liz in la

day 130: the day of the dirty underpants

You may or may not remember what I have affectionately dubbed "urine Thursday". It seems that my apartment has become Grand Central for unauthorized visits. Today I came home to find this official notice from the health department tacked to my front door.

The health department and landlord were in my apartment again today inspecting for any traces of BLACK TOXIC DEATH MOLD. Is it a law that I am required to receive 24 hours notice prior to entry or merely a suggestion? Who knows how many people had to step over the pile of Goodwill donations carefully stacked in front of my door. This is a strategy on my part, that someday this pile of crap will begin to bother me enough that it will make it to my trunk. Once in the trunk I will chauffeur these cast-offs about LA for approximately three to four months before they arrive at their final destination. It's my official send-off for things that I once loved and now loathe.

But my favorite discovery were the unclean drawers lying in the middle of my bathroom floor. Yeah. Dirty underpants for all to see. Dammit, I live alone. I'm allowed to do such things without reprisal or judgment.

When will the breaking and entering cease? I plan to compose a notice and post it on my front door:

Dear unauthorized visitor currently breaking the law:

I have accepted that you will traipse about my apartment whenever the mood strikes you. All I ask is that you clean something while here. I think that is fair and recommend that you begin in the kitchen.

Love,
Liz

In other news, my tax refund is on the way. But only after being raped by H&R Block. $421 to prepare my taxes? They are on crack. But sadly, I am far more insane for paying that amount. After much whining and gnashing of teeth, tearing of hair and one moment when MY EYES ROLLED COMPLETELY TO THE BACK OF MY HEAD I was given a $50 discount. Which brought the offense down from a felony to a misdemeanor.

I'm nesting. I am painting a border in my living room but have become hopelessly stalled at the taping phase of the mission. Stupid tape. It's sticky.

Someone looks cranky. What? You only got to sleep 19 HOURS TODAY? Were you disturbed by the unauthorized visitors? Oh when will you learn to bark? Or hiss. Can you just hiss?

day 129: a distressing lack of headdresses

I watched Elizabeth the Golden Age and realized that my wardrobe is sadly lacking headdresses. I was particularly enamored of a two foot tall magenta feather number. I'm thinking about acquiring one to wear to my next department meeting. I can't decide if it will immensely aid my cause or discredit me completely. I'll sleep on it.

I'm allowing the dating subscription to run out. I'd say my move to not re-up is motivated less by money than my realization that there is only so much disappointment a person can take in any given amount of time. I am not built for disappointment, sadly.

Today I feel like an adult. And it sucks. When I was six, I felt sure that adulthood was simply being a child in an adult body with money, and I wanted to sign up. Alas (I love that word), it seems somehow I've become a mature, responsible adult. But worse than that, I can now be identified as such.

I think I need a glass of wine.

Dammit! Wine makes me sound like a grown-up. What I meant to say was, I could really use a jello shot.

day 128: what I are learned today

Disclaimer/Confession: drinking much wine on a Tuesday night. Be warned, this is drunken blogging.

Yes, that title was a purposeful misuse of our lovely English language. Which is NOT a romance language. Therefore, I blame English for my romantic misfortune.

I are scorned. Yes, it is true. February is forevermore off limits for the dating.

Last February I dated a man, four okay dates although I must say, not really that into him. He stopped calling (last year) and I was a bit relieved, as although, amazing, talented, funny and awesome, not sexually attracted to him and felt that he had picked up on that. Yet,  TWO WEEKS LATER he called back, asking for another date. I said, and I quote myself, SHIP SAILED. We remain friends and I am so fortunate to have him in my life.  (Official aside: what on earth makes a man think he can fall into a time warp of two weeks and then reappear and have any hope of a date?)

THIS FEBRUARY, I cooked. That's right. You saw the pictures, I fucking cooked. The result? Nothingness. Pure nothing. No calls. No contact. It is my personal belief that he is:

A. in a coma and cannot physically call me
B. has the herpes and is not sure how to tell me
C. has the ED (erectile dysfunction) and is not sure how to tell me
D. has a third nipple and is not sure how to tell me
E. has AIDS and is not sure how to tell me
F. has (insert any social disease here) and is unsure of how to tell me
G. has lost a limb in a freak programming accident
H. has fallen into a time warp

I suppose it is possible that when I told him he sounded retarded, he took that somewhat amiss. But I was only referencing the use of the term "iyight" which is a liberty taken with the word "alright". A liberty that no 39 year old white man should take, might I add. I suppose, perhaps, that there is a possibility, remote, that he just doesn't dig me.

Nah.

