This poor, short and squat gentleman has been sitting at the table for an hour and a half now waiting for this woman to show up. He says that he’s an event coordinator for the Playboy mansion and the girl he’s waiting for is a possible client/girlfriend. He’s nice but far from handsome. If I were him I’d be gone in 30 minutes (that’s about all it takes in L.A. to get through traffic). “I’m just gonna give it 5 more minutes,” he says as he pushes the tiny keys on his phone with his sausage-like fingers. “No problem,” I say as I refill his water. Just as I’m thinking “have some respect for yourself,” a buxom blonde comes skipping to the table. She’s Playboy centerfold worthy and orders a mimosa (easy orange juice). God damn L.A. and its persistence and its unwillingness to give up on a hot girl. I guess persistence is what it takes to survive in this city. I get bored too easily; maybe L.A. isn’t for me.
Oh Gawd, it’s Sunday morning and I’m listening to this dirty hoe again. The sun is shining and it’s windy outside and I love the wind and it puts me in a good mood and for a second I remember what it was like as a child when my brothers and I would hold up giant blue tarps against the wind and let it pull us around the yard. That feeling of getting pulled sure was nice; not knowing where it’d take you. So I’m not even gonna try and justify why I downloaded this song, instead I’m gonna turn it up and open the door and let the wind pull me around the kitchen for a hot minute and remember what it was like…
One of the most important things I’m thankful for is YOU! I’m thankful that you read the shit I write. For all the people I know personally and all those I’ve never met (but feel like I know), THANK YOU. We’re in the same boat together and if there was anyone I’d want to stay dry with, it’d be YOU! Or capsize and pull under, it’d be YOU!
The average American family cooks a turkey once a year, maybe twice. My family cooked it once a week. As a budgeted family, it was smart to cook something where the leftovers would stretch out the entire week. Turkey sandwiches on Monday, turkey soup on Tuesday, turkey chili on Wednesday, etc. For most of my middle/early high school career, I was in charge of prepping and cooking the turkey. It wasn’t by choice, rather Dad had elected me in charge. He obviously saw my potential as a domestic goddess at an early age and took full advantage of it. As he leaned against the counter and sipped beer out of a coffee mug, I’d prep the celery and croutons for the homemade stuffing. He’d offer his wisdom, telling me exactly how much salt to add or how long to sauté the celery so that it didn’t get too soft. Not only did I learn some very valuable lessons on cooking (I know plenty of my peers who still can’t cook a turkey) but I also spent some much treasured one-on-one time with my father, something many people take for granted.
I saw Harry Potter last night with a friend. Before the title could even fade off the screen, she was already asking me a question. “Wait, this is part 1? How many are there?” She’s never really watched the movies. 5 minutes into the film she leaned over and whispered, “Who is that?” I have no tolerance for people who ask questions during a movie. If I ever have a question, I keep it inside and surely enough it’ll answer itself later in the movie. If it doesn’t, then it’s my fault for either going to the bathroom or missing the first 6 episodes. Never punish the poor people who are actually trying to enjoy the movie. So in a stern voice I leaned over and said, “Listen Dad, stop asking questions and just watch the fucking movie.” My Dad used to be the King of Asking Questions during a movie. It was normally because we’d watch movies at night after he’d had a few tall boys, so he was eaily confused. One family movie night, we were watching “Boyz In the Hood.” Daddy was wasted and couldn’t tell any of the characters apart. “Is that Dough Boy?” he slurred. Patiently, we all said, “No.” “Is that Dough Boy?” he asked again. We got annoyed and our tone changed, “Nooooo.” “Oh, that’s him. Is that Dough Boy?” The 3rd time was just offensive and we all screamed, “Noooo!” When Dough Boy finally came on screen Dad asked, “Is that Tre?” We all laughed at him. He got mad and made us turn it off.
