East Coast Girl in a Western Town

OUTRAGEOUS

2013-03-27T14:06:00.000-07:00

And now the collision center has lost the key to my vehicle. Like this wasn't traumatic enough... but to add another dash of stupid.

...you win, universe. I fucking quit.

Don't Tread on Me...Bitch

2013-03-21T21:32:00.000-07:00

Tonight I understand why people become Republicans. Tonight... just a little bit...I believe the worst in humanity.

It's ironic, because earlier this month my friend Angie relayed what - at the time -- was a story about the worst human on the planet. Angie was at the drug store, started to back out of her parking spot, and accidentally tapped someone. This happens. We're human. We fuck up.

She exited her car, saw it was a minor dent, exchanged information, and mentioned to the "hittee" that she had a $500 deductible -- so if the damage was under that, please let her know because she rather pay cash than report the fender-scuff to her insurance company. Does this sound reasonable? Because it sounded reasonable to me.

And then -- if you're a pessimist, you may be able to guess what happened, but I personally (and perhaps naively) had a hard time with it -- the hittee not only reported the accident, but claimed that Angie hit her so hard that she had medical injuries and was forced to go to the hospital. The hittee claimed that Angie hit her so hard that not only was there rear damage to the car, but front end damage because the car collided with a pole due to the severe impact. And (AND!) the four handicapped children in the car also suffered physical injuries and were forced to go to the emergency room.

Luckily there was a camera in the CVS parking lot that caught the whole thing -- including the empty car sans handicap children (but I'm sure you'll agree that was a nice touch).

I was somewhat horrified at this story and the fact that a person would so blatantly take advantage of another. And I assumed that it was rare -- the 1% of the moral society in which people are motivated by fear and not love. Until today.

On Monday, the dumbest person in the Golden State decided to make a right turn from the center lane, (a move which my friend Melissa has affectionately dubbed, "the San Diego right." As compared to "the Station Island left" -- the infamous move in which the left turner preemptively takes off to the squeal of tires when the light turns immediately green) and promptly caused over $3,500 in damages to my car.

Obvious to most, turning right from a non-turn lane is illegal. So the hitter in my case lied to her insurance company -- saying, among other things, that the accident did not even take place at the original intersection. ...I mean, to give her credit, it's a very creative story. Untrue, but creative. The end result was that I was liable. And, while the merits are in dispute....and who knows how long this could take...I am out a deductible in which I cannot afford for an accident for which I am not at fault. Not to mention, I'm now driving around with PTSD sensitivities in a rental vehicle the size of a UPS truck. The whole thing sucks. I mean, yeah, in perspective...it's not religious persecution or heart disease...but the fact that I did everything right and now I'm getting fucked...it's a bitter pill to swallow.

So I suppose my point is this: 1) while karma is a lovely concept, it won't cut me a check to meet my deductible; 2) my faith in humanity...the West Coast hippie-dippie, silver-lining, "I'm sure she's just acting out of fear," scarcity v. abundance mentality...yeah, that was just shot in the face at point blank range; and 3) I'm gonna need the number for that Republican accountant I dated over the winter...because the "I want mine" mantra is beginning to sound a little wiser this evening.

Sexy

2013-03-13T21:12:00.002-07:00

I wish someone would bring sexy back. Sometimes I miss sexy so much that I can't sleep at night. ...it's so sad.

A Resounding Yes

2013-02-26T23:16:00.000-08:00

It’s ironic this situation landed in my lap as I was watching the The Makers on PBS.

So I am sitting here, watching the history of the feminist movement (which was going pretty well by all accounts until Phyllis Schlafly showed up…in my experience, nothing good has ever come out of Missouri), when my girlfriend texts me because the current guy she’s dating stood her up. He asked for a raincheck. She’s pissed. Feeling empowered by my current viewing, I am bold enough to suggest that maybe she should not grant his raincheck request. “Tell him no,” I bravely suggest.

She didn’t. And in all honestly, until about a week ago, I would not have either. But a shift has occurred. …I’m not saying it won’t shift back at any moment…but as I sit here on the cusp of forty, I am empowered enough to say, “No thanks.” Finally.

I’ve read He’s Just Not That Into You. And I get it. I realize that inaction, whether something as asinine as forgetting a date or as mundane as not opening a door, screams volumes. If he doesn’t call when he says he’s going to, it’s not an oversight. We all know this – I personally know this because I accidentally call people from my purse all the time (please refer to the post Moneyball from March 2012). Yet despite books, movies, what-not, we as women – and if I had to venture to guess, as people – refuse to see this simple truth. Actions speak louder than words. And whether or not words are actually involved… we know. We know. We know if a friend is upset, whether or not she says it. We know when we didn’t get the job, even when they say, "we'll be in touch." We know he’s not (ever, ever, ever) going to change despite his protests to the contrary. Yet we suppress that “huh?” – that little voice at the base of our skull when someone’s actions do not match his words. It’s as though we’ve fallen into the deep end of the pool and we have no perspective to judge what is happening above ground. We suppress our intuition – which is unfortunate. Because I’m discovering that following it could save us a lot of time.

We not only ignore that prickly instinct in our brain, but we refuse to advocate for ourselves. We will stand up for a friend, a pet, the homeless man on the street…but why not ourselves? What do we think we are going to lose? An opportunity at a relationship? Love? A dream realized? Intuitively – if we really listen – I think we know that opportunity is already dead. …and if it’s not, would pulling over and asking, “what’s really going on here?” be the catalyst that killed it?

Why don’t I advocate for me? I didn’t until this simple realization came to me: he can reject me whether or not I am silent. I can advocate for myself or I can stand quietly in the corner and wait oh-so-patiently for his next move…but I can’t change the outcome. If I’m about to be rejected, silence will only prolong the inevitable. And if he does stay around…well…isn’t it kind of half-ass at best by this point?

I’ll tell you one thing for damn sure – in love and in life, I deserve a resounding yes. And listen up people – we all do. You, me – and yes, even Phyllis the hypocritical bitch -- deserve a resounding yes (if you don’t know feminist history, that won’t even be remotely funny, BTW). If the king is naked, I deserve the opportunity to inquire as to why. And to say it's unacceptable.

