princess in a prius

i have nothing against priuses. i appreciate their quiet, sounds-like-your-car-just-died motor and the fact that they limit the amount of shit that clots in our lungs. however, ever since i was hit by one, i'm a little bitter toward them or perhaps just the folks who drive them.

one night last week, i was mindin' my own business, taking my groceries out of the car (and by groceries, i mean double roll toilet tissue, paper towels, chips, arizona iced tea and string cheese. oh and a 10 lb. bag of potatoes). i have to park on the street, and as i walked to my car, i noticed a lil' black prius double parked right next to me. the gentleman behind the wheel was clearly waiting on his companion to come out of a building, but i didn't think much of it.

at some point, his raven-haired lady friend sashayed down the stairs and into the car. then they were set to leave, however, i guess their destination was behind them because instead of putting the car in drive, the driver put it in reverse and proceeded to back up. before i could even complete my "what the fuck", the prius ran smack into my car door, pinning me between it and my car. were it not for the protective cushion of my thick, double roll toilet tissue i am certain that my barren uterus would have suffered permanent damage. "oh my god. oh my god" was all i heard through their open window. the male driver asked, "are you okay?" "yeah, i think so," i replied, trying to figure out how the hell they could do something so stupid. i mean, two people, BOTH of them had seen me at some point. and why was he going backwards down the street? dude...

the passenger kept up with her "oh my god"s. then the guy asked me if my car was okay; i checked her. she seemed okay enough. then the lil' prius princess said, "oh my god, is our car okay?" and she looked at me like she wanted ME to inspect it for her. the guy said, "don't worry about it." princess: "no, but can you look?" and she looked at me again. hello! you just assaulted me with your vehicle, and now you want me to inspect it for damage. "uh, yeah...there's a dent that sorta looks like my ass where you HIT ME, shithead!" i wanted to tell her to get her spoiled ass out of the car and look for herself because clearly, her exclamations had not been out of concern for me but rather the condition of her friend's eco-friendly vehicle. but my better self overwhelmed me, and after a quick inspection, i said, "there's a scrape, but i don't know if that's new or old." they thanked me and then continued, BACKWARDS, down the street.
unbelievable.

so here's my advice. beware of all LA drivers; they are the worst. and pay careful attention to LA drivers in priuses. they're crazy, like the rest of LA's drivers, except they think that since they're saving the world one acceleration at a time, they can do no wrong. their choice of weapon should not be overlooked either. you can't hear the prius or smell it. you don't know it's upon you until it's too late. it's like the freakin' navy seals of cars. so watch your ass. literally.

i hope i did not offend any of my prius driving friends in L.A.

old at heart

i am such an old biddy. i go home after work, eat in front of the tv, bathe, and i'm in my pajamas by 7:15. i watch crime shows with the volume up way too loud and then fall asleep with all the lights on. on top of that, i don't like noise (that produced by other people anyway). i've called 311 a number of times on folks who were keeping me from getting my good sleep. in austin, the guy who lived under me would play music ridiculously loud at 3 a.m. I don't feel like anyone should have to listen to their walls thump to the beat of Ace of Base after 11 o'clock. i'd call the po-pos and lie really still 'til the police came. then i'd press my ear up against the wall, so i could eavesdrop on their ineffective reprimanding. i also called the police on my old neighbors in LA. they too were causing quite a stir, but this was less music and more...screaming and beating the shit out of each other. these two guys would throw each other around like rag dolls, hitting walls, slamming doors. at one point, the whole closet came crashing down. so i think i did all of us a favor on that one. i've also been known to sit at the window and watch tow trucks tow away illegally parked cars in the middle of the night. seriously, all i need is a goddamn herd of cats and a hearing aid.

