Ever get so caught up in a joke that you end up saying something really, really bad, but you at least manage to stop yourself half way, only the really bad half that should have never even entered your brain was the half that came out.
Yeah, I've done that. I'm still losing sleep over it. Litterally.
Linda fiddles with her swizzle stick before enjoying her Pina Colada at Kim V's Tiki Party and Clothing Swap.
I never made it into the hot tub like I had planned, but I did manage to come away with a killer pair of leather pants that make my butt look great.
I met Jelly today for a little shopping starting at Sephora, where we found Jessica Simpson's Dessert product line and had a few giggles at the Belly Button Gloss. Ew. Does Sephora know that they're hocking sex products? Does pure little Jessica know? Why would I buy a sex aid from a girl who was a virgin when she was married and thinks buffaloes have wings? I hope it tanks and I'm taking a trip to the Pleasure Chest.
Anyways, I had a gift certificate to Victoria's Secret burning a hole in my pocket and had been lamenting over my boring underwear collection. Poor JDate Guy shouldn't be dating a girl with a boring underwear drawer. He deserves a girl who wears lacey bras and skimpy panties, instead he gets a brunette who's afraid to wax and thinks the Victoria's Secret low rise bikini briefs are the best invention since lycra blended fabric. So what do I end up getting while I'm in VS's? Low rise cotton bikini briefs. (sigh)
Off to Bloomingdale's to cruise the sale rack. I found a couple bras to try, nice lacey ones too, and I decided to try something new - I asked the sales clerk to measure me for the right bra size. I had always relied on guessing and trying them on. The nice sales girl wrapped her measuring tape around my rib cage, then around my breasts, and announced that I am a 32D.
I'm a D?! Now, I was traumatized when I discovered that my breasts had grown from a respectable 34B to a 34C two years ago, and this little high schooler is telling me I'm a D?! Sure, it's a decrease from a 34 to a 32, which affects the cup size, but it's still a D. Ds are huge. Cs are large, but they're not overwhelming. D's are ginormous! If my breasts grow anymore, which they will, I'm going to jump to a Double D. DD?! I can't go into repeating letters!
Is this going to adversely effect me at work? I give a presentation or go in for an interview and all they walk away with is, "Nice girl. Big tits. I wonder if she's smart?"
What about dating? Are guys suddenly going to not be able to look me in the eye? It's not like I can blame them, if I were faced with a pair of Ds I'd be a little distracted too.
I guess I just have to face the fact that I have inherited the dreaded Isaacson boobs. I get the Isaacson brows, the Isaacson skinny calves, and now it's official - I get the boobs too. So I suppose that a Miracle Bra is a little redundant at this point?
A friend gave me tickets to the Brian Jonestown Massacre last night for my birthday, so I took my friend Kimi to the Vanguard for a little rock and roll. I invited her mostly because JDate Guy couldn't go, but also because she's my favorite +1.
The venue was relatively new (read - I have never been there before and I drove right past it the first time) and clean and spacious with fuzzy walls. We arrived around 9, missing Innaway, but just in time for Quarter After.
Quarter After was good. Nothing particularly special, but solid song writing and musicianship. Their last song dragged a bit, but it was their last song, you have to let stuff like that slide on a last song.
Then it was time for BJM. FUCKING MUSICIANS!!! Do your fucking JOB! Just because you have a reputation for being an eccentric artist does not mean that you should dick your fans around while you're on stage waiting for the heroin to kick in.
In response to this disaster which I had absolutely no patience for, I have developed a new set of rules. I put a lot of thought into these so listen up and listen well:
1) There should not be a one hour wait in between you and the band that played before you. Get your skinny addicted ass on stage!
2) I know you consider yourself a tortured artist and all, but an instrumental should only last 5 to 10 minutes. TWENTY minutes is TOO LONG!!!
3) I should not have to wait another 10 minutes for you to start your next song while your band mates play the opening measure over and over again like a pack of autistic children. I should not have to watch you saunter around the stage smoking your weed, cracking open a beer, and handing out water bottles. You're a singer right? SING.
I would have more rules, but I was so fed up I left. Kimi, bless her, understood my frustration and said that I would need to experience a good acid trip for something like that to be considered tollerable. That's the kind of advice you get from people who were raised by hipies.
Hey, at least it was free. Thanks Brett and Jodi!
Ever since BlogHer, I've been suffering from masthead envy. Not that I wanted to get rid of my Devil Girls (I love them. They are the visual representation of my id), but I couldn't help feeling it needed more "oomph." I mean, just looking at Dooce's gallery of retired mastheads made me want to consider the possibility of intellectual property theft. I promise it was a fleeting notion that only coincided with the occasional lapse in morality.
So I e-mailed my parents' friend, Scott, who recently started his own graphic design firm and asked how much a snazzy new masthead would cost. He called me back and told me that not only would he do it for free, but he would also give me a redesign every so often.