It’s as old as time that if you really want to be a popular blogger you have to post pictures of your cat. Well, here’s an article about the cat I knew that lived on the Island where I grew up. His Native American name is Stalking Cat and he’s a very unique man who’s surgically transformed himself into a cat. He’s received so many cosmetic procedures—from fanged dentures to steel implants for detachable “whiskers,” that he’s lost count. Stalking Cat said some of the procedures hurt, but says there is no ongoing discomfort: “This is me,” he said. “This is who I am.” Hell yeah to being yourself… even when people think you’re crazy.
My manager came in still drunk from the night before. “Last night guuurl got cray cray,” he said as he sashayed across the floor, doing twirls and pirouettes. “It’s the first night I’ve gone out as a newly single man,” he said as he snapped his fingers. I was shocked to hear that he was single. Just a few days ago I was admiring his wedding ring and telling him how jealous I was that he was in a happy, committed relationship. Now all of a sudden he was single; where did this come from? “What?!” I asked as he did a back bend over the bar, growling at the bartender. “I had no idea that you and your man were on the rocks?” He puckered his lips and said, “Yeah, well, you know.” “Um, no, I don’t,” I said. He got serious. “We both decided that it just wasn’t working out. We’re still best friends and live together,” he said as his eyes welled up with tears. This was clearly not the place to talk about it, especially since we were at work and I could smell whiskey on his breathe. It made me realize remember that I shouldn’t let other people’s relationships dictate how I feel about my current status. I should be happy with where I’m at and not focus on what I don’t have because, obviously, those who have what I don’t are just as fucked up (or happy or sad or whatever).
This dirty lil’ slut keeps hiring the right people to make her music (or the right people are choosing the perfect “it” vehicle to transmit great pop). Either way, this song is poofing more glitter than a gay fart! Guilty pleasure of the weekend…
My sister-in-law is raising money for liver disease, or lime disease, or something like that and sent e-mails to everyone in the family on how to donate. I donated $35. It aint much, but it’s something. She sent me an e-mail today with the following:
You donated $35 to our race?! My sister told me it was you and I just couldn’t believe it. I told her there was no way it was Jim because he would not have donated $35. Your brother didn’t think you had $35. But then it was YOU! Thank you so much. That was very generous of you. How is everything going? Making lots of money?
My family thinks I’m poor. Well, they’re right. But I’m one of those poor people who will tip like a rich man and donate like a philanthropist. My Mom taught me that money is like shit, “It aint good unless you spread it.” Sure, I have no savings to show for it but if I die tomorrow at least I’d have spent my money well and on things that make me happy. BTW, I have to give a HUGE shout out to my favorite girl, whose selflessness can’t be put into words, for helping save a baby’s life. Her effort has enabled this lil’ guy to successfully make it out of the hospital and home with his parents! I love you Rosie! And your sister too! YOU TWO LADIES MAKE MY HEART SWELL!
“I actually felt like you last night— I fell asleep with a wine glass at my bed side and in the middle of the night was thirsty and took a swig.”—My friend Adel in an e-mail to me. She’s trying to build up her tolerance for when she and her husband go to New Orleans for Thanksgiving. I’m a little worried if that’s the message I’m sending to people. I don’t drink every night and I sure as hell don’t black out every night. I do it probably twice a week. So there’s no reason to be worried and/or think that I sleep with a glass of wine by my bed. Don’t be fooled by what the Internet implies.
The 3rd and final quarter of college, I had only one class on Thursdays. I don’t remember one thing from that Comparative Literature class but I do remember what I did every time on my walk home: I’d go straight into Tower Records, down isle 4 to the World Music section, and to the end where there was always an available listening station. I’d reach behind Algerian artist Ahmed el Salam’s never before touched first disc, and pull out Björk’s Greatest Hits album, which I had hidden there the week before. I scanned the bar code and feverishly skipped to this song. Standing there alone, I’d slowly start to move my knees and then my hips and then my head. Within 30 seconds, I was dancing and smiling. I imagined the day when I’d finally come out of the closet and have sex with a guy. This song is how I imagined it to be.
