liz in la

day 101: Ronald Reagan would find that reprehensible

I would like to stop getting pimples now.

I have paid my dues. Really.

And I would like for my pimples to STOP being symmetrical. I am not a fan of the third eye I have going on at the moment. It is demoralizing, this neon sign painted on my forehead flashing "Look! God hates Liz! Further proof!"

In other news, I do not possess the tools for dealing with extraordinarily annoying people. I should, because my half-sister is one of the most annoying carbon based life forms to ever exist on this earth. When we were children and bruised as children often are, Darla would sneak up on me, hapless, unaware, minding my own damned business, stab her finger into my bruise and ask, in the voice of Steve Irkle "Is that a bruise?"

And for those of you who might think I lack patience, proof to the contrary, that bitch is alive to this day.

Her skills were honed on family road trips, or as I liked to call them, the Walton's visit hell in a station wagon. Three girls, sitting, smooshed together in the backseat, sweaty, disgruntled and for my part, car sick. Darla would fling her sweaty bare legs over mine so she could stretch out over me and my other sister to nap. I hated this, because we were all slick and sticky with sweat and I DIDN'T WANT TO BE TOUCHED. But if I refused to allow it, she would scratch herself, wail and then tell on me for scratching her. AND I WOULD GET IN TROUBLE EVERY TIME.

This is why obnoxious people are so difficult for me to deal with. Every instinct in my body screams out that I must destroy them. Because they are evil. But this is not appropriate adult behavior nor a suitable response for dealing with people who telephone me to ask if I received their email.

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THIS IS AN OFFICIAL ASIDE
Republicans debated tonight. Mitt-magical-Mormon-underpants-Romney and McCain got into a scuffle, verbal unfortunately. I think McCain could take the crazy Mormon in a fair fight. Mitt invoked the name of Ronald Reagan in an attempt to shame McCain for some political mudslinging. I like this. Next time I see impolite behavior I am going to chastise it with alliteration, "Ronald Reagan would find that reprehensible."

Take that.

day 100: lakes, hate and the wonders of modern science

I'm going to state the obvious: 100 days without sex is a lot. I do not recommend it. It has been good for me. Yet, if you have the opportunity of sex, I recommend you get some. With someone you don't particularly care for anymore? Close your eyes and think of Clive Owen.

That's what I used to do.

So this blog post will be broken into three parts. Part 1: FUNNY Part 2: BITTER AND BORDERLINE SCARY Part 3: HOLY SHIT! NO WAY!

Part 1:
I work in a multi-cultural office. Which means that the miscommunications are rampant and unfortunately, not always this funny.

Today:
I'm sorry for the confutation.

Also Today:
We have a lake of communications. (Lack of communication.)

A lake? Why yes we do and apparently our "lake" of communications (plural) spans from LA to NY. This is a very large lake. And I don't have a boat.

Awhile back in an email:
I'm sorry for any incontinence I may have caused you.

Yep. You just made me pee myself with laughter. Apology accepted.

Part 2:
Black Jaguar XK owners would do well to stay the fuck away from me. I'm just saying.

I'm cruising home, blaring REO Speedwagon, yes, maybe I was feeling ironic, maybe I was moved, maybe I'm a candle in the window, on a cold, dark winter's night. Shut up. You know you CAN'T FIGHT THIS FEELING ANYMORE.

Feeling good, feeling goofy. Rocking out to REO Speedwagon, thank you very much. And the beau, from here forward to be referred to exclusively as "fucktard", pulls up beside me. At least it very well could have been him, as it was dark I cannot say for sure. He drives a ridiculously expensive XK which induced an almost medical condition in my middle finger, which I barely controlled. I do not know if I will be able to control it every time I see one of these cars. So if you drive one and are not the fucktard don't take it personally. Actually, do. Do take it personally. Might you have purchased an only moderately ridiculously expensive car, say only around $60G and used the rest to feed 40,000 starving children in Africa for a year?! Really, how small does your penis have to be? Wait, I know the answer to this, at least for one of the drivers in question.

And there it is, the awful truth of the matter. I'm addicted to hate. When confronted with a memory of him I vividly imagine his horrific death, followed by burial in unconsecrated ground, dug up by feral dogs who gnaw at his bones and then feather their den with his hair.

I'm giving myself thirty more day. If I'm still vividly daydreaming homicidal scenarios I will seek the professional help.