anyway, i had another old lady moment this weekend when a slew of youngsters at 2:45 saturday morning were playing music and causing quite a ruckus outside. i had to be up at 7, so this was not going to work for me. after about fifteen minutes, i made the call and waited. when i saw the red and blue lights flashing on my wall, i crept to the window. that's when i realized that there were like 5 car loads of people out there. i couldn't really get a good view of what was going on because of my drapes. i tried to crawl into the kitchen and watch from there, but i have no window coverings, and i didn't want to be exposed. i was sure someone would spot me, and i'd have all my windows (or skull) bashed in. from what i COULD see and hear though, there were imaginary lines being walked and ABCs being recited backwards. i DID feel bad when i saw them all sitting on the curb with their hands behind their backs. and i felt really bad when, after a search of vehicles, i heard some kid say, "officer, that's not mine. i swear." and then somebody else yelled, "ain't this a bitch." yeah. yeah, it is a bitch. sorry about that. i just wanted some sleep; i wasn't trying to send anyone to the slammer for possession. my bad.

i don't know what the end result was. couldn't really tell.
would i do it again? i'm not going to lie. yeah, i would. i can't help it. i'm a biddy!!! it will probably get worse as i age. so word of advice, keep your kids out of my yard (when i get one), or else i will come after them with my cane.

letter to the editor

Dear MD-

Sorry about ex-bf. Armchair psychology based on nothing but a blog post: you're mythologizing him because you're manless and dogless, and because you only see him at his good moments these days. You'll find better.
If that helps you feel better, go with it. If it doesn't, how the fuck would I know anything about it anyway?

shit.

i went for a walk just now and a bird shit on my shirt. actually on my collar, disgustingly close to my mouth and face. that was on my way TO my destination so i had to then walk by like 800 people with shit on my shirt. i gave up "negative thoughts" for lent (it was either that or sweets), so i can't really talk about how i think this shirt shit is a perfect metaphor for life. remind me after easter.

so long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, good night

i prefer spontaneous goodbyes, like when you don't know that that will be the last time you see the person until after the goodbyes have been said. the other kind, the kind i hate, are the goodbyes that you know are coming. the ones you practice in your head and in the mirror. the ones you play off as no big deal, though they seem to be able to keep you from eating. such is the goodbye i had last night.

remember when i said that i found out my ex was seeing some girl with short hair? well, that occurred when i went to his house one night after happy hour with some co-workers. after he and his roommate had had too much wine, and we had a dance-off to beyonce, which ended with a wrestling match during which i was dropped on my head, i spent the night. nothing happened. in fact, he slept on the couch and gave me his room. i found his gentleman-ness highly inappropriate and frustrating. in any case, i fell asleep. i woke up the next morning, plopped down on the couch and "jokingly" asked him why he could not sleep in the same room with me now. after much hemin' and hawin', he told me it was because he was seeing somebody. at first i was cool with it...in some alternate universe anyway (that's when i discovered that they'd met at a bar two months before and she had short hair).

but my facade didn't last very long, and i had to leave. immediately. i didn't want to look at him or talk to him. i just wanted to get out before that swell emotions arrived and i would undoubtedly start to cry. i wasn't angry. hell, how could i be? we weren't together, and he was too much of a goddamned gentleman to do anything deliciously inappropriate with me. so i wasn't angry, but god i was hurt. we had so much fun together, and us hanging out was cool as long as he stuck to his stance of "i'm just not ready to date right now." at least then i knew he wasn't seeing anybody. at least then i believed (wrongfully) that eventually he would realize that i was the best girl he'd ever met and he couldn't and shouldn't live without me. but when i found none of that to be true, i couldn't deal. i left wearing some of his clothes, which i promised to get to him later. he said he didn't want to tell me because he knew i wouldn't want to hang out with him anymore and wondered aloud if that was in fact the case now. i said, i didn't know, but as i drove home and cried, and cried on the sidewalk much to the dismay of the construction workers and then cried in my bathtub and then cried in the car again on my way to "decorate cookies" with my bosses, a few things became very clear: i harbored some very strong, very unreciprocated feelings, and as a result, it was in my best interest not to see or talk to him ever again. granted, i'd sworn to that before (see previous entries), but i never really wanted that. and i didn't want it now, but it became unmistakable apparent that i had to actually go through with it. fortunately, i'd been down this road before with other boys, so this wasn't entirely new territory. but familiarity didn't make it any easier. (did i mention that this entry is not at going to be funny or inspiring or delightful in anyway? i guess i should have done that before you got invested.)