I'll still get dumped – but at least now it’s on my terms and my time. And painful though that might be in the moment, it allows me to free up space for someone new and inevitably better to walk into the room.

How do I know he’s coming? Because I’m no longer willing to settle for less.

There Ought to be a Law

2013-02-13T01:01:00.000-08:00

Tonight, the Violence Against Women Act passed the Senate. There were 22 male Senators who refused to vote in favor of the bill. And the first word that came to mind when I saw the voting result was, of course: "DOUCHE." Who would not vote for legislation to protect women from violence? (Answer? A douche.) But in an attempt at spiritual growth, when a relative asked the question, "Why do we need a separate law to not hit women? Do we need a law to not hit people in wheelchairs? Or Mid-westerners? Or Yankees fans?" (...while a smart-ass answer came to mind with regard to Yankees fans -- and I've suppressed it thus far -- but please note, I AM DYING over here!), I attempted to answer sincerely. Which was not easy. Because the answer was profoundly personal.

This is what I said:

We need a separate law because my dad hit my mom. And me. And my sister. And my brother. When I was in college and my father hit me enough that I needed to go to the hospital, the police -- rather than asking me if I wanted to press charges or arresting the man, as common sense would dictate -- asked me what I had done to provoke him.

I wish we didn't need a separate law, but because women still make $.77 on the dollar (and financial means is a deterrent to leaving) and because the "good old boy" mentality is alive and well in some places, we need a separate law.

I'm sure there are a lot more statistics, facts, numbers and what-not in the Congressional Record and elsewhere on the web -- cost of violence with regard to missed work...health care...mental health. My answer was personal and off the cuff. The relative who asked the question has known me all but 11 days of my life -- and had no idea this happened to me. ...well, why would he? Victims of domestic violence become really good liars. We make up stories. We hide facts. We shove our emotions way, way deep inside so that no one -- including ourselves -- can ever find them. This is why I went into acting. And politics. And law. Lying was a talent I had been refining my entire life.

It's interesting what we are able to remember, because I can tell you the exact moment I knew I had to lie. I was about five years old. I was standing in the dining room and I was about to be "punished" -- a.k.a. hit -- for doing something mundane like turning the T.V. volume up too loud or neglecting to pick up my Barbies. I said to my father something along the lines of, "I don't think this is normal. People on T.V. don't get hit like I do." And he responded to me (with a lot of malice in his eyes), " I hit you because you deserve it."

That's when I first learned what a horrible person I was. This did not happen to other people. This happened to me. Because I deserved it. So at this statement, I assumed that (a) other people knew I was hit; and (b) they did nothing to stop it. Which was why I had to hide the violence -- because I thought I was hiding the terrible secret that I was a bad person who provoked my father. It never occurred to me in the thirty-some-odd years that have since passed to think anything different. ...despite being a grown-up. Despite hundreds of thousands of dollars in counseling and anti-depressants...and alcohol. It did not occur to me that this initial conclusion might be wrong.

I assumed that my relative knew what happened to me. I assumed everyone knew. And I suppose that's the more profound reason as to why we need a separate law to protect women (and children) from violence. Because they take on the shame. I did something to provoke him. I deserved it. It was my fault. I did. And I've had many, many years of wavering between attempts at both perfection and self-destruction to prove it.

Tonight I realized that I was still holding onto an idea and identity that was created by a five year old. And it wasn't serving me. So allow me: I'm a survivor of domestic violence. I was just a kid and it was not my fault. And we need a separate law to address violence against women for many reasons -- but first and foremost, because no one -- whether five or fifty -- should be led to believe that it's her fault she was hit.

Silence allows this message to persist.

MIA

2012-10-31T16:46:00.001-07:00

So...ambitious little me....

I have not been blogging lately...because I am trying to write a book. I'm on Chapter 3. I've been on Chapter 3 for four months. I hate Chapter 3. I took a week off work in the hopes of leaving Chapter 3 behind forever. And yet, here I am -- on vacation -- procrastinating because I can't write Chapter 3.

What's my point? Don't waste money on a working vacation. Kidding -- no, that's not my point. Drudging up the past is painful. Reliving painful events on purpose sucks. Why do it then? Well, my goal (and granted - it's likely naive) is to tell my story in the hope that someone else will see themselves in it, and think, "Wow, what I did wasn't half that stupid. ...I so got this."

So...anybody else out there ever have writer's block? Because I'd love to come home to San Diego saying, "I so got this."

The Salad of Liberal Elitism

2012-07-17T23:42:00.003-07:00

Tonight I was asked the most generic, uninspiring question: what do you do for fun? What a stupid question. I feel as though I am required to list athletic accomplishments, do-gooder volunteer tasks, or creative endeavors. And I could. But it's not necessarily fun. If I'm surfing or training for a race, it's typically because it's a challenge. I like a challenge. Volunteering is important to my soul, but fun? Not always. And I write, which again, is mentally challenging...but the feedback is more fun than the endeavor itself.

The honest answer is: "I drink wine and judge others." ...I am a Democrat. (And we all know by now that I hate people.) So yeah...that's my answer. But it's an election year, so in the spirit of volunteerism, health, and creativity (and by "creative" I mean "smart-ass"), I wanted to share my recipe for the Salad of Liberal Elitism.

The idea started last election cycle. (But I didn't have a blog then.) Let's jump right in. First ingredient is arugula. During the 2008 campaign, Obama made a remark regarding the price of arugula and FOX News jumped on the fact that Obama must shop exclusively at Whole Foods and therefore could not understand what the typical family experiences during an economic downturn. Of course that's an extremely logical conclusion (it's not), and hence, the #1 ingredient is arugula. Also...it's a salad.

The second ingredient is goat cheese. This also sounds snotty because it comes from a mammal other than a cow. Plus, I like it.

Next up, lemon vinaigrette, which is made of lemons, extra virgin olive oil and sea salt. All of these ingredients come from Italy, which as we all know is associated with socialism because of Mussolini. Lemons are used frequently throughout Italian cooking -- just ask Giada. Olive trees are prominent in Italy. And if I correctly remember the flocks of men following American women home during my study-abroad, virgins are also prominent in Italy. Sea salt...of course liberals live on the coasts. In Europe, but also stateside: New York, Massachusetts, New Jersey, California, Washington, Oregon...go blue. (Landlocked states are red...to symbolize...beef, I guess.)