In other news, I showed up for work today and many transformers of an electrical nature blew. I thought, Jesus Christ, God DOES love me. Ergo, no electricity. Ergo, no work. So I went to home depot, bought paint and began nesting in a frenetic fashion only to be called back into work at 1:3op.m. when the lights were restored. Proving that once again, God DOES NOT love me. He loves fucking with me. Question: Why is the fucking Los Angeles Department of Water & Power so fucking inept EVERY OTHER DAY than today?! Bastards. The lights go out at my house and I'm thrown back to the goddamned 1930's for four fucking days. But they go out at my office and suddenly COMPETENT people are assigned to the job.

SO what is learned from today:

• Cooking for a man is NOT a good idea and is quite possibly a jinx.
• No more dating in February, as it is cursed.
• I love wine and wine loves me.

The.End.

p.s. Have a date for Saturday. Stay tuned. Calamity will most assuredly follow.

 

day 127: when gay porn is preferable

According to my spam mail, I am a big, beautiful woman over 40 with toe fungus, a little penis, insufficient ejaculate, seeking Asian singles and in need of a colonic.

Thanks spam.

Oh, and my tivo thinks I'm a gay construction worker. Left to its own devices Harvey (tivo) recorded this Old House, Queer Eye, reruns of Will & Grace and Hammered with John & Jimmy. That last one gave me a moment of hope. Alas, it was not about drinking, nor was it gay porn, rather it turned out to be two awkward men in tool belts. As I've been to Home Depot, I had already seen that episode.

day 126: where were the drugs? the psychotic breaks? the raging alcoholism?

Oscar Night!

I'm so let down. No one wore anything outrageously hideous. Not one person. No one used the Oscar's as a forum for political statements. No one said anything even slightly inappropriate. Jon Stewart was occasionally funny. But, still, sadly disappointed. Was no one on drugs today?! Could not just one person cope with their anxiety by getting rip roarin' drunk before either presenting or winning?!

Jennifer Garner had an uncomfortable moment when a drunk? Gary Busey kissed her neck. Ryan Seacrest, attempting to interview her during the molestation, looked like he was about to shit himself he was so scared and awkward. What a pansy. Where was that gay guy from last year? He would have grabbed Gary's man boobs and then made fun of his clothes. *sigh

My secret crush Michael Moore didn't win for SiCKO. He was robbed. While Mikey isn't my physical ideal of sexy, I'd still sleep with him. I might have to close my eyes and chant "social justice, social justice" but I would totally do it. Because I love him. Or maybe I just haven't had sex in far too long. Either way.

Occasionally, celebrities get together and leverage their fame and money towards a truly important cause. Today this cause was about winning an argument against Sarah Silverman and Matt Damon. Never have I been so proud to be an America. Please do enjoy I'm Fucking Ben Affleck:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sIQrBouWRiE

day 125: why won't Sprint break up with me?

A few months back Sprint identified customers who were too frequently calling customer support, and then broke up with them. They received a dear john letter and were instructed to find another wireless provider.

WHY NOT ME?!

In an effort to get out of my contract (of which I only have two months left) I began writing to the customer support email address from their website. I probably left four emails. Of which NOT ONE was returned.  So today I decided to complain using a telephone.

Me: My phone has never worked at my house. Ever.

Sprint: Are you using your phone now?

Me: No, I'm at home.

Sprint: I can give you a number to call back from your mobile phone and then I can walk you through a few troubleshooting techniques.

Me: I'm at home. I would have to leave my home to call you back on my mobile.

Sprint: Oh.

Me: I've left several emails to customer support about this issue.

Sprint: I don't have any record of those on your account.

Me: So would you say that the support page on your website is mostly decorative?

Sprint: I wouldn't say that.

Me: I want to cancel my contract. I'm sick of you people. Can you do that?

Sprint: I'm afraid I couldn't do that, but I can transfer you to technical support.

No thank you. But here's what we're going to do. We're going to force Sprint's hand. They don't want to break up with me, but I'm going to do the equivalent of getting caught screwing another man in their bed. Well, sadly, I don't expect it to be that fun. But here is the plan. I will call Sprint every single day until they cancel my contract.

I'm sure you'll be hearing about it.

day 124: mission korma

Dinner for two. Three little words that entail so much effort and if you are me, danger.

The menu: Mangalore Shrimp & Vegetable Korma & copious quantities of wine.

Velma & I, with a sense of adventure, shopped together at India Sweets & Spices on Venice Blvd. It is awesome. And smells like curry. Rajeem, the owner of the establishment, helped us find ingredients and got his picture taken with us. I am quite taken with Rajeem and his grocery products.