so i did what the heartbroken do best. i sent a flurry of text messages, expressing in overly dramatic fashion that i could not bear to lay eyes on him again and therefore i would have to leave his clothes on my doorstep for him to retrieve when i was out of town. that didn't fly with him. so i offered to mail them, which also didn't fly. so around December 18, i stuffed them in a grocery bag, threw them in the back of my closet and hopped across three states, hoping that when (if) i returned, all of this shit would be a distant memory.

and it was, for the most part. i still thought about him/it/whatever. but there was nary another tear shed, and i never once felt tempted to pick up the phone and call (assisted by the fact that i'd deleted his number) or send an email. i wasn't perfect, but i was pretty darn good and that was good enough for me.

but then sunday came. and the phone rang, and it was him, and he wanted his sweatshirt and t-shirt back. i felt cold, not because i wanted to be but because i had to be. if i didn't give one word answers and avoid asking him anything about his life, how else would i protect the progress i'd made and peace of mind i'd gained?

as soon as we agreed on a day for him to pick up these belongings, i cursed myself for walking out of the apartment with his damn clothes on, and i cursed him for needing these non-essential items back. i have a couple of sweatshirts and things that past boys never retrieved, and i'm pretty sure they never missed them and probably couldn't fit in them now if they wanted to. i felt pretty vomit-ous last night as i waited for him to pick up his stuff. i think i feared the finality of it all as well as the resurgence of any feelings i'd worked so hard to eradicate. i don't remember ever looking him in the eye, though i must have at some point. after i handed him his clothes, and we stood awkwardly by the door while jeopardy played in the background, the question came, "so does this mean we're not friends?"
me: we already had this discussion.
him: so i guess that's a no.
me: it's not that i don't want to be your friend. it's not...it's not that i don't want to be your friend.
him: you either do or you don't.
i can't remember saying anything else except "i finally got air in them," referring to my bike tires, and "have a good night," as i closed the door.

what else was there to say? clearly the complexity of me wanting to and yet not being able to have him in my life is lost on him. and the simplicity of his proposed friendship is lost on me. and there aren't any words that are going to help us find each other on some common ground.

i sat on a my couch for a while afterward, holding my eyes, hoping that would prevent anything for coming out of them. then i went for a short walk in the cold. i came back home, called my mom, put on my pajamas (but left my boots on...i know, i'm weird), then laid on the couch and watched TV. i was sad, but i didn't cry. and that hole in my chest didn't open as wide as before. so i guess that means i'm gonna be alright. (cue chirping birds, sunlight breaking through clouds and the goddamn violins. this is some Terms of Endearment shit right here).

anyway, let me end this emotional dry-heave that's taken up 4 hours of my work day (praaaaaise the lord) with a shoutout to fatty mcmasturbator who didn't come home last night. for the first time in all the months that i've lived in my place, she just didn't come home. i was able to keep my TV at a normal volume all night, and i didn't wake up to the sound of hulk walking around on my ceiling. as i was coming out of my sleep, i could have sworn that i heard on the news that she'd been caught up in a bank robbery. i told myself to remember to google that story when i got to work. i'll let you know what i find.

i'm going to be okay (for now) in L.A.

ghetto, with a capital O

generally, i don't like to use the word "ghetto." i feel it's an upper/middle class term, with black connotations, used to describe anything negative. seeing as how i work around a number of "privileged" young ladies, i hear the word a lot (i.e. my stupid iphone is so ghetto). HOWEVER, i must employ the word today because it is the only word that will properly describe the people and events that i was subjected to yesterday.

now, my friend, god bless her. i love her, but as we've grown older, our social lives have gone in polar opposite directions. on tuesdays, i like to curl up on the couch and watch colbert report and forensic files; on tuesdays she prefers to dance on couches and be treated to bottle service. fine. so we generally don't hang out that often past nightfall. yesterday, she came over after work to discuss what's been going on in her life. an hour or so later, she asked me if i wanted to join her for dinner with this professional football player she'd met. my first response, was "no." i was tired; furthermore, i did not wish to spend my Tuesday night in groupieville with this NFL dude and his crew. more than that i KNEW i would get annoyed before the waitress had even come to take our drink orders. but for some idiotic reason (the promise of free food and/or the fact that i would make it back in time for the daily show) made me second guess my initial response, and i ended up agreeing to go.