And finally -- beets. Which come from Russia. Which is full of communists.

Accompany with an Oregon pinot and there you have it. (And note: all these foods are heart-healthy, because I don't plan on using Obamacare.)

White Trash Problems

2012-06-22T18:23:00.004-07:00

I've been working with a life coach for about six months now. It's a lot like therapy, but rather than just bitching, we actually try to change things. Of course, in the midst of trying to make things better, you have to dig through your personal garbage and address what is not working. If you've been to a therapist (and if you're reading this blog, I'm gonna assume that you have (and if not, you should probably go)), you know it's exhausting. Lots of tears, stops and starts, shame spirals...you name it. Parts of it are dark. Super ugly, shameful... nasty dark.

The upside to discovering these dark parts -- that you much, much (much!) rather keep hidden away -- is that you realize what motivates your actions (rather than pondering, "why the hell would I do that?" ...which I do...particularly when alcohol is involved). In fact, the "dark digging" has literally taken on a persona of its own -- and it struck a cord with me because I have so desperately tried to disassociate with this title... (wait for it)... the White Trash Orphan.

As a grown-up, all I have tried to cultivate in my world involves sophistication. Some days I'm successful. ...some days I'm not (lazy enough to go to leave the house in overalls -- or even better, socks and flip-flops -- equals "not"... those are the days I pray Stacy and Clinton don't catch me). But the "white trash" struck a deep, deep cord because it is definitely something I pretend I don't identify with -- and try to run from at all costs. ...but it's there ... it's soooo there. My mother's family is from Mississippi (yup) and my father is from Toledo -- so out of the gate, I definitely relate to white-trash. In my baby-book, I learned that my first birthday was spent going to car races with someone named Emma Mae (and she's not even on the Mississippi side). I've always run from this persona. Even as a child I would explain that I was not actually from Indiana, but rather was born in Chicago. But when I left for DC and a prestigious political internship, my roots and lack of sophistication were obvious. I felt nothing but inadequate. My JC Penney's wardrobe and my humble ignorance about politics, big cities, and summers in the Hamptons, did not a sophisticated grown-up make.

I don't understand why we do this, but like most people, I have always looked at my own inadequacies rather than my strengths. (Why do we do this? As Julia Roberts said in Pretty Woman, "it's easier to believe the bad stuff.") I realized in the recent self-discovery process that I have a desperate, fearful, shameful persona inside of me that forever fears she is not enough (which maybe I should have explored a little more last summer during my divorce, but hell -- I'm a little slow on the uptake). Then again...the other side of me -- the side I've tried to cultivate -- loves the theatre (I even majored in theatre), is drawn to uppity New Englanders (how I do enjoy the phrase, "We're staying with my husband's family in Brookline," or, better yet -- "at my boss's home on the Cape") and grew up to be a Democrat despite being raised in Dan Qualye's Congressional District. (This is a large part of why I believe in past lives...I mean, seriously... how would I beat those odds otherwise?)

I've forever felt like these pieces of me do not go together -- I sure as hell don't want them to go together. I run -- flee, sprint -- from the fact that they do, in fact, go together and are able to exist in one person. But I've realized, too, that one drives the other --who do you think clawed her way into that prestigious political internship and sent me to law school? Not the uppity New Englander. Yup...the insecure, white-trash girl desperately trying to prove that she could be so much more.

None of us are one-dimensional. (...actually, let me take that back, because I'm in Southern California.) I'm not one dimensional. I can be a saint one day and a mean, mean selfish bitch the next. Do I like that dark, bad side? No. I hate her. She's gotten me in a lot of trouble and cost me much. But what I have learned is that one aspect of myself cannot exist without an opposite. Where there's light there is dark. Where there's good there is evil. Where there is fear there is hope. And where there is an insecure, ashamed white trash hick from rural Indiana, there is a uppity, controlling New England ice queen waiting in the wings. ...hopefully, most days...I meet somewhere in the middle.

I'm human. I'm three dimensional. And I'm learning that in order to love myself, I have to love all of me -- failures, flaws, inadequacies, shame-spirals, alcoholic rampages -- the bad stuff, too. Belief me, it's a tall order. Some days I think I might fail at this task. But I know deep down that the cliche is true -- you've got to love the one you're with. And for me... well, I'm not goin' anywhere.

Ask Emily

2012-05-05T10:14:00.003-07:00

So here's a question for which I cannot find an answer. In California when we talk about the 99 percent, we're referring to boob jobs. It's as common as driving -- everybody does it. But a novel question arose this weekend from a girlfriend: do you tell a imminent sexual partner that your jugs aren't real? Would they know? ...what's the protocol here?

Shockingly, Google had no answer to this question. So I posed it to friends at dinner the other night (it's quite unfortunate that we were seated by a family of four, but these things happen...) and there was not a strong consensus either way. ...he'd probably figure it out, but maybe not, and it was probably unnecessary to tell him ahead of time. But there was a strong assumption by one particular member of the dinner table as to the motivations of a female who would elect such a surgery -- and whether it was motivated by insecurity or a real sense of self improvement. According to my buddy (and I use that term loosely) this elective surgery constituted false advertising and pointed to a deeper character flaw: dishonesty.

I found this conclusion a little hypocritical -- I mean, we're talking about boob jobs here. Who among us hasn't had a feature we wanted to change? In fact, show me someone who has never had a self-critical thought and I'll show you a narcissist (hence the word "buddy" used loosely). And maybe I'm a bit sensitive on this topic. Full disclosure, I am not well-endowed and I still remember quite vividly being berated by mean, mean girls in junior high. It certainly didn't help my self-esteem at a pivotal time. And unlike other physical traits with which I am uncontent (my arms, my abs, etc.), my breast size I cannot change through sheer discipline and hard work (believe me - I've tried). More than that, it's a physical trait directly associated with femininity. ...so tied to our identity as women...we have no control over the trait...is it any wonder we're talking 99 percent here?