Part 3:
Birth control makes you choose the wrong man.

I'm not scientifically inclined. I prefer for my explanations of mechanics and the natural world to remain in the category of magic. However, MHC is a topic I am interested in. Apparently, we all have a subconscious awareness of other's scents. Our scent is a result to some degree of our immunities. We are meant to mate with people of the opposite sex who have an opposite set of immunities. It's simple Darwinism. However, women on the pill find themselves attracted to men with similar MHC. Which is wrong. And against nature. And some speculate as a possible cause of skyrocketing divorce rates. Food for thought, yes?

This bit of knowledge was imparted through a blog I link to called, What I learned today. (Read it, she explains it better.) I thank her, because I get to feel smart and well-informed, with almost zero effort. Which is something I like.

day 99: not prepared for this sort of thing

MAYHEM.

I walked to Elat to buy some hummus to eat for lunch. Elat is a grocery store in the heart of little Jerusalem. Mayhem. Throngs of people. I mismanaged the location of my body and found myself positioned between a matronly woman and 3 cent oranges. She felt me up. Sadly, that's the most physical contact I've had in a very long time. I thanked her and asked her if she wanted to touch my other boob.

She declined.

Then I got cornered. I was trapped in a knot of women pinned between a tower of boxes and three shopping carts. A mother of three, sensing that I was the weakest link in the chain, body checked me through the mob, using me as a human shield and a bulldozer. A shiksa bulldozer. In response to this situation I stated quite loudly, "Jesus Christ". Which alerted the other shoppers to the fact that I did not really belong there.

If only I'd had the presence of mind to follow that up with, "Hey Lady! What would Jesus do?"

day 98: yoda kitty

Yoda kitty. I assure you, he loves this.

I visited the co-op and got groceries. I love that place. LOVE. There is actually food in my fridge. Which is a rarity. And I took a picture of it. Because I'm odd that way.

Then I cleaned my cabinets. Damn Trilby. This is all her fault. I knew there would be consequences in befriending an obsessive compulsive germaphobic neat freak who owns stock in Purell.

The retail therapy today was FANTASTIC. I may never go on another date again, but I care not. Because I will be home making out with my new shoes and slipping the tongue to my new wine glasses.

day 97: saving the earth with a crochet hook

Sore throat. I hate sore throats because you never know what could happen. Is it the harbinger of doom and despair that will turn you into a red nosed, snot dripping leper for the next two weeks? Or, is it just your throat being a prissy bitch. Ohhhhhh. It was so dry last night. I can't take these conditions. Scratch. Scratch.

So I took it easy and overdosed on vitamin C. I made tea. I didn't drink it, but I think the making of it was enough of a statement.

Hey, Immune System, I just made tea. That's right. TEA.

My friend Brad stopped by late last night. He's getting a divorce and struggling with the AA thing. I didn't drink because that would be wrong and rude. But by not drinking, I didn't feel supportive. I felt like I was showing off. In my head I'm all

hey, I can take it or leave it. I don't need to drink, I just like to. Man I feel sorry for you. MOTHERFUCKER. I'm out of cigarettes. Oh Jesus Christ how did this happen?

We watched comedy central and made plastic yarn. You save your plastic shopping bags and then cut them up and make them into yarn. Then you knit/crochet them into reusable bags. He was all into it, because he's a fisherman. Apparently, about every fourth cast you make in the Pacific off the coast, catches a plastic bag. He calls them dirty halibut. It was a good time, we caught up, made yarn, watched the comedy and lamented the impending doom of the entire world, although we never came to an accord on the cause. He said pollution, I said Republicans.

I took some how-to pictures. I would post a bag that I made, but every time I take one out into public people flip out and beg me for them. I've given away four at this point. I think I know a lot of people who are really really easily impressed. Which if one had to choose, those are the best people to know.

Cut into about 1 inch strips. Discard both ends.


Open up the loops and join together.

This ball is made from four bags.

day 96: not built for disappointment

He was the sort of boring that by being near him, makes you feel less interesting. But I jump ahead.

Last night I went out. We were to meet at Bandero's in Brentwood which was very geographically convenient. The guy was 6'4 and had hair. Which meets all of my pre-date requirements. I texted him when I got there because the bar was very crowded. He texted back that he was by the piano. I saw him, he didn't see me and I panicked. I confess, I bolted for the door and was halfway to my car.

