“You know, I’m gonna have to hang up now because you’re in a weird mood where you only wanna talk about sex and sicky things. Look at you, once you finally get some it’s the only thing you wanna talk about. Well, I’m the last person who wants to hear about it.”—Adelle, a hag of mine that’s been married for 2 years, calling me out on why I’ve been extra creepy lately. Time to take a cold shower.
Spain won their match today against Portugal. Talking sports, gross, I know, but since the Latino turned on the match the other day during sexy-time I haven’t been able to stop watching. Anyway, seeing the red and yellow flag reminded me of my time spent in Spain…
FLASHBACK I was teaching English at a private academy for mostly low level 30/40-years-olds who were only taking the class because their boss was paying for it. My smallest class consisted of 2 people, their names were Roccia and Edgar. Roccia, a 34-year-old single woman with a bowl cut and braces, was taking English class so that she could get a raise at work. Edgar, a 33-year-old adorable and gay screenwriter, was taking the class to freshen up on his English before he headed to live in New York for 6 months. Roccia was a nervous bitch and Edgar was sweet. The two of them actually hit it off well, and so did I. One time when we were working on the past-tense, I had a conversation with Roccia about her weekend:
“Where did you go this weekend?” I asked slowly.
She looked at me confidently and said, “I went to the BITCH.”
I got nervous and turned red. “Excuse me?” I asked.
“The bitch. Sabes, la playa!” she replied in Spanish.
She was trying to say “beach”, but couldn’t pronounce it correctly. I embraced the mispronunciation, like any non-trained teacher would do, and rolled with it.
“So how was the bitch?” I asked curiously.
“The bitch was hot,” she said while fanning herself with her notebook. It’s so true that when you are learning another language you become a lot more animated to compensate for your low vocabulary. I acted like Ricahrd Simmons for the first 6 months I lived there.
“Was it a nude bitch?” I asked.
She blushes from the inappropriate and crude question, then smiles and tilts her head down. Like a kitten, she says, “It was not a nude bitch, but I go before to nude bitch.” The rest of the conversation swirled around nude bitches beaches.
“At least he didn’t knock my joint free.”—Co-Worker, referring to the joint she had stuffed in her panties, after a car hit her while she was crossing the street. The driver looked at her laying in the street, studdered for a quick minute, and then drove off! I tried so hard to memorize the plates but I was too high. Was definitely an intense way to start our Hollywood Bowl experience.
We woke up and decided to have morning sex. While things were getting hot and heavy I noticed his hand creeping over towards the nightstand. The Latino grabbed the remote and pressed the power button. He turned on the World Cup, Mexico was playing Argentina. I smiled, realized just how strongly everyone else in the world feels about soccer, and then pumped even harder to finish things up before the first goooooooooaaaaaaaaal!
Oh boy, I hate myself for having these feelings. I didn’t want to text him today, to see if he’d text me, which is absolutely ridiculous. I always preach to my friends that if they feel like texting someone they’ve just started dating, then do it. What have you got to lose? If you come across as too involved too early, then fuck ‘em. They should like the fact that you’re thinking about them. But today I was being hypocritical and refused to text him. The entire day I checked my phone. I felt about 100 phantom vibrations. Finally, around 10:30 p.m., I said “Fuck you Jim, you dirty vagina, text him.” So I did. Then there was the waiting game. It wasn’t long, maybe an hour, and for that hour I was livid. I thought, “What’s his problem? Oh, is he too good for me? He’s probably out fucking the entire world. This clearly isn’t going to work out. How am I going to tell him?” By the time my panties were all in a bunch, he texted me back and suggested that we meet up tomorrow. Holy fucking shit, I don’t like this part of dating. I don’t like acting like a fool. I’m not a fool. Or am I? Is he playing me? See, here I go again…
NeNe:Well, Markie and I are going to have a candlelight vigil for the 1 year anniversary of Michael Jackson’s death. We’re having it around 3. He actually died at 12:15, but we can't meet then.
Me:(trying to act interested) Where?
NeNe:Out back, by the linen bins.
Me:Oh, that’s cool. But that’s not really my thing. I don’t think he was… Um, it’s just not my thing.
NeNe:(disappointed and obviously upset) Oh, no worries.