I wished we lived in a utopia where going under the knife to raise our self esteem wasn't a part of the equation, but it is. And like men in skinny jeans, most of us have grown to accept it in recent times. I'd love to be all deep and go off on a tangent regarding feminist theory, but I can't: I suffer the same insecurities we all do. I'm not about to single-handedly change society's definition of beauty, but I do have the power to change my appearance in a variety of ways: make-up, exercise, clothing, botox, boob jobs...all tools in the arsenal of feminine splendor. I guess what I would like to change (especially as my face begins to collapse like a dying star) is the fact that to a variety of people, my beauty is the most important contribution I bring to society.

Don't get me wrong -- I like being a girl. But in the most simple of terms, I do believe it's harder to be a girl than to be a boy. ...I'm not sure I'd wish it on anybody. And at the end of the day, I'm going to plant myself firmly in the Ann Boleyn camp and pray that if I ever do give birth, it's to a son.

Moneyball

2012-03-25T11:25:00.012-07:00

My friend Greg has the greatest concept of the afterlife. There's no heaven or hell; there's a barbecue. When we die, we hang out on someone's deck and exchange stories about our latest adventures -- recounting the beautiful, the stupid and the crazy about our most recent life.  A series of doors surrounds the perimeter. Friends consistently come and go, more stories are recounted and hilarity ensues. Those of us present can view, comment, and sometimes even weigh-in on different situations through a series of big screen televisions. "Dude, did you see what Mike just did?! ...what a jack-ass!"

So imagine the predicament in which I found myself last week when one of my asshole buddies opened my proverbial door, screamed "Catch!" and threw me this moneyball: (...because I know shit like this is not merely happenstance.) Scene--  my latest and greatest romantic interest had disappeared. The disappearance coincided with some pretty suspect timing and once again I was left pondering the question, "Why do 40 year olds act like 19 year olds?" I deleted his number from my phone and started forward. A month passed.

Last week as I was running from account to account, I looked down to see that I had a "missed call" from Moneyball out of the blue (yes, I memorized his number...and his birthday too). This shocks me, but due to the fact that the light I was at turned green, I could do nothing more than process until I arrived at my next destination. By that point, I had a text. The first line read, "I saw you called..." ...no, I didn't call you, bitch. I'm a Leo, I have a lot of pride, and I would NEVER call you.... So I checked my phone...and to my horror confirmed that yes, I had indeed dialed his number about an hour and a half earlier. ...Apparently, while debating the merits of the song "Moondance" with a friend from Chicago via text, I had somehow left my phone unlocked, chucked it in my purse and -- on it's own -- it located a number from approximately a month earlier and decided to call it. ..."Catch!" ...of all the gin joints in all the mother-fucking world....

A lot had to align correctly for that remote possibility to become reality. I learned from all my years watching Oprah, that when the universe gives you a sign -- a tap, if you will -- you should listen. Because the next sign will be a shove. And then a brick to the head. And then a brick wall falling down on you. And it certainly wasn't out of the realm of possibilities that my" brick wall" could come in the form of me being drunk in a public place months from now, still angry, screaming at him about what an asshole he was in front of important clients, and then vomiting on his shoes. So I returned the phone call.

I was hoping for closure, but I didn't really get it. Instead, a couple of cutting comments were placed upon me and I quickly ended the scenario. Once I hung up, I received a follow up text further explaining some suspect behavior. Again, information not particularly helpful to me. It took a few days to process, but after a while it occurred to me that the phone call ...had nothing to do with me. He needed an outlet and I happened to be there. I was a stand-in -- the lighting tech who is called onstage so that the main actor can run the scene until his co-star arrives. The light tech stands there, out of her element, very ready to leave...but she's a team player and realizes this is what the eccentric actor needs in the moment. So for the greater good, she takes one for the team.   ...it's part of her contract.

As a lawyer, I've studied contracts (and not to brag, but I even got an "A" in the class). I understand that the pay-off may sometimes be greater for one party than another. I understand that the value of the agreement may not be readily apparent to some. But overall, I do believe in the bargaining process. And in the game of life, I believe in soul contracts: agreements made long before I decided to arrive on the planet about what I would contribute to my fellow players. For some, I've agreed to be a bitch.  For others, a doormat. And sometimes, merely the lighting technician. This is fine, because part of this contract includes other's contributions to my own development. It might not pay off right away -- maybe not this decade. Maybe not even this lifetime. Hell, it might not involve those associated with the originally agreement - "If you just do this for John, the next round is on me." Some people call this karma. Some people think it's sacrilegious. And some think it's crazy. But I know for myself, I can stomach this reality a lot more than sitting with the fact that I chose to devote much time and attention to someone who turned out to be very selfish.

A final thought to my friend at the barbecue -- when I get back, I am sooo gonna kick your ass.

Rush to Judgment

2012-03-06T10:40:00.003-08:00

When I was 25, I was diagnosed with Adenomyosis. Never heard of it? Neither had I. All I did know was that when my period came every month, I was in extreme pain. So extreme that I literally could not walk. I could not move. Breathing was even difficult. Each month I took enough pain killers to tranquilize a horse - but to no avail. I remember one particularly bad episode in which my work cube-mate told me I should go home because my breathing was so strained and I was in such obvious pain. Unfortunately, the pain was so bad that I could not drive. And let me just say -- I own an epilady. I know pain. I can handle pain -- even in the extreme. But I could not handle this. So I curled myself into a fetal position until the end of the day when another co-worker was able to drive me home.

After a laparoscopy and a diagnosis, I thought I would be able to receive treatment, control the pain - end scene. Do you know what my doctor told me was the "standard treatment" for alleviating pain associated with Adenomyosis? A hysterectomy. Really. At 25. (And you thought we invested too much in women's health...that's precious.) Second choice? To take monthly birth control pills. Ah-ha! -- see why I took the time to share my most private health concerns that are actually none of your goddamn business?

To anyone ignorant enough to judge another and call her a slut or prostitute without walking a mile in her shoes, a couple of things: 1) when experts (and by "experts" I mean doctors, not politicians and their pundits) state that birth control is part of a comprehensive health care plan for women, this would be an example of what they mean. As would ovarian cysts of which Sandra Fluke spoke; 2) rather than judge me, I would welcome you to experience the pain I endured prior to taking monthly birth control. To do so, simply stab yourself in the lower abdominal region and then go about your daily life -- drive, work, breathe, go to lunch with your boss...and come back and call me a slut to my face.