The reason I bolted was because he had made it very clear that he wasn't attracted to overweight people. I am not overweight, but he is. And has no chin. If one must be vocal about such things, then that is their choice. But do not be a hypocrite and do not advertise yourself ten years and thirty pounds ago. Hyperventilating I phoned Trilby and spewed the situation. Around word 400, my conscience (or my terror of karma) kicked in and I talked myself into going back inside. Thought into action, I forced myself to the bar. Trilby was not supportive. She voted for fleeing. Post haste.

He and I sat at the bar where he proceeded to talk about himself for two hours. Thankfully, he must have understood my plight and thus supplied me with the vodka. He asked me nothing. When I deigned to presume to have something to say he stared politely through me, barely able to wait for me to finish talking. And he was wiggly. He kept jiggling about, bouncing around, fidgeting. I wanted to stab him with my drink straw and pin him to his stool. Nervous people make me anxious and a touch violent.

However, I was seated next to an older man. A very handsome older man, having a glass of wine and a salad. When my date went searching for bar stools or to the restroom we chatted. He gave me his number. We made little jokes and every time the date came back, I was disappointed.

So, feigning intense exhaustion... Wait, I wasn't feigning anything. Listening to him expound on the wonders of modern art and his intense interest in himself was absolutely exhausting. Siting my exhaustion, I left at hour two. We hugged. He did not offer to pay for my valet. Yet, thirty minutes later he texted to tell me what a great time he had and when can we do it again?

Let's discuss paying for the valet, shall we? It's a nice gesture. It's five bucks. Suck it up, dudes. It's not about money, it's about making a statement that you are both generous and interested and an all around good guy. Valet is crucial.

In my car, I texted the older man who gave me his card, because it was still early and my exhaustion lifted the moment I stopped hearing the date's voice. We met at Bodega and had wine. It was a little adventure.

He was incredible. Interesting. Hilarious. Wise. And I'm so serious, an exceedingly handsome old man. Alas, old. But it was fun and I believe it was karma's way of letting me know that my act of kindness against better judgment earlier in the evening was being rewarded.

I need to take a break from dating. I'm just not built for disappointment. Trilby says I need to up my screening requirements, but they are already at 1 yes to 6 nos. Maybe I'll put her in charge of that. Under Trilby's rule the ratio would go up to around 1 to 20. I think I will do this, as my hair really needs the rest.

day 95: eating a $600 churro in the rain

Welcome to day four of the monsoon season. According to the prophecy of weather.com, we're halfway there, just four more days left.  I really don't know how much more I can take though. Suffice it to say, that if I wasn't so well-adjusted and of a generally sunny disposition, someone would have died by now. Someone who cuts me off in the pouring rain and then slams on their brakes. Someone who drives a Jetta with bumper stickers. A bumper sticker that reads, with I'm sure zero irony, AMERICA! Love it or leave it. And another that said, Buy a gun. Piss of the Liberals. I wanted to rear end them just for fun or spite or amusement or self-righteous indignation. This little incident did clarify something for me. I do not have road rage. I have road outrage.

In other exciting news of a fiscal nature, I'm quite looking forward to that $600 tax rebate. Of course, I liked it better two days ago when it was to be $800. For you Brits, that's the equivalent of about 4 pounds or ten euros. Maybe I will take my tax refund to London and buy a churro.

In response to the Republican scheme to duct tape the economy back together long enough to give yet another Republican a fighting chance in the next election, I will not spend that rebate. I will save it. Or better yet, I will cash it and hide it under my pillow. My grandmother was a big one for hiding cash in a plastic butter container in the freezer. I always wondered that she never refrigerated it, always frozen. My Dad hid cash in a magnetic box that stuck to metal surfaces. He moved the location of that little box around so much that he could never remember the last thing he stuck it to. So you see, I have a genetic predisposition for paranoia and hoarding. Remind me to explain sometime how I have come to be in possession of 23 pairs of scissors.

Date tomorrow night. I'm exhausted just thinking about it. I did not get my tingly parts date which I mentioned that I wanted y'all to pray about. I think someone forgot to pray. Thanks alot. I know this for a fact because I'm pretty sure the guy was gay. Yeah. I'm dating the gays now.

