I should have been more specific. I prayed for my phone to be delivered, but I failed to aslo request that the phone's SIM card be functional with my original phone number.

So I am still disconnected, but I'm going to try and get this resolved after work tonight.

Massaging your horse's sheath by hand to increase circulation and reduce swelling while greeting a poor old man who thinks you're some kind of pervert.

The other night I was having dinner with the parental units and telling them that I wouldn't be around at the end of the month because I would be going to BlogHer for the weekend. Suddenly Mom became very concerned about my blog.

"Is it like a Chat Room?"

"No Mom, it's not like a chat room. It's more like a personal broadcast. People can leave e-mails or comments, but it's not in real time. I'm not having a conversation with my readers. It's mostly one way."

"Well, I don't know how I feel about this."

"Mom. Everything is virtual. They can get my e-mail address, but that's about it. I'm very vague about where I live, where I work, and where I go. There is nothing tangible about me on the site."

"Well, there are these Sexual Predators out there and they can be very dangerous. I hope you're aware of this."

I stared at her wide-eyed for a moment, stunned by the level of ignorance and ill directed concern. "Mom, I'm not TWELVE!"

Dad giggled and that ended that. At least until it was time to clear the table.

"I guess I should tell everyone at BlogHer to be extra careful. All those female bloggers in one place, it's like a Sexual Predators wet dream!!!"

Mom glared at me. "Don't be cute."

Dad and I chuckled and continued clearing the table.

I found out yesterday that News Corp. has bought Intermix Media, the parent company of MySpace. This is the equivalent of finding out your boyfriend has been sleeping with Anne Coulter on the side, it's the best sex he's ever had, she's pregnant, and they're going to get married.

God I feel dirty. Time for a long hot shower and a brand new loofa.

Last night I came home around 1am after a fabulous dinner and the company a good friend from out of town to find a homeless person sleeping on my porch. This is what I get for moving from Orange to WeHo, transients using my stoop as a bed. No big deal though, he left plenty of room for me to get into the house.

Unfortunately I must have rattled my keys a little too loudly because my un-bathed guest awoke and immediately began verbally berating me.

"Aw, fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!"

Now, at this point I still haven't said a single solitary word to the guy. I wasn't asking him to leave; I was just trying to get into my house. So I did something in retrospect that was very silly, I answered in kind.

"Fuck you. I live here."

That was when he continued to wish me an abundant sex life and threw the welcome mat he was sleeping on at me. He missed and started walking away, but not before asking, "What's the name of your god?!"

"Um, God." You see Jews never saw the point in naming God considering that there is only one. Giving Him a name would be a little redundant.

"You don't even know your god's name! Fuck you! You don't even know your god's name!"

I rolled my eyes, went inside and locked the door. Sleepy/Grumpy attacked my trash cans and went to find another place to spend the night.

Hopefully such encounters with the local color will be few and far between.

I've gone out to eat lunch with people from the office every day this week and what do I have to show for it? An empty wallet and an irrational fear of CARBS. Okay, to be fair, I've also gotten to know my coworkers better, have come to the conclusion that they're all really bright and knowledgeable about translating brands on the web, and have developed an irrational fear that I will be found out as a talent-less hack who should have never been hired in the first place.

Today I decided to go a different route and bring my lunch with me from home. This morning I had the choice between grocery store sushi and a yet to be made sandwich. The decision became remarkably easy after I discovered that the refrigerator froze my lettuce. Rock solid, people. I could have bashed someone's brain in with leafy greens should I have felt inclined.

Today was the day that everyone decided to forego walking across the street to the park and drive to In-n-Out. Granted, I could have joined them and enjoyed my poor excuse for Japanese cuisine while they savored their freshly made juicy burgers, but I opted to stay in, not bond, allow them to discuss my failings freely outside of my presence, and eat my cold fish next to the web analytics guy who openly hates people.

Cold fish indeed.

I just started a new job and moved into a new apartment that doesn't have WiFi. The lady who owns the house has been surviving on dial-up for God only knows how long and I'm not sure what it's going to take to finally get her to make tangible moves towards an upgrade.

Back in April, I attended a very hedonistic bachelorette party and lived to tell the tale (not that the events which transpired will ever be recorded on this blog). During the course of activities, I met a guy who seemed nice, if not a little too preoccupied with his own coolness. We exchanged saliva and phone numbers, and I never really heard from him again. So, I deleted his contact information, like any smart girl should do unless there is a possibility of stalkage. In such cases keep the number for all eternity because you never know when that guy you blew off for good reasons wants to reminisce.

Two months later, I received a text message from someone not in my address book with a 617 area code with the following message:

We have unfinished business.

I knew that 617 is a Boston area code, because I've had a crush on Zack from the Kings of Nuthin' for the past two years and his number stored in my phone since their last West Coast tour (he's dreamy). But I knew it couldn't be him, because I have his number and he's far too much of a gentleman to leave me a message that ambiguous. So now I'm scared of either spammers or stalkers with Southie accents who didn't care much for my review of Mystic River.

After deleting the message and proceeding to give my attention to other matters, I suddenly realized that the texter was the guy from the bachelorette party and was a day late and more than a dollar short. I found his number on an old cell phone bill and texted him back letting him know that I thought our business was over and that two months was way too long to wait for a follow up call.

We must have texted back and forth at least ten times, before I got sick of it and wrote him to "Quit dicking around and call me." He never did.

Three weeks later I get another text message asking if I could go out two weeks from then. This was my response:

Learn to use the phone.

This was his response:

What's that?

I am officially over texted by the Boston Texter. He gets no date.

I'm not entirely sure what planet aligned with which star, but (not to jinx myself) within the span of a week I got offered a new job with a sweet raise, a new apartment (for a little more money than I was looking to pay, but utilities are included and I have my own bathroom), a time slot to ride on Saturdays with my old trainer back in LA, two horses in Norco to ride whenever I want, a Tom Jones concert (expensive but worth every penny (you better be reading this, Occulator)), and not one, but three dates with a guy* I actually happen to like.

Now, out of all of these incredible events, the ones with the most significance are the job offer and the dates. The importance of the job offer has been explained previously, but the guy and dates have not. This being the case, I have a confession to make - I rarely date and my sexual activity is limited to an annual event. I joke around about being a slut, but that's just my Jewish/Puritanical inheritance of guilt and the fact that the punch line to the story reads better that way. People should always read this blog with the knowledge that I have a natural gift for sarcasm, which is also a part of my Jewish inheritance. My freakishly thick yet carefully groomed eyebrows are a part of my Russian inheritance (Thanks Dad).

Being asked out by two different guys within the span of two months is as unheard of as my side view mirror being taken out by two different guys in the same amount of time. Yes, this also happened.

Sure, there was a time when I was going on at least one date a week, but those numbers were artificially influenced. I was on JDate. It was a truly pathetic time in my life, which I will hopefully never repeat.

As for the New Guy, I'm trying not to get carried away with the rush of newfound infatuation. I like him, I enjoy the time I spend with him, but it's still very early and I really don't know him all that well (yet, he does come with a fine reference, being the friend of well respected friend). Clearly I need to keep my wits about me with this one and analyze his actions objectively. So far, I'm thinking casual short termer, but I could be wrong.

*I need to eventually give him a nickname for the sake of continuity in the dialogue, but he hasn't earned one yet. So for now we'll just call him the New Guy.
Speaking of nicknames, Occulator came up with a fantastic new nickname for Hollywood - DickHugger. Man I wish I could go back in time and change all the Hollywood entries. DickHugger is brilliant and ultimately appropriate.