I'll be happy to twist that knife for you.

My Favorite Restaurant

2012-02-02T21:51:00.001-08:00

Pinkberry is following ME on twitter...how cool am I?

The Home Depot

2012-01-31T18:00:00.001-08:00

As much as I complain about my dating life and threaten to switch teams, in all honesty, I would make a horrible lesbian. I hate ugly shoes. I don't believe in polo shirts. ...not to mention the fact that I have sex with men. But in addition to these precursors, I consistently fail at the Home Depot. "How does one fail at the Home Depot?" you may ask. Allow me to enlighten you...

As previously noted, I am a smart woman, but I'm also lazy and prefer to stick to task at which I excel. Home repair, as turns out, is not one of them. But when one buys a house by herself, she will inevitably have to learn some new tricks. And for many of these tricks, hardware stores are required. For many months, I have found myself wondering aimlessly through aisle upon aisle, unable to locate anything. I resemble a blindfolded kidnap victim dropped in the woods. And if I do (with a lot of luck) locate the department I need, I am too stupid to understand what I need ("um...like a thing...so that my TV cords don't look messy...I don't know -- to like, hide them.") or how much of a product I need ("I think it's, like...as long as the closet. ...Is that important?"). As you may know, there are always more than two products of any one item at a Home Depot...it's more like two thousand. Last weekend, this resulted in me meandering through the light fixtures for three hours unable to reach a consensus... multiple Trudy Chase voices in my head becoming angrier and louder as I turned the corner and more choices were presented to me. ...this would never have happened if I went to pick up a pair of (non-ugly) shoes.

The dread I feel for Home Depot is not new. It began when the now-ex and I purchased our first home, and about a month later chose to celebrate the discovery and mass genocide of the American Indian (also know as Columbus Day) with a trip to Home Depot. Unfortunately we were not the only ones with that idea, as the store was overflowing with federal government employees who also had the day off. In DC, any outing to a warehouse-type store on a holiday weekend is much like the Titanic: chaotic, crazy, crowded...and there's a very good chance you're not going to make it.

Before I go further, allow me to first explain that I have a problem with crowds. And by "problem," I specifically mean "panic attacks." ...like full-blown P.T.S.D. style. This first began when the ex and I went to Australia for my post-bar examination trip, and a group of Japanese tourists descended on us without warning. We were the only ones in line waiting to board a boat to take us on a chartered tour of the Great Barrier Reef, when a throng appeared out of nowhere. Despite amble space on the platform, the group engulfed us like a flock of locusts. (...I mean, for fuck's sake... there's an ENTIRE platform!) And although I do try to be tolerant and open minded about the vastly different concept of personal space within other cultures, "claustrophobic in crowds" remains in full effect on the "Crazy Shit to Tolerate with This Chic" list.

So...The Home Depot.

There was an end of summer clearance sale on outdoor patio furniture. We had wanted to get a table set advertised, plus a few other things. We decided to divide and conquer. I was tasked with the patio furniture and the husband went to kill the other items on the list And for the record - he excels at killing tasks.

I made my way to the outdoor garden area and quickly found the bench and table we wanted, but I could not locate the four matching chairs. I paused for a moment, because I knew the rest of the day was about to get ugly. Fact #1: In DC (and the surrounding low lands), customer service is a complete oxymoron. A cashier at Costco would sooner cut you than serve you, and the Home Depot was no different. But after some diligent searching, I finally tracked down a Depot employee. "Excuse me, where would I find these chairs?" I asked while pointing to the sales flyer.

Now while we pause for the answer, let me explain Fact #2: The sales force of the Greater DC Metropolitan Area consists of three types of employees: 1) the idiot. This one's self-explanatory: clueless, incompetent...your basic nightmare; 2) the New Yorker. The New Yorker is rude, finds you incompetent, and is thoroughly disgusted that you wasted his time asking a question to which you should have already known the answer. ...and did I mention condescending? Because he's condescending too; and 3) the starer. The starer will - in a single glance - ask, "How is this my problem?" without saying a word. She does not want you to bother her...and your question is bothering her.

I found the New Yorker. Like a seventh grader, the New Yorker rolled his eyes as if to say "duh" and responded, "It should be on the floor." ...no, it's not on the floor. Why would I ask where it was if I could plainly see it? ...oh right...because I'm clearly stupid. But I suppress my inner monologue and we walk over to confirm, that the chairs I need are clearly not on the floor. NY then states, "It must still be in seasonal." ...naturally. "Where is seasonal?" I ask in my most "I'd like to cut you, too" tone. Can you guess this? Yeah -- the front and opposite corner of the store. I dart, dash, shimmy, and contort my way through the masses of people to the seasonal section. After an additional 35 minutes stalking a seasonal sales associate -- who confirms that the chairs would definitely be in the outdoor patio furniture section -- I once again make my way across the store. At this point, my cell phone starts ringing, as the husband has already killed his said tasks and assumes the same of me. ...Au contraire mon ami...au contraire....

I arrive back at outdoor patio. I'm annoyed at this point. I find the New Yorker. He's clearly annoyed to see me, too. At that same moment the husband joins us. And since his tasks were already killed, he's also (you guessed it) annoyed. So there we were in this ridiculous circle, all fucking annoyed. ...I'd done this song and dance with a service (or lack there of) provider one too many times. And this time, I just snapped. My instinct was to have a panic attack and sit down shaking on the overly crowded floor in patio garden. But instead (much to my surprise) out of my mouth came quietly but firmly, "This needs to go away."

"Excuse me?" asked the New Yorker with the same hostility as if I just announced to Derek Jeter that I was a Red Sox fan.

"Let me say this once: I'm claustrophobic and you just sent me from one end of the store to another as though I'm Hemingway running with the bulls. I need these chairs. I don't have lots of money to buy something nice. I just bought a house. I'll be eating ramon noodles until Christmas. I want to buy these chairs and get out of this store."