Right now, I’m going over my medical/dental plan. Once a year, I have to re-fill/update my insurance forms. It’s annoying. I’ve had my own health insurance for 3 years now. There was a 4 year period (after college when I got kicked off my parent’s plan) that I didn’t have any coverage. It was a very stressful period in my life. Simple daily activities made me nervous. I couldn’t ride an escalator without thinking about how much stitches would cost if I happened to trip and slice open my hand. I wouldn’t run to catch the bus if it was raining because I didn’t want to slip and fall and break my leg. I couldn’t walk through revolving doors without the fear of some imbecile fucking up the flow and forcing it to suddenly jam, sending my face through the glass. The funny thing is, now that I have insurance, I’m still just as stressed. Insurance only covers so much. For example, the last time I went to the dentist, I had to pay 700 dollars (they only covered 1500 of it). The stress alone of paying the bill made me grind my teeth into tiny nubs. I can only imagine the bill for next time. Fuck health/dental insurance! However, I’m trying to remember that you can’t worry about the possibilities of life; what will or won’t happen. I’m learning to walk through revolving doors confidently and to ride escalators without the fear of stitches.
I know she wouldn’t. My Mom is classic, so when my Dad passed away it was just the end of them physically being together. Eternally and emotionally they’ll be together forever and there’s no other man for my Mom. Buuuuuut, it’s fun to entertain the idea of what it’d be like if, at 71-years-old, she found a new man. I wonder how I’d react, or how’d I get along with him? What if he was younger than me, say like 25, and during Thanksgiving he’d tell me that maybe I needed to lay off the beer for a minute and it’d create this huge fight and I’d get all crazy and scream at him, “You’re not my father!” and stumble to my room. Or what if he was older than her, say like 92, and she’d have to change his diapers and I’d get really jealous and scream, “You’re not her baby!” and storm off. Either way, it’d be weird having a new Daddy. However, I’ve known a few people who have gotten re-married after their first marriage had legitimately ended (as in death, not so much as in “we got married too young” or “ugh, the sex was boring”) and things were just as happy and normal as the first time around. So, if my Mom did decide to get re-married than I’m sure I’d be just fine with it.
This story is absolutely horrifying. I don’t understand why the police are searching her apartment for clues, though. Doesn’t this seem like a random act of violence*?
*this is why I will never be a detective.
This happened in my neighborhood, just up the street from the restaurant where I work. It was all that the locals could talk about today. One woman, who was on her 3rd glass of Kendall Jackson, said that her mother telephoned after seeing the story on the news to make sure it wasn’t her daughter. Apparently her mom heard that the victim was driving a white Mercedes, which fit the same description as her daughter’s car. If that’s the case, I wonder how many other wealthy Grandma’s called their daughters today? Sweet lil’ things. The woman, after ordering her 4th glass of chardonnay, went on to say that she hoped it was premeditated because she doesn’t want just any random acts of violence happening in her city. “This is Beverly Hills, not Inglewood,” she said as she pulled a black American Express out of her Gucci purse. On second thought, maybe Grandma wasn’t so stupid for thinking that it was her daughter on the news.
That’s what we call the gays who only tip 10 percent. Yesterday, before I even went up to the table, I could tell that’s what they were. One of the many sad things about being a server is that you judge people quickly. However, due to the high volume of people you meet, you become really good at it and the judgment is normally pretty accurate. A 10 Percent Queen is sassy and far from classy. They grew up in a family that considered Applybee’s fine dining (for my family, we got dressed in our Sunday’s finest to eat at The Golden Corral, an all-you-can-eat buffet, so I know). 10 Percent Queens came out of the closet early in life, which has made them shameless and not embarrassed to say what’s on their mind (which is almost always vulgar). One of the Queens ordered something because it was made with “sticky buns and I just loooove sticky buns.” The others giggle and look at me like, “Oh, no he didn’t!” He waits for a reaction from me and after I just smile, he asks for a lemon for his water. They’re normally pretty demanding and will make you run around the restaurant like a chicken with his head cut off. When the bill comes, they have you split it. They all pay with a debit card, never a credit card because most of them have never been approved for one. After all this work, they’ll leave 10 percent and sashay out of the restaurant. I normally get along with them and find them humorous, but come on people, there is NO excuse for tipping 10 percent now and days! Don’t be a 10 Percent Queen, it’s not attractive.
