In which I discover my Destiny

I haven't quite figured out why, but I seem to have a penchant for attracting men who fall under the following categories: emphysema, mustache, beer gut, infidelity and OLD. The "Furniture King," a client of my first boss who fell under ALL categories, once offered me the promising position of Mistress #2 - and I was definitely 18. So naturally I accepted.

On the second leg of my late flight from DC back to LA, I had a seat next to just such a man. THANK GOODNESS. Because the Earth would have been thrown off its axis and major catastrophes would have ensued had I FOR ONCE been seated next to a man who showered, brushed his teeth, and didn't snore while being fully awake. I didn't know that I had to add "Capable of breathing at a normal decibel" to my list of man requirements, right behind "Alive" and "Does not live in a car."

So there I was - stuck. My iPod died, I finished my book, and I couldn't sleep. AND I was sitting next to Vito Corleone's unfortunate twin brother whom we've never heard of because of his inordinate amount of phlegm that constantly must be hee-hawed out. Let's call this man Jerome, Christened after THE NEIGHBORS (Joe Dirt) clan leader himself, because they might as well have been the same person. Anyway. As I do in all situations in which I try to escape from reality, I concentrated on my favorite topic: how to unite quantum laws with general relativity before Edward "M-Theory" Witten does, the tosser.

Just as I was getting somewhere, Jerome leans over into my personal space in a very Chuck Bass way, and oh how I would have given anything for a piece of that Bass at that moment instead of the Jerome leering down at me.

(Chuck Bass, NOT Jerome)


Jerome: Whatcha writing there darlin'?

Me: The next big break through in theoretical physics actually.

Jerome (grinning smugly): That's a big word for sucha young blonde thing like you.

Me (attempting to raise one eyebrow): You're right. Excuse my psychobabble. What I meant was that I was doodling hearts and rainbows around what could be my new last name, depending on which of my 5 boyfriends I end up marrying.

Jerome: Well then why don't you try putting it with my name - after all, I could take on all those boyfriends of yours. Plus, I own a Cadillac.

Me: Huh. . . Good to know. I will take that into consideration.


And after some careful contemplation, I have decided that this could be an opportunity that the Universe is presenting me, and I just keep slapping its hand away! I mean, we all know what a great trophy wife I would make. So the next offer I get I am totally taking and running with. Jerome may be no Chuck Bass, but he DOES have a Cadillac.

Tattoos and Lakers hues

It's been a while since the topic of Hot Dude at The Gym was visited, and with good reason. As something of a stalker, I can tell you with reasonable confidence that he takes a lot of holidays during the summer. Blending that with my indentured servitude travels, it has been too long since I have gazed admiringly (and by that I mean stared shamelessly) at his chiseled biceps. Trips to the gym would be bleak indeed if it weren't for USA and TNT channels now being offered, which means all the House, Law and Order and The Closer my little cold heart could ever desire.

Anyway. There is also another reason I've been hesitant to bring this up. I'm beginning to think - well, actually I've been suspecting this for months, but go with me on this - that Hot Dude is GAY. It first occurred to me in April, when I noticed he was wearing a coordinating Lakers outfit with another ripped tool. Red flag #1. As other said tool was walking by, I noticed a large tattoo on his shoulder/arm which, to my utter astonishment, was EXACTLY THE SAME TATTOO AS HOT DUDE'S. On closer inspection I noticed a large initial in the middle of the tat, but I was too far to see what letter it was. Minutes later when Hot Dude strutted by, I noticed the same thing in the center of his tattoo. Red flag #2.

Here's the thing: even if the initials inside their tattoos AREN'T each others initials, I still find it . . . worrisome? odd? strange? that they would have matching tattoos. I mean, who does that? Unless of course you are in Hollywood, which equals whacked-out crazy. Or in the marines, which equals hard-core crazy. And I feel fairly certain they are involved in neither.

I could be totally wrong about the gay thing - it wouldn't be the first time. I thought I had pegged two different guy friends as being totally gay, and apparently they are not. Or supposedly, I should say. If you think he still might be straight, please feel free to at least validate my feelings of how weird the matching ink is. Because it is, right?

The Neighbors: Chapter 2

Like a great many people in Southern California, I live in an old tract home neighborhood full of senior citizens, crazies, and the occasional nice family. And, like most people, I rather detest developments, but I also don't have 5 million dollars, so I don't have much of a choice.

My bedroom window faces the bedroom window of the one and only Joe Dirt. As in, the youngest son of THE NEIGHBORS. And by "faces" I mean it's so close I could stick my head out and spit into his bedroom. I have actually been tempted to do that on many occasions, and it's totally possible because he has neither a glass pane nor a screen over his window. Just a sheet. Which is part of the problem - because Joe Dirt watches tv 24 hours a day LOUDLY.

You may be thinking, Just shut your window genius. And my answer to that would be, I ALREADY DO. But I love fresh air and our house is old and gets kind of musty, so I like it cracked open (not enough though, obviously, to let in the devil's alligator lizard). I also have a fan to help block out the noise - I'm doing my part.

So. I woke up yesterday, my whacked-out internal clock still recovering from skipping time zones and a bit of jet lag, and the first thing I heard was Joe Dirt guffawing at some joke on tv. I stormed into my kitchen, and declared to my family that the only thing I hated hearing more than stupid chirpping birds in the morning was Joe Dirt and his loud-a tv.

"While I'm falling asleep all I can hear is Saved By The Bell or Fresh Prince. EVERY NIGHT. And this morning I woke up to Elf. Who watches Christmas movies in June anyway?!?"

"Well," said my dad, "it's better than porn."

Hm. True.

Thank you dad for pointing that out. Although I agree - that would be both uncomfortable and creepy. And if there is anything that THE NEIGHBORS don't need, it's more creepiness.

Mile High City

Any desire to post recently has been sucked out of me by traveling. And I'm not saying that in the way that celebrities --cough, Jessica Biel/Alba/Cameron Diaz, cough -- complain about how hard it is to be so beautiful and thin and how they give their designer cast-offs to children because they're the only ones who can fit in them, and how it has taken 6 WHOLE WEEKS to lose their baby weight from working out 10 hours a day and eating really fulfilling celery and cotton balls. I mean it in the way that I love seeing different places in this great nation but airplanes make me really nauseated and I have almost vomitted on the laps of multiple people squashed next to me who are always men who INSIST upon spreading their legs out AS FAR AS POSSIBLE leaving me cramped in the fetal position for hours on end.

So anyway. Denver. I liked Denver, but was slightly confused by the blend of cowboys and hippies. Here is what you really need to know about my stay in Denver:
1.) I didn't like the kids and lots of them, inexplicably, had anger issues. Weird.
2.) I almost got sucked into a tornado. For real - I felt like I was living in Twister, and I kept waiting for Bill Paxton to come bounding up and shout for me to take cover with a typical overly-dramatic look on his face.

Photo by Eric Nguyen

I've heard multiple times in my life that California is a scary place to live because of earthquakes - but dude, there is like maybe one a year that you can really feel, which more than likely does nothing more than make you consider whether you want to walk all the way to a door jamb, and by the time you have decided no, it's over. If anything, be afraid of the the fires.

But I freaking saw a FUNNEL FROM SATAN come out of the sky that destroys things. Trees and houses and small animals and probably children - GONE. How is that NOT scarier? That siren was enough to make me want to piddle my pants.

The takeaway: tornadoes suck. Pun intended. And I fully intend on chasing one the next time I am around one, which will be never.