so we go to the grand lux, the offspring of the cheesecake factory though i can't tell if it's supposed to be better or worse.

we're sitting on the bench near the door, and in they walk. five of them...for now (more would magically appear later). the main one, who seemed sort of short to be a wide receiver, led the entourage wearing a blinged-out tupac t-shirt, which matched his blinged out ears, which matched his ice-covered watched, which refracted the light and bounced it off the earrings and chains and rings and watches and diamond crusted collars of his homeboys, creating a light so brilliant, that i momentarily mistook them for the Messiah and his apostles. once that wore off, however, i was INSTANTANEOUSLY ready to go.

as we waited for a table, one of the gents began to crip-walk in the middle of the floor. i don't think he was actually spelling anything, but just sort of going around the grand lux emblem in the middle of the floor.
time to eat!
i sit on the end, across from my friend, hoping that my self-relegation to the outskirts of the group will allow me to disassociate myself from the ghetto madness a-brewin'. unfortunately, that was not to be. a guy, who i will call chubby checker, sat next to me but not before he awkwardly tries to put my coat on the back of my chair and reposition my purse. well meaning, yes, but my coat and purse were close to my body, just where i liked them...just where i needed them to be...and so i didn't really need him all in the mix.

i open my menu and pretend to concentrate in hopes that chubby won't talk to me. fat chance (no pun intended). he asks me what i think i want. i say chicken strips. he says, "aw no. this ain't the type of place where you come to get chicken strips. this the type of place you come to get a steak." wtf? i'm sorry. since when do you go to the freakin' grand lux for a steak. this is not Morton's honey or Lawry's; it's the cheesecake factory under a different name! furthermore, don't talk to me like this is my first time coming to "this here fancy place." in fact, i'm pretty sure i'd sat at that table before, which is what i told him.

i order my bellini and as i wait for it, i try not to look at any other tables because i don't want anybody to remember my face. i'm so embarrassed by these increasingly loud mouth individuals. every third word was profane and most subjects were inappropriate. like the butt naked girls they saw in brazil at carnivale. at some point, the loudest guy, who called himself sexual chocolate, starts mouthing off about how i need to take a good look at him before i decide who i want to go home with because i've never had it as good as him. then chubby leans over and says he wants to go to vegas with me and take me in a helicopter ride up and down the strip. ugh. who knew a helicopter ride could sound so repulsive?

the food arrives. i tried to give the waitress the eye, some batman signal so she could get me the hell out of there. but i think she was too busy trying to save herself to help me. i felt bad for her. loudmouth kept calling her "sugar" and "baby", and then the whole table erupted with shouts of "kobe! kobe! watch out, kobe!" followed by rounds of drunken laughter.

the food comes as do two more guys. bringing the total to seven. one of the newbies is dressed and red and proceeds to discuss his gang affiliation. maybe he was joking, but at that point, i really couldn't tell. while i'm trying to enjoy my strips and ignore the nonsense around me, chubby leans over me and asks for a pea pod. okay...i jab my fork into one. he says, "no just pick it up with your fingers." i said, "no, that's not clean." i hand him the fork, which included the pea pod, and i'll be damned if he doesn't sit there with his mouth open...as if i'm supposed to FEED HIM! i just looked at him like "is he for real?" he was like, "awww. i gotta teach you some romance. i'ma teach you to be romantic." gross. i told him i didn't want him to teach me anything.

finally, the check. as we're all preparing to leave. chubby pulls me aside and asks for my phone number. i told him he could give me his. he said he didn't know it and couldn't i just give him mine. again, wtf? what do you mean, you don't know your number? he said, well, you know, with all of this technology and shit, i get confused. i can't remember. i was like, "um, newsflash...you getting an iphone is not going to affect your phone number." oh, i was so done!
never ever again...

oliver twist

first of all, let me say thank you to those who actually read this thing and show interest in it from houston to amsterdam...this one's for you.