My Dad was a sailor and my brother was in the Air Force. Another brother, the black sheep of the family, joined the Army when he was 22 in an effort to clean up his act and get some direction in his life. He didn’t last long (he was never a fan of taking orders) before he went AWOL (Absent Without Official Leave, I never knew that acronym) and disappeared. The family didn’t hear from him for 5 years. When he was finally re-introduced to the family, we were blessed with a shit ton of glorious stories about his days of living on the streets of Seattle, selling drugs, and his adventures of train hopping up and down the west coast. On one of these trips he said that he saw a guy fall off the cart and watched his body slice in half under the train wheels! As he was telling this story, his eyes got watery and he stopped half way through, and said, “I don’t want to talk about it.” That was the first time I had ever seen him get choked up. I changed the subject and asked him to tell me more about his involvement with the Mexican Mafia. He said it ended on bad terms because he got one of the Head Honcho’s daughters pregnant. I can’t believe I’ve got a little sobrina running around the streets of Mexico. Or the streets of Seattle. Or maybe the streets of Beverly Hills.
Whenever I’m on a first date and there’s a lull in the conversation, I pull out old faithful: “What’s your lucky number and why?” Everyone’s got a lucky number and the story behind it normally creates a series of other conversations. If the person can’t answer it, then get up, throw a glass of water in their face and storm out. My lucky number is 18. It was my student number in 4th grade, the best year of my life! I was in Mrs. Roxie’s class. One of her legs was longer than the other so she had to wear a special shoe with an extra thick sole. It was also the same year Rizzie picked up the class gerbil while it was “sleeping.” It was really dead. When she found out, she started crying and screaming, “I killed it!” It was also the same year I met my best friend.
A few days ago I sent a co-worker this text, “There’s a nasty rumor ur going out tonight! Should I get excited or is it just a rumor?” He responded, “I’m in New York.” Wow! I just saw him that morning at work and now he was in New York! So jealous, what a jet-setter. I wrote back, “What!!! Have fun!” The next day I saw him at work. With envy in my eyes, I bombarded him with questions, “What the hell were you doing in New York? How’d you afford it? Do you have a sugar Daddy?” With a puzzled look on his face, he said, “I never went to New York.” Long story short, I sent the message to someone else in my phone with the same name. But now I was curious, who was this other guy with the same name and why was he in my phone? After racking my brain for 3 minutes, I finally just texted him asking “How do I know you?” Come to find out, he was some guy I met at the bar a few weeks ago. I learned a very important lesson: you should always put some sort of reminder for their last name, like Ralph “Dive Bar” or Stevie “Laundromat.”
Apparently he didn’t remember me either and in his last text he asked for my last name so that he could look me up on Facespace. Ugh, I hate it when someone looks you up on Facespace just to see if they want to pursue anything further. Sure, it’s how society works now and days (and it may help you from meeting up with a troll) but I think it ruins all the surprise and fascination that comes with meeting someone new. However, I knew that I had to respond otherwise he’d think I was a total troll and we don’t want that. So I texted, “Here, I write a blog. Check it out. If ur still interested than hit me up,” and attached the address. This way he could see my picture (which he clearly wanted) AND more importantly, he could see what I’m about. But now that I think about it, I probably killed any chances of hearing back from him. Oh well, on to the next one… But if you are reading this, I’m not a whore. I promise. And I know how to iron. And I can run the mile in 8 minutes 30 seconds. And I hate, hate, hate larva. And I once spied on my neighbor and saw her saggy breasts. It was nasty!