Note:My co-wroker NeNe (52) is a sweetheart and I really respect her adoration towards one man, but under no circumstance was I going to hold a candle, bow my head, and have a moment of silence in the back of The Cupcake Factory next to the linen bins for Wacko Jacko. He was good, but not that good. Now Titus, the silverback Mountain Gorilla of the Virunga Mountains who died last September 14, is another story.
I went on a date last night… Steak and whiskey… We fucked. So as we’re lying in bed, spooning each other (I’ve got my arms wrapped around him), he begins to doze off and I’m trying to decide if it’s appropriate to pass a little gas. All that steak and arugula salad started brewing. But, it was the first date and I decided to be a lady (even though my thighs were burning from the sex) and hold it in. Just then, as his butt is nestled into my groin, he farts! I didn’t know what to do. He straight up Dutch-oven“ed” me. I felt the vibration all over my groin. Lying there, letting it settle, feeling violated, I thought of violently pushing him off. But then I thought to myself, “relax, you wanted to do the same thing.” So I just laid there and marinated in his filth… Then he rolled over onto his back and began snoring like a god damn lion. Really loudly. I was like, “You pig!” as I stared at him sound asleep. Then I thought of all the women who have to deal with this on a regular basis with their husbands… And put up with it! My Mom did. My sisters do. So instead of hating on it, I just accepted it. I need to accept more in relationships; otherwise I’ll be single for the rest of my life. My curse is dismissing relationships before they even start. So I’m going to work on that, even if it means a lifetime of Dutch-ovens and snoring.
“She was born with autism. She likes repeating things. My wife, well ex-wife, never took her on the bus. I don’t mind.”—A Dad on the 704 Bus explaining very honestly to the bus driver why his 6 year old daughter keeps rubbing her hand over the coin machine.
Latino's Text:I bet u can't wait to get home and relax...
My Text:Yeah, this day has been long... (10 minutes later) I'm home now. I've got to write something for 2moro and then it's in bed and watching a DVD.
Latino's Text:Nice... That's cool... Enjoy your relaxing time... Would be nice to be laying down together.
My Text:Como te llamas? Rico Suave?
Note:He hasn't texted back. Did I offend him? Did his phone die? Did he just get a call from his Mom saying "Your father's in the hospital"? I enjoyed the days of texting when I lived in Spain. My vocab was very limited, so I would have responded something like, "Yeah," or "I like that." I got laid so much more there. I've already fucked up a relationship before it even started thanks to texting. I seemed "cold" when they tried to "turn up the heat." We'll see what happens. But I have to admit that I hate it when guys try to get affectionate/slutty/sexy via texts before we've gone on a first date. I normally react by calling them out. Shit, gotta stop doing that. Is it too late to text him, "Sounds good. Lay me."
“I think my boyfriend is wearing make-up. He wakes up and says he’s going to take a poop but he comes out of the bathroom and it doesn’t stink and… well, he’s glowing. I don’t know how to confront him about it.”—My friend who just moved in with her boyfriend and recently found foundation in his overnight bag.
Did I say too much? I may have. Ever since the Census lady started nosing her way around this area, my neighbor has been in her apartment much more. Today there’s a lot of racket as she’s hired professionals to steam clean the apartment. She’s probably trying to clean the vomit and beer stains that her kid has left behind when she threw one of her “2 Kool for $kool Nite Soirees.” I wonder if the Census bureau is on her ass and she’s quickly trying to make it look like they actually live there, as opposed to just renting it out so that Lil’ Stacey can attend Beverly High. Can you get in trouble for doing that? My eye will be attached to the peep hole for the rest of the day.
After work I was invited to meet some friends at a bar. I never go out in my work clothes— not only am I reeking of B.O. and Ranch sauce but I’m also dressed head to toe in white, looking like an ice cream man. But they were meeting at a low key bar walking distance from work so I decided one drink wouldn’t hurt. After one drink, they offered to drive me home. On the way, they all decided that they wanted to go to the West Co. Brewing Company in Westwood. I refused, knowing that there would be a ton of college kids and I was in no mood to put up with their mockery. The driver locked the door and said, “Tough.” At the stop light, when the car came to a stop I attempted to open the door and just run, but the driver put on the child safety locks. Once there, I refused to get out of the car. Luckily, he had some extra clothes in his trunk. I threw on a Tom Ford blazer and figured I could go with the whole Mr. Howell-just-got-off-a-cruise-look. It didn’t work. Some cool UCLA college kids were driving by and yelled out, “Love the pants! I’ve got a pair at home!” If they were gay, I’d believe them. But they were straight and I knew they were making fun of me. In a French accent, I said, “Merci.” I figured that if I pretended to be French I’d look a lot cooler. Then I figured, if I was French, I wouldn’t care what they said. Then I figured that it shouldn’t matter what nationality I was, I should be comfortable in anything. Then I figured that I was figuring too much. So I had a shot and forgot what I was thinking about.