So, in summary, it rains. I think bad weather is God's way of saying "sit thy ass down". I do not like pissing off God or Jesus. I am serious about this and consider it a priority, so I have sat my ass down. My priority list goes a little like this:

1. sleep
2. drink
3. eat
4. actively endeavor to NOT piss off God or the Jesus
5. feed cat
6. purchase and covet shiny/pretty things

I never said I was deep.

day 94: mark twain is sexy

I like to laugh. I like for my dates to make me laugh. There has been a shocking deficit of the funny whilst on the dates. I would like for the funny to come back from wherever it has been. I suspect Monte Carlo. If the funny doesn't come back I am going to have to go to the funny. Let's hope it's in Monte Carlo, and not say, Arkansas.

I have a date for Friday, so send out the good thoughts that he may be funny and generously endowed with a HUGE sense of humor. I'm looking for someone like Mark Twain, who was immensely comedic and also, said something that completely summarizes how I feel about today.

“The trouble ain't that there is too many fools, but that the lightning ain't distributed right.”

Other than that, the daily highlights include me starring in my own musical, written in my head, performed in my head and thank sweet Jesus, only shown to an audience of one, in my head. I named this musical that was my day, YESTERDAY! redux.

I think it has a ring to it. During act two, I went and sang the birthday song in Hebrew to a co-worker, who is Presbyterian. Act three, I designed a beautiful 32 page brochure. I pulled it out of my ass, but not to worry, I wiped it down and air freshened it before I put it on my boss's desk.  That was in very bad taste, but my excuse is that this week has forced me to totally embrace my alcoholism. Thus, I'm into a bottle of red and the part of my brain that filters such things is currently off skipping through a field of opium poppies, singing show tunes and picking his nose. (I've always pictured my internal censor as being an uncouth, gay man with excellent coordination, what with all the simultaneous skipping/picking.)

day 93: full moon howl

I'm feeling some work related stress this week. Which is an understatement somewhat akin to: and then I cut my entire arm off, and it hurt a little bit. I had a challenging day. By which I mean: I felt like a mouse after five hours of being toyed with by a merciless, malicious feline intent on the SLOW KILL. I totally held it together. And by that I mean: I called a co-worker lazy. I communicated and built inter-personal bridges through patience and compassion. Meaning,that totally didn't happen AT ALL.

I was also the victim of globalization. I had to call Adobe, and by Adobe I mean India, to get serial numbers and activation codes, because apparently purchasing CS3 isn't enough. They also require blood sacrifice and leaping barefoot, naked across shards of glass while jumping through hoops of fire. I enjoy that. The (I'm sure) very nice Indian woman asked me for my customer reference number, which consisted of 11 digits. I very slowly and loudly enunciated all eleven numbers to her. Followed by a long pause.

Very Nice Indian Woman Who Speaks Bad English (VNIWWSBE):
I didn't get that last part, can you repeat?

Very Disgruntled Decidedly Not Nice Art Director Who Happens To Be Me (ME):
Which part did you get?

VNIWWSBE:
132

ME:
You got the first three numbers out of eleven? Excellent. This is going to be a very long conversation.

And then my mac tech leaped two desks whilst frantically waving his arms in a manner that suggested I be quiet now. I relinquished the phone gladly with great gratitude for him in my black, black heart.

My father was a paramedic and he always swore that their emergency call volume was double on a full moon, he scheduled staff accordingly. He also attested that without a doubt the dumbest, most freakish accidents occurred on a full moon. I doubt children of early pagan moon worshipers were more aware of moon cycles than I was.

Yet, today, it seems the only rational explanation for this level of hysteria/stress/retardation/pure annoyance. It was the sort of day where daft people kept throwing rocks at the hornet's nest. Rock after rock. And just when my migraine began to peak, CNN announced the untimely death of Heath Ledger. That is just tragic. While I didn't know him personally, this still makes me sad. He was hot. And talented. And tall. The tall guys must stop offing themselves immediately. The pool just wasn't that large to begin with.

day 92: monday, monday

It  is going to rain for the next seven days, straight. What the hell Portland? Don't we pay you to take on our unwanted precipitation?

Just the mere thought of seven straight days of rain makes me want to wear flannel pajamas and stock up on hot chocolate. Unfortunately, there is no excuse on the planet that will get me out of work this week. I even tried, "Hey! Bleeding from my eyes. Can't make it." And they're all, "So....., see you in about three hours?"

good times with overexposure