This kind of generosity called for drastic measures. I e-mailed Momiji Man and asked if he would pick me up a bottle of my favorite reposado, which is unavailable in the US, on his next trip to Mexico, which will be given to Scott as a kind gesture in repayment for a kind gesture.
Now the question is how do I repay Momiji Man? Tickets to the Wasted Festival? Dance lessons?
What I Remember:
- Arriving at the bar and securing a corner chair and couch
- Drinking three very strong tequila martinis
- Opening wonderful gifts from wonderful friends
- Having a great time with all the people I enjoy hanging out with and being very glad that they were there
What I Don't Remember:
- Dancing wildly to Anarchy in the UK
- Half the night
- Jodi, Sandra, and Kim consolidating my gifts to fewer bags so that I could use the now empty bags to puke in
- Passing out
- Being carried out of the bar slung over Mark's shoulder as someone yelled, "Hey! That's the girl who barfed in her gift bag!"
- Puking in another gift bag in Jodi's car and throwing it out the window on the way home because it was leaking
- Jodi helping me inside my house
- Changing out of my dress and into my pj's to go to bed
What Happened the Next Morning:
- Going from fine, to very nauseous, to dry heaving every hour on the hour, until about three in the afternoon
- Calling Jodi to find out everything I "missed"
- Calling all my friends who I wasn't sure if I should thank or apologize to
- Leaving very drawn out rambling messages on said friends' answering services
- Arriving at my parent's house for a little love and comfort and being greeted with, "You look like shit."
- Mom giving me Pepto-Bismol and Coca-Cola with all the bubbles stirred out until I felt well enough to try eating food
- Having to reassure my mother that I wasn't on my way to becoming an alcoholic and that the reason I was so hung over from the previous night was because I NEVER drink like that, EVER
- Telling JDate Guy about the whole evening, finding out that he read the dating section of my blog in its entirety, and being downright shocked that he still wanted to go out with me again
All in all, another great birthday the later of which will hopefully never be repeated. Happy 29th to me!
People often ask me, "Why do people read your blog?" And the answer is simple, because funny shit happens to me. I am a magnet for the most random and hysterical occurrences. Like the goodbye lunch we had for a co-worker today.
We were having lunch in the park across the street from the office, when a young woman approached us and asked if we were with the art camp. Let's just call her Powder for the sake of the narrative...
Powder: My mom signed me up for art camp and I've been walking around this park for the last two hours trying to find it. I even paid $5 to park.
We point her in the direction of the art museum.
Powder: I've already tried there but they yelled at me and chased me off after they found out I didn't have any ID.
Lynn: Do you want something to eat?
Power: Yeah! Thanks, I haven't eaten in two days.
Me: Two days? Here, have some crackers too.
Powder: Thanks. My mom sent to a spa camp a couple weeks ago and I was like the oldest person there.
Craig: Huh. I guess you didn't get much action then, did you?
Powder: No.
Me: Spa camp?
Suddenly her phone rings.
Powder: Hi.... but I'm okay.... no.... nooooooo.... NOOOOOOOO!
[she throws the relatively new Palm Treo to the ground]
Powder: [crying] I slept at this guy's place last night, and we didn't have sex or anything, but now my mom is calling all my friends trying to find me and she's also called the cops.
Thomas: How old are you?
Powder: I'm almost 18. Oh my GOD! I have to get rid of the coke!
Thomas: You may want to do that in the bathroom.
Powder: I don't care!
Me: We might.
[Powder proceeds to take the cocaine out of her wallet, run over to the nearest trashcan, throw it away, and run back]
Thomas: She's going to be digging through that trashcan as soon as she lands.
[A siren wails in the background]
Craig: Hey listen! They're coming for you.
Powder: Oh no! What do I do? I know! I'll call my dad. He was in AA for 10 years. He'll totally understand.
Thomas: You might want to hold off on calling anyone right now.
Powder: Shit! It's my mom. She's such a witch. I hate her. Do you guys want to hear the message she's leaving me?
Message: Hi, it's your mother. Please call me back as soon as you get this. It's very important.
Powder: She's so mean and awful! She's going to send me away.
Me: To where? Spa camp?
[Powder is crying again]
Powder: Who do I call? Who do I call? I know! I'll call my therapist!
Thomas: Why don't you take a break for the next ten minutes and not call anyone?
[Suddenly Powder's mother appears out of nowhere]
Powder: [sobbing] Mmmmoooommmm! I'm so sorry Mom!
Powder's Mom: It's okay honey.
[the mother starts leading her drugged out daughter away]
Powder's Mom: I'll have her back in a few minutes.
Thomas: Umm, we're not the art camp.
[we take a break to try and figure out what just happened as Powder sobs uncontrollably in the background]
Thomas: That was a quintessential LA moment.
Me: Spa camp?