Ever not having a good day? Or a nice time? Do Indians always seem slightly happier than the rest of us? I found their secret. Magic cookies. I have a few "good days" and "nice times" in my handbag now, for emergencies.

I didn't need 5 pounds of sea salt. But I couldn't leave Roland there, he is just too gorgeous. So I took him home.

Velma & I were in line to check out when a rather erratic homeless looking man cut in line in front of us.  I am fairly certain he was on the crack. Velma was turned talking to me when I noticed he had pulled a pocket knife out of his jacket and began to open it. Then seemed to think better and put it back in his pocket. I'm not kidding, one quarter of one second longer I would have tackled Velma to the floor.  I'm not sure how both of us laying stunned on the floor would have helped our chances of not being stabbed. But it was the only plan I had.

The next day I went back to Elat Market where produce shopping is a contact sport. I finally and fully understand the attraction. I bought 3 potatoes, 3 carrots, 2 bell peppers, peas, green beans and grapes for $5.

I don't think Joel fully understands what I went through to prepare this meal. I fought my way through a mob of angry middle aged housewives and almost got shivved. I am a good woman.

 

"SHIT! Wait, don't sit down. I have to get a picture of this, otherwise no one will ever believe it."

Joel shrugged and stepped out of the way. After the picture was taken rather than silently judge me for odd behavior he lamented that I did not compose it such that the wine bottle was in frame.  He has potential.

day 123: motherfucking son-of-a-bitch (if I wasn't sensored before, I am now)

I drove home in the rain. By that I mean I was as pissed off as a person can be without actually exploding.

When I reached home I noticed immediately that only one of my FOUR locks was locked. Not good. Fucking repairmen. They finished up Monday. What the fuck are they doing back in my apartment on Thursday?

Inside. No new repairs. All expensive toys accounted for... yet, Bartleby is screeching, pacing and about to have a seizure. I follow him into the bathroom when I see this:

(This photograph is a dramatization of actual events.)

Apparently, the repairmen who are still working upstairs and clearly still have my key have been using my house as the executive washroom.

There is so much wrong with this. First of all, the cat cannot employ the toilet in "boy" position. Poor kitty had to hold it for who knows how long. Secondly, a single girl living alone can only rely on a few things in life. One of which is consistency in toilet deployment. Third, he missed. Yeah. Dribbled a little bit. URINE.

There is going to be SO MUCH YELLING  in the morning. You have NO IDEA.

In conclusion, gay retired show cats are crap for security.  Does anyone have a  Rottweiler pup they'd like to give to a good home? If that puppy is teething, that would be awesome. I already have a couple repairmen chew toys picked out.

BARK! Bark you worthless cat.

day 122: epson thou art a bitch

Dear Epson,

You did it again. You got me fair and square. Last time I purchased  one of your evil spawn brethren, the malicious and recalcitrant 1260, I swore to myself, never again.

When the 1260 died and clawed its way back to hell, spitting fire and imprecations even in retreat I was on the search for a nice, reliable Canon printer. They are the Lutherans of the printer world, unlike Epsons. Which are either Baptist or Satan Worshipers, jury is still out on that one.

Yet, while browsing the sweet, reliable, raised up right Canons, this 1400 ensnared me with its shiny, shiny, bright features, its ability to print on a CD. I was enthralled in the Siren's song. Damn you 1400. Damn you.

Wishing you eternal damnation,
Liz

This is my actual letter to my mac tech:

I have lost all of my mind and do not believe I shall ever get it back.

My mac + epson 1400 = insanity.

And hate
And despair

Please, come fix it or send in the national guard. Whatever you feel appropriate.




It just won't install the print drivers. I refuses. I am abject and have lost my mind. And it was a good mind. If you find it will you please send it back? And tell it that I promise, for real this time, to never buy another Epson printer.

Much obliged.

day 121: banner day or what in hell is going on?!

I went to the dentist. Usually, this story is followed by tales of horror about both pain and the fiscal hit to my shoe fund.

Today? Today I got my teeth scaled, polished, xrayed and then.... nothing. That was it. For the first time in my life I walked out of a dentist's office without  ONE SINGLE CAVITY.

And later. Later I had a date. Typically this statement is followed by sad tales of disappointment and/or outrage. But tonight? Happiness. That's it. Happiness. Joel opens doors, pays for dinner, rubs my shoulders and is a very decent kisser. I told him I have a very honest blog. He's all whatever, as long as you don't divulge real names.

I will probably not sleep tonight, as I will be wide-eyed awake and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or the neighbor's piano to fall through the ceiling, or total world annihilation.

If nuclear war breaks out tomorrow, it is my fault. I'm sorry. Today threw off the entire balance of the universe. Apologies.