"--ma'am, if the chairs aren't in seasonal --"

"MAKE IT GO AWAY! I don't think you understand the magnitude of the situation. Either get me these chairs, or I will have a full-on panic attack -- Rain-man style -- IN YOUR PATIO SECTION!"

A pause.

"Let me see what I can do."

My husband was quite stunned at the episode of lashing anger...and probably quite relieved that it wasn't directed at him for once. He looked at me for a moment, and then said, "I think you totally asperger-ed that." I cocked my head like a confused little puppy. "Did you just use 'Asperger' as a verb?"

"I think I did," he said.

"I'm so proud of you," I gushed. ...can you believe we ever got a divorce?

And yes, by the way -- bad behavior was rewarded...and I did get my chairs.

Friendly Reminder

2012-01-30T17:15:00.001-08:00

The Republican primary -- and specifically Newt Gingrich -- reminds me why I've never dated a Republican (...and why I never will...).

Ru Paul for President

2012-01-03T21:41:00.000-08:00

In honor of the Iowa Caucus, I decided to learn what the fuck a caucus is. And mainly, how it differs from a primary. ...so allow me to share my knowledge:

A primary is basically a mini-election. The polls open early and close late; we go at a convenient time and cast an anonymous ballot and democracy continues as we know it. A caucus on the other hand is a gathering of people on a specific date and appointed time -- so in other words, it's not particularly convenient to me and likely occurs at the same time as dinner - oh, excuse me, we're in Iowa -- supper. In addition, what I decide is in no way secret, as I have to raise my hand or gather with my like-minded group in the corner of the gym for all to see -- and judge me at church on Sunday as well.

This new caucus knowledge bothers me more than is reasonable (especially since I've never been to Iowa). But (despite this blog) I do like my privacy and I don't think it's anybody's business whether I vote for Herman Cain, or Ru Paul or the crazy bitch whose husband converts gay people. Why can't I just get in, get out, and then share my vote with my smaller inner-click of friends who think like me? I hate people. I hate sharing. And I hate leaving my house in the cold dark night of January. ...reason #476 I'm grateful to not live in Iowa. (...the first 400 or so reasons go along the lines of 1) people are nice; 2) they speak to each other; 3) they check on their neighbors; 4) they're helpful.... Amateurs....)

Them Apples

2011-12-26T22:34:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I have this overwhelming urge to update my Facebook status with "I'm fucking Matt Damon." ...it's just never not funny.

Tater Tot Hot Dish

2011-12-12T18:10:00.000-08:00

I have to admit, I'm a little bit of a food snob. ...I judge everything else, why the hell would I not judge food, too? To acquire the knowledge and wherewithal to become a foodie is a lot of work, especially for one from humble begins like myself. True, I grew up on a farm...but we produced subsidy crops like corn and soybeans -- not food that was actually edible. Yeah, I realize you can eat corn and soybeans, but not what we grew (which goes to a larger issue addressed in documentaries such as King Corn, Food Inc., etc. and I'm gonna defer to those and get off this train).

So coming from a farm that does not produce edible food does not help one become a gourmet. And growing up in the 1980s didn't help. As a child, I had a diet that consisted primarily of fruit roll-ups, hostess products in a variety of forms, (I was an especially big fan of the pink marshmallow covered snowballs.) and bologna on white bread...with whole milk. But of course the staple of a proper Midwestern diet is the casserole. I'm not entirely certain of the origin of the casserole, but I do know I have experienced it in almost every variety. I suppose during the Great Depression, mixing half a leftover can of tuna with noodles and cream of mushroom soup was a really swell idea, but apparently it did not occur to anyone else that due to the fact we are no longer starving, we could knock that shit off. Seriously...Knock. It. Off.

After working largely with New Englanders for some time, I was overjoyed to come home to a work-office where the majority of people hailed from the Midwest - specifically Michigan. I could throw around terms such as Vernors, Michiana, and euchre (if you don't know, it's a soft drink, a place and a card game) without explanation. I was comfortable with others who experienced tornado drills in elementary school, knew how to pronounce the word "Ypsilanti," could show where they grew up on their right hand, and really didn't see the big deal if you were given Canadian coins as change.

One of the upstanding humans I met on the job hailed from Flint. My friend Erik and I didn't have a lot of common ground when we first met. He went to Michigan; I cheer for the Irish. He believes in pleated pants. I clearly do not (that one actually ended in violence...which was my own fault...I should have known better than to mess with someone from Flint). But where we did reach a quorum was with the casserole discussion. After major holidays, we would come back to work armed with horror stories from family dinners. ...I believe the discussion specifically began with the statement, "Who's the fucktard that decided to add marshmallows to jello?" (which stems from the more obvious question, "who's the asshole that invented jello?") and from there took on a life of its own. This spiraled into a conspiracy of hijacking our next pot luck party so as to serve only casseroles. There were multiple discussions regarding what dishes would be supplied. What casserole was the best? The worst? The most common? The nastiest?

Erik's favorite was Tater Tot Hot Dish. Tater Tot Hot Dish consists of ground beef, cream of mushroom soup, cream of celery soup (who knew they made that?), french onions and, of course, tater tots. And I believe this was followed closely by Taco Pie -- which is Pillsbury crescent rolls smoothed into a pie crust and filled with ground beef, shredded cheddar, and crumbled nacho chips. ...so, OK, those are not too bad. Naturally I had to kick it up a notch...or twelve. I threatened to serve not only a main dish, but a dessert. The main dish was a treat (and by "treat" I mean "crap") that my grandmother (from Toledo) served us as children. It was called Hollywood Chicken and was neither from Hollywood nor made from chicken. It consisted of ground beef (do you notice a theme?), layered with a can of condensed chicken noodle soup and finally topped with crumbled potato chips. It tasted like salt...which is fine if you're a deer. My follow up and piece de resistance was the Coca Cola Salad. (...yeah, I realize that entire phrase is an oxymoron). Coca Cola Salad is some type of red jello prepared with coke instead of water. But wait! You then add walnuts (which suck) and shredded coconut and congeal. (...and vomit.)