“P.S. What has gotten into you? Or maybe the question is WHAT HASN’T (A.K.A. your meds? have you been taking them?)”—My Brother Baloney, responding to the e-mail my Mom sent to us earlier that day. (see below) She’s been taking Paxil ever since she had a nervous breakdown 23 years ago.
“Don’t waste your time.”—Me, thinking I was being nice and saving the guy some time before he got too far along in the whole flirting/getting to know you game. Probably didn’t come off as nice as I had planned it. As I got up and walked away, his friend stuck out his foot and tripped me. I deserved it.
I was woken up by two things this morning. One was the Census bitch ringing the shit out of my door bell. This is our second visit. She’s still trying to get dirt on the neighbors who rent the apartment next to me solely so that their kid can go to Beverly Hills High School. They don’t live there— just some rich people fucking the system. So she’s been trying to get details out of me as to who exactly lives there and how often I see them. I was wearing my “Enjoy Weed” shirt, breath all rank, hair in every direction, clearly just rolling out of bed but she still insisted on drilling me for details. Luckily she got a cell phone call, and had to leave. I closed the door and looked at the time on my cell. It was 1:39 in the afternoon. Then I saw that I had a voicemail. It was my Mom and she said that she just sent me an e-mail about her morning. Here it is….
“I was driving home from Sarah and Bills today and while I was going South on the highway up by Monkey Hill Road the car right in front of me decided to left turn off and I was trying not to slow down too much so I was kinda getting really really close to his bumper. That would have been o.k. if the asshole idiot on the left of us didn’t try to dash out onto the highway right in front of that car. ”IT”, the stupid clown, almost shit his britches when he looked up and saw me heading to stamp HYYYUNDAI on his right cheek. I laid on that beautiful Hyundi horn for the very first time and did it very loud and long….it sounded like a pregnant mother rabbit getting bonked on the head. Man I was mmmmaaaddd…..I could have died, but I called upon the H.S. of Jesus Christ the Son of the Father to give me patience cuz I wanted to rev right up that car’s rear-end. But I felt a spiritual awakening come over me and a peace that surpasses all understanding. Lucifer was pissed to say the least and so he started all over. “What in Hell do you think you are doing? Trying to F_ _ _ ING KILL ME? YOU @*$! WOMAN DRIVER!!!” Then he literally flew back into his car and burned rubber out of there. So at this time the guy behind me and the 2 other drivers come up and try to open my car door to see if I’m all right and I just sweetly peacefully smile at them and BURN RUBBER OUT OF THERE ,TOO. At first my intent was to go after the BASTARD but I realized I not only peed my pants but shit bricks too. So I came home and calmly, peacefully with a sweet smile on my face cleaned up and now here I am 2 hrs later and I just had to tell somebody before I explode…Luv ya”
I was strolling through Roxbury Park today, just creeping on everyone. I decided to lie in the sun for a while because I recently heard that 15 minutes of sun a day makes you feel better. As I was lying there, a dog ran into my head. The owner did nothing. It was startling. I imagined what would happen if the dog bit me and the owner just ran off. Would I chase them? Bleeding and in pain, I’d follow them to their car and memorize their licenses plate as they sped off. Would other people help me chase them? Or would they turn a blind eye? I’d be left alone, bleeding with no information and no witnesses. I started getting angry, so I decided it was time to leave the park. On my way out I passed a family having a BBQ. One of the circles of people consisted of 2 older Moms, an early 30-something-year-old single (well, he didn’t have a ring) hot son, and a Dad. One of the Moms pointed in my direction. They all turned around and looked at me. I got nervous. Was she looking for a cute boy to hook up with her gay son? As I got excited and took out my ear-phones so that I could hear them call for me to come over and meet their son, I realized that they were pointing to the man sitting in the chair behind me. “Uncle Rich, come over here and meet my son Michael,” the Mom said. I quickly pretended to just be checking my ear phones and continued walking. Awkward. I don’t think they noticed my desperate attempt to be part of the family. But it really made me want a boyfriend that I could go to BBQs with and meet his family.