I know I should be writing about how wonderful BlogHer was, and how much fun I had, and all the cool people I met, and if I ever had an Indian name it would be Dances With MommyBloggers, but I've been sitting on this for the past week and a half and I need to get it out.
I had been dating The Elitist for about a month and was having trouble keeping my feelings on the slightly detached side because he was very effectively keeping me at arms length and I was becoming more and more frustrated by his barriers to intimacy.
Exhibit A:
After an hour or so of intimate relations we were laying together, basking in the afterglow when he suddenly became very concerned about the time.
Elitist: What time is it?
Me: 11:30, why? [jokingly] Is it time for me to leave?
Elitist: [seriously] Soon.
For a moment I was stunned.
Me: Are you kicking me out?
Elitist: Well, not yet.
Me: You're kicking me out?! Is this like Charlie Sheen and whores? I don't pay for the sex. I pay for them to leave.
At this point I can almost hear my mother telling me that this is precisely the treatment I deserve for hopping into bed with him so quickly. With my self-esteem about to hit record lows, The Elitist and I continued making hooker jokes until midnight when he determined it was time for me to leave.
He got up to see me out, but with hesitation. His neck and shoulder had stiffened and were causing him discomfort.
Me: Oh, I'd help you with that, but you're kicking me out.
Elitist: I'm never going hear the end of this, am I?
Me: Pretty much.
It was after this incident that I came to the conclusion that he didn't want me for a girlfriend and I wasn't sure how I felt about just being used for sex. I had never been able to keep my feelings separate from my sexual activity before, but I was willing to give it a try in this particular instance. I'm a modern woman, right?
That was a mistake.
Exhibit B:
He would only call me once a week, if that. He only wanted to see me once a week, and if we missed a weekend, then too bad.
He lived less than a mile away from me and wouldn't even come over for a booty call. Which was offered a total of twice. Here was a guy who didn't seem to want a serious relationship with me, but when I was offering sex without the pretense, he didn't want that either. Now I was confused. Repeatedly rejected, frustrated, and confused. A bad combination.
Exhibit C:
He didn't like to kiss me. Enough said.
I need to be fair here. There were a lot of good qualities as well. He was strikingly handsome, exceptionally bright, and one of the best lovers I've ever had (yes, even without the kissing (yes, I would be skeptical too)). We also had a great time together. Even when we were just sitting there talking about the most inane subjects, he always made it interesting.
All this left for a situation I didn't know quite what to do with. So when we had made plans to see each other one Saturday, after we had not seen each other for two weeks, and he had to reschedule for the next day at the last minute, I was a little put off. When Sunday came, and he called to tell me that he couldn't do dinner because he was with his parents and asked if we could just see a movie instead. I wanted to tell him to shove it, but I melted when I heard his voice and agreed that just a movie would be best. I hadn’t seen him in two weeks for no particular reason and all I get is a documentary about penguins?!
After the movie, he drove me home and parked the car outside my house. This was when I made the poor choice of unleashing my pent up Atomic Bomb of anger and neglect. Didn't he care that he hadn't seen me in two weeks? Didn't he even notice? Doesn't he want to come in so we can "make-up?"
Elitist: I can tell you're really mad about this, so I'm going to be proactive and not come in.
Me: [Proactive? Did he just use a business term on me?] Are you breaking up with me?
Elitist: Um, yeah.
Me: All right then. Bye.
[I move to get out of the car]
Elitist: Wait. Let's talk about this.
Me: If we're breaking up then I really don't see the point.
[I continue getting out of the car]
Elitist: But I really like you.
Me: [You have a funny way of showing it] I really like you too, but I want to be with someone who wants to talk to me more than once a week, who wants to see me more than once a week, and who doesn't keep me so damn scheduled.
He didn't have an answer for that one, so I closed the car door and marched myself inside without looking back.
At first I felt really good about it. I didn't cave. I didn't settle for a relationship that could prove emotionally unsatisfying. I handled the dumping like a pro. Then, after a day or so of distance, I began to have my doubts about how I dealt with the situation. He didn't really want to break up with me, but after he affirmed my question I just couldn't let it go. I bit into the words "break up" like a rabid pit bull and reacted the best way I knew how - walk away, don't ask questions, and don't look back.
I consulted a few of my more level headed friends about what happened and pretty much got the same answer - You pulled that BS after only dating him for a month? What were you thinking?
So, I screwed it up. Dysfunctional Single Girl triumphs again! I wish I could talk to him again and tell him that was sorry for losing my temper, but I can't. I'm too stubborn and far too proud. He's not much different. All I wanted was to see him more often and I completely failed that negotiation.
We MBAs call that a zero sum. Nobody wins.
Well, me and Todi. It's Todi's big day too. Please join us in celebrating the fact that we made it one more year without the Department of Mental Health catching on.
Where: Good Luck Bar, 1514 Hillhurst Ave,Los Feliz,CA
When: Saturday, August 6th
What Time: Anytime after 9pm