We never did sabotage the office pot luck, but the exercise of bitching about the food messes to which we were subjected as children was definitely a bonding experience. In fact, I still affectionately refer to Erik as my work-husband. The road from Hollywood Chicken to snottie girl insisting on Oregon pinots had been a long one. But as we come to the end of another year and reflect (...and think about our inevitable demise according to the Mayan calendar) it's nice to look back at how far we've come: (...and to judge others. That's fun too.) Erik and his beautiful wife are both excellent chefs. And I'm not so bad; I certainly know my way around a wine cellar. So hopefully...hopefully...the next generation will never be subjected to Hollywood Chicken...or iceberg lettuce.

Disclaimer

2011-12-11T17:51:00.000-08:00

A blog is a work of fiction - as is this one. It is not a journal, it is not truth. It is loosely based on fact, and the characters represented are not real people or events. It is not an attempt to mock or humiliate anyone -- friends, enemies, exes or otherwise.

As with creative types, sometimes statements may be overly dramatic. But they are never meant to be hurtful. Just the wretchful expression of a girl who desperately needs an outlet from time to time....

Pushing Karma

2011-11-16T21:30:00.000-08:00

If you want something you've never had, you've got to do something you've never done. ...how about if I don't want to be an after-thought to the opposite sex? How would that look? How about like this:

I met a boy at a bar (of course I did), and allow me to cut to the chase: we had several dates, said things, did things, revealed things that let me to believe he would be a semi-permanent fixture -- OK, fine. I slept with him...and he disappeared. ...Not a word....crickets. Until Sunday...exactly one month later (one. entire. month.), when he texts me out of the blue like nothing happened. ...like we saw each other yesterday. And feel free to call me naive, but I did not think humans behaved in this manner beyond the age of 22. But once again, San Diego has proven me dead wrong. In the land of eternal summer, men -- like the seasons -- don't seem to evolve, and 36 is the new 23. ...or 14 in this case.

I predicted this would happen. Maybe it was an observation or something the man-child had said in passing, but even after his lapse and my rants and tears, I had the distinct feeling that he would contact me again. And I predicted that I would not respond - which is usually fine. ...Lotta frogs out there, par for the course.... Except in this case, I really did like the boy -- and as stated earlier, I was semi-invested in more than a three date minimum relationship. So not only was I was hurt one month ago when he didn't call, but the hurt resurfaced like a freshly opened wound at his reemergence. I bitched to a couple friends who gave me the standard, "what an ass." But truth was, I felt victimized. I hate that word, and I definitely hate that feeling. I felt powerless -- sure, I'm not responding and cutting off the arm...but I've cut off the arm... and that wound does not easily heal.

I saw my friend Aimee later that day, and told her about man-child. After she rolled her eyes, she said, "You should have him meet you out and stand him up."

...huh.

I had never thought of that before. That's pretty goddamn brilliant. What would happen if I did that? I'm a nice girl, I don't really do things like that. Is that behavior morally justifiable? ...just the thought of it felt empowering. And in that moment, I realized that I don't have to take crap lying down. We teach children "do onto others" -- why not man-child? So I sent him a text...like not a goddamn thing was wrong. After some back and forth, we decided to meet up last night. (He lives about 20 miles north of the city, so I made sure to pick a location downtown. Where parking is especially difficult.)

We were supposed to meet at 7pm. About 7:15, I get a "hey, where are you?" text. At 7:30, I get a "did I get the time wrong?" That was followed by a nastygram. And finally, silence. This morning, I sent him the following: "Know for the next woman you date, you should call the day after you have sex. And you should also open the car door." ...jackass.

I don't know if I would call this vengeance. Or even karma. I prefer to look at it as a teaching tool. After all, training works with dogs...but then again, I know my dog is a lot smarter than this guy.

Obviously

2011-10-15T10:31:00.000-07:00

My work computer broke while making a presentation yesterday. It literally snaped in half -- the screen of my laptop detaching from the keyboard. Luckily my competitor was there to see the incident, and he took advantage of the opportunity to show off his shiny, silvery new mac notebook and question my company's profitability, as it seemed they could not supply their employees with working laptops.

...what a stupid thing to say to a woman with mafia connections...

Boob Job and a Lobotomy

2011-10-13T22:41:00.000-07:00

I think a boob job and lobotomy would improve my dating life ten-fold.

I've always considered myself liberal, but I'll grant you -- there are some very traditional and very sexist beliefs that I hold close to the chest. Maybe I've read The Rules one too many times, but most of this is common curtesy:

1) Open the fucking door. If you are a man, open the door. Open the car door, open the front door, step aside and open the door to the restaurant and allow me to enter first. This is not only polite, but where I come from expected.

I've heard the excuse that feminists today will turn around and mouth "I can do it myself!" and this will intimidate the male species and hence no more door opening. Boys, if this happens to you, please stop dating her. She has something to prove and you will not be able to fill that void. (How do I know? I used to be her.)

2) If you ask a girl out, you pay. This is not only chivalrous, but also practical. Women still make 75 cents on the dollar and are unable to contribute to their 401k when they take time off during their childbearing years, so seriously -- suck it up and buy me a burger. Of course, I'll politely offer to pay, and of course you should decline my offer and insist. This is called the dance. Learn it.

A friend (who is not dating as far as I can tell) protested this truth when explained to him and asked, "well what if she orders the most expensive thing off the menu? What if she keeps ordering expensive shit?" ...well then, don't ask her out again, rocket scientist. Why you datin' a gold digger anyways?

3) If we have a nice time...call the next day. Yeah, really. I don't think you're cooler if you wait a week. It makes me feel like an after-thought or Plan B. And I will not be returning your phone call when you make me feel like second place.

4) If you're intimidated by the fact that I'm smart, athletic, hilarious...whatever...then don't ask me out. I understand the veiled comments that run along the lines of "Oh, don't you know how to do...blah?" or "You've never...blah? I can't believe you've never done that." Or this is my favorite -- when I mention an accomplishment and you start to compete with me. "Yeah? -- well I did ...blah blah blah." You're trying to cut me down to make yourself feel better. But here's the thing about smart women-- when you cut me, I don't want to make you feel better about yourself. ...I want to go home.