there are a few things i could talk about, as much has transpired in the two months since i last wrote. i went to dallas for the holidays; i refused to leave and missed my flight in protest; i realized i had to come back, if for no other reason than to get my car; i dragged myself back to work; i found out my ex is "dating" some girl with "short hair"; some dumb, ignorant, schizophrenic dipshit yelled at me in the grocery store on inauguration day; i bought an oven off an infomercial; went on another sparkless date that concluded with sparkless kisses; got passed over for a writing gig for someone with more connections and (probably) less talent; started a gratitude journal so that i can see the silver lining in all of the above.

and right now, life is...not where i want it to be (clearly that has not changed with the coming of the new year), but i'm trying to simultaneously be okay with that and change that by showing gratitude for the way things are. of course, this seems totally illogical to me (you have X and you want Y, yet you show that you're happy with Y, which would seem to perpetuate more Y, right?). furthermore, saying "thank you" for things that i don't like or want, things that hurt and ache, things that make me cry, things that seem to undermine my dreams...has been difficult to say the least, but it's gotten a little easier. it's necessary...i am told, and it feels like it's the right thing to do. the only thing to do. obviously, i don't have a fuck of a clue as to what is going on and what my next step is, so i just have to trust that the power greater than me does and show immense gratitude for that. it's the key my sanity right now, and hopefully it will reveal the proper path, a path that i hope involves a ranch in texas, taylor kitsch and his and hers ATVs.

enough of this seriousness. i actually came to talk about how this woman thinks i'm sleeping with her huuuuusband. it all started over christmas. one morning, my phone wouldn't stop ringing. i don't answer phone numbers i don't recognize, and eventually, the caller left a message. it went something like this (imagine taraji p. henson in hustle and flow talking), "um...yes. this is oliver's wife. he gave me your number. and i need to talk to you about you sexing my huuuuusband. don't you know he has a wife and THREE kids? you need to call me back! okay?" ha. i couldn't help but be amused. lady, i don't even have sex. and i'm certainly not "sexing" your huuuusband. i would never do a man named oliver anyway.

i figured she would realize that she had the wrong number and never call me back. and aside from when i sat on my phone and accidentally butt-dialed that number a few days later, i never heard from her or thought about her...until yesterday. so i'm at work, actually doing work, and i receive a text that reads: need to talk to you. i understand ur not at the galleria anymore. serg needs an update.
i have NO IDEA who this is or what they're talking about. i haven't worked at the galleria since highschool (10 years ago), and i have never known a serg (well, there was that boxer i met at a bar, but that was in hollywood and this is a dallas number). so i reply: i think you have the wrong number. 7 minutes later...

"no oliver says this is the right one." ah shit, i think. it's goddamn oliver again!! "need to talk to u about MY husband and his recreational sex habbits w/u." and yes, she spelled "habits" with 2 Bs. like rabbits. like sex crazed rabbits.

me: nope. i don't know an oliver. don't even live in texas. i think you called me over christmas. he gave you the wrong number. (i wanted to add, "see he's playing you AGAIN!!", but i ran out of character space.)

then homegirl texts, "no serg says its the rt #. I will c u @ hm on penelope." ooooh, snap. so she's trying to get it crackin' like that? she wants to roll up on somebody. i've never even heard of penelope street let alone lived there, but i feel sorry for the chick who does b/c it's about to be on.

in a last ditch effort to clear the air and save me from wasting texts on her, i call her. she answers, "hallo." yep, it's taraji.
"um, did you just text me?" i ask.
"yes, i did."
i'm doing my best preppy, private school impression, figuring that's certainly not who her husband was sexing. "um, you have the wrong number. i don't even live in texas."
"well this is a texas number, babydoll."
"yes because i grew up there, and i went to high school there, but i haven't lived there since then." a lie since i did go to grad school there, but i didn't feel the need to explain that.
"well, if i have the wrong number, i'm sure i have the right address, so i'll just see you at home on penelope. THANK YOU!"
"oookay."
click.

well, somebody was about to get their ass whooped, but it wasn't going to be me.
just out of curiosity, i mapquested penelope street. it's in the hood. yep. deep in the hood. i suspect a penelope street incident will be on the news in dallas or on an episode of cheaters in the near future.

and to whoever really is sexing oliver, i hope it was worth it. because his wife, and her roaddog serg and probably oliver's three badass kids are about to be on your front porch.

i am sorta glad today that i live in L.A. (and not on penelope).