Don't get me wrong. There's not a day that doesn't pass where I don't realize how lucky I am. I'm intelligent, accomplished, funny and I have a great ass. I'm not perfect. (I never prayed as a little girl, "Dear God, please make me flat-chested and nearsighted.") But seriously, do I really have to deal with THIS. ...I'm never going to win dating at this rate.

XXX

2011-10-08T18:30:00.000-07:00

My ex-husband's 89 year old grandmother unfriended me on Facebook.

Go Cubs!

2011-09-26T22:53:00.000-07:00

As the Chicago Cubs are finally in town to play the Padres, I thought I would share a piece of Americana. ...again, it speaks for itself.

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

All's Quiet on the Western Front

2011-09-15T13:56:00.000-07:00

I think I'm depressed. Despite all the sunshine, and ocean, and palm trees, my head is not in a good space. It's static...and that has started to become more problematic. I think the cobwebs started developing when I stopped exercising regularly. I caught bronchitis at the end of July. Then I went to DC -- in August. The month everyone else runs screaming from the swampy, stagnet heat, I returned to finalize my divorce. And Murphy and his fucking law bitch-slapped me that very day.

About an hour after finalizing my divorce (which was very humiliating, BTW. ...nothing like stating for the record, "Yes your honor, it is correct that I failed at my marriage." For an over-achiever, publically stating you failed at anything is a worst nightmare.), my officially-ex-husband called to let me know that my sweet little coonhound, Kiera, had a tumor wrapped around her heart. It was pushing up against her lungs and making it difficult for her to breathe. ...the whole little world I had built for myself crumbled down in that one moment. The last thing that tied me to DC, to my ex, to the adult life I had carefully and strategically built for myself ...was shot between the eyes at point-blank range. And I had pulled the trigger -- for the divorce part. Not the dog part. ...but the dog part screamed at me, "You want out?! I'll take you out!"

So the day of my divorce, I sat with my dying dog, in my former home, with my ex-husband, on the couch I bought during law school. The symbolism was lost on no one. It was comfortable, familiar, and very fucking weird all at the same time. I flew home to San Diego the next day, and once my girlfriend had deposited me at my house (after removing the vodka, razor blades and copy of Marley and Me) I sat on my floor and cried. Uncontrollably. The kind of crying where you're hot and your head hurts because it is such a physically draining process. And then I began bargaining with God. To bargain with the universe is a very humbling experience. It was the process of throwing away all of my power -- all of my fictional power -- with both hands and screaming, "Please!" Please save my dog. Because if she could just hang on and be OK...maybe so could I.

If you have never had a dog, I know you think I'm way over the top. But if you have had a dog, you understand that there is no other kind of unconditional love in the world. My dog was there when I learned my mother had stage 4 cancer. She was with me when I was sick....when I fucked up and felt ashamed. When I could not face another day, my dog would jump up next to me and give me a look that read, "I know." And she would stay. When no one else on the planet could possibly understand the pain, grief, lonelinesss -- fill in the blank here -- she did. And she physically stayed by my side. Despite the fact that I now live 3,000 miles away, I could not bear the idea of having that unconditional love disappear from this world.

Here is the good news: Kiera is going to be ok. Yes, bargaining with the universe worked. (I'm not sure what I owe...minor detail there....) Four days later a CT scan showed that the tumor was on her lung and not her heart. This meant that the tumor was operable. They cut it out...and it wasn't even cancer. It was benign. So she's going to (knock on wood) be fine. ...I wish I could say the same for me.

Here is the bad news: I'm still not ok. Yes, I'm thrilled that the doctors saved my baby's life, but I can't shake my funk. I'm not taking care of myself. I'm not exercising. I'm making bad decisions. My judgement is clouded. I'm indecisive. I've not been investing in me...the last six weeks has consisted of phoning it in. ...And I like the slightly neurotic part of my brain that keeps me on task. It keeps me energized and accomplishing -- and I have no idea where it has gone. But right now I am at a loss for direction or motivation.

It seems pretty ridiculous that I can't just look around and enjoy the moment. I have built a great life for myself -- I live in the perfect climate, in a home I own and love. I have a job I love. I have wonderful friends and a beach at my beckon call. But the new life that I have built is lonely. It's husband free. It's dog free. It's even roommate free. Don't get me wrong -- I do hate people and I am annoyed by their stupidity...and messes...and I so appreciate having the toliet seat down.... But what I've started to figure out, is that in this lifetime we have the choice of being lonely or annoyed.

And I guess I pick annoyed.

"Whoa! Watch out!" Says That Girl -- I mean, that bird

2011-08-28T22:38:00.000-07:00

As I reflect on my summer, I realize how little I did. Yeah, yeah-- I ran a few races, got a divorce, turned a year older... But honestly, it's nothing that I feel very "wow" about. The "wowest" couple of things that happened recently were not related to me at all. One - and if you've been dead for the past couple of months this might be news to you - is the honey badger video. ...god, I love this thing! I continue to watch the honey badger in times of great distress, anxiety or boredom (which is approximately six times a day). And it continues to provide me with more comfort than is reasonable for a woman of my age or education.

At first, I thought the honey badger video was ridiculous -- but then I found myself watching it over and over. ...and it grew on me. Soon, I was quoting the video. When a lady in a crazy-hurry almost ran me over with her luggage while chugging through the airport, rather than using plain English, I shouted (...granted, somewhat passive aggressively), "Whoa! Watch out! says that bird." (...she didn't get it.) And now I'm using honey badger jargon daily. Example: "yeah, I'm really kinda honey badger about the situation." Translation: I really don't give a shit. (Sounds more lady-like than swearing, right?)

The other thing I did this summer was memorize the soundtrack to Wicked (which has annoyed the hell out of my neighbors). Yeah... I channeled my inner Gleek like never before. Now - again- if you've been dead, Wicked is the story of The Wizard of Oz as told by the Wicked Witch of the West. I saw the show last month and it's rocked my world. I've found it very relatible. Good girl is very misunderstood. While trying to do the right thing, she realizes the government is corrupt and takes off on her own...towards the Western sky. ...um, yeah...I feel that.

And so my endless summer days have consisted of toggeling between the Wicked soundtrack and the honey badger video. ...did I just write that? ("Did that really just happen?") ...Damn, I need to get a life.