Hello, No One!

It's been a while since my last post, so nobody even checks for new ones anymore and that sucks but it's my own fault. Unfortunately, I've been too busy (read: cool) to write since the spring. Here's why...

So my brother and his kids and my sister and my best friend from college all live in San Diego, where I would visit every other weekend for about a year or so. My poor car, Black Betty, finally pulled me aside one day and said, "Listen, bitch! I'm tired of this commute! I can't take it any more." I didn't really know what to say, because she knew that I knew that she knew that I was thinking it too. So there you have it; Black Betty convinced me to move us to San Diego.

And after six years in the City of Angels, six weeks of corporate housing and two weeks of homeless squatting, I now call my self a real Whale's Vaginian. I've transferred my job, my crazy car and my life to America's finest city and reside in its gayest section.

I decided on Hillcrest because I thought that it would be a safe neighborhood. No overly-aggressive men would attack me in this trendy, crest-of-the-hill area. In my pretend mind they all skip around to and fro and simply pity me for not being them (the latter is real). Plus, it has cool restaurants I can ride my bike, Wilma, to and stuff.

Anyway, I was at Rite Aid late the other night. A homeless guy about my age was sitting at the entrance looking all disgruntled. I noticed a pack of gay guys in the parking lot about halfway to the street. It occurred to me at that moment that, while true a gay attacker was unlikely, no gay man would ever RESCUE me either! They'd probably run flailing and screaming in the other direction and straight into the safety of Urban Mo's.

Oh well.

I walked in to Rite Aid and the bum actually kind of smiled at me.

I think my decision to move here was smart for the reason I cooked up above, but I am never going to meet a cute straight single guy here! What are the odds of that? There exists one and he's my roommate. Anyway, it helps me stay focused on my schoolwork -- oh yah, I started grad school part-time, too. Anyone good at financial accounting...? I didn't think so.

Nice post, captain no-post-since-March. Sorry about that. My bad. I thought I'd drop a quick "waddup" to see if anyone actually even gives a shit. Holla back if you do I guess. At least now you'll know why when you see me dating a bum...

Aphrindesiac

Dan Brown wrote two books about his protagonist, Robert Langdon, Angels and Demons and The Da Vinci Code. Robert Langdon is a Harvard professor who studies religious symbolism and goes on all these exciting adventures that take him through churches and museums and libraries. It sounds dull, but I assure you, it is not. I enjoyed many things about good 'ol Dan's books but one thing that stood out was how many times I got to read and ponder the word "docent."

A docent is actually "a person who leads guided tours especially through a museum or art gallery." The word docent rolls off the tongue and does graceful somersaults and breezy trapeze flips around inside my stuffy, bored head. In my pretend mind it means, "a decent person who dotes on me." Ahh, pleasant, decent, doting docent. I need to get me one. (What, did you think this blog would be about religious symbolism? Pish, please. Although I would like to know who the hell read those books and thought, "yes, Tom Hanks as Robert Langdon, yes!" Are you daft? Absolutely no part of Tom Hanks symbolizes Robert Langdon to me. But, I haven't seen the movie yet, so who knows. He was great in Big.)

Anyway, speaking of made-up words, (a horrifying segue, I know. Whatever, I'm sick) in the mid-to-late nineties we used a superlative, a slang word, if you will, to describe the ultimate whatever-it-was of the moment. You may know it if you were, like me, the bomb diggity back then.

When we dropped "bomb diggity" on the regular, things that would qualify as such to me were ecstasy pills, DJ Dan and Jnco jeans, to name a few. In ten short years, my list is different. Thank god. My bomb diggity list is always fresh, always evolving, always keeeping a finger on the pulse of what's happening. In fact, today, my friends, I have discovered something new to put on my list. That's right. I have an announcement. Move over ecstasy, you've been replaced by... Afrin.

Yep, Afrin nasal spray, now apparently in no-drip formula, is my new bomb dig* shit. (As are, to continue the parallelism of the list above, Lilly Allen and skinny jeans, incidentally.) My recent problems -- those of the respiratory nature -- have left me in near-agony the past two weeks. I've been blowing my stubborn, congested nose without relent. Beware all tissues, toilet paper rolls, napkins, paper towels and newspapers -- hide your young! I've been sleeping on a pile of pillows to keep my head propped up at night. And the sneezing... Well, today I finally conceded and went to the doctor, who prescribed an OTC wonder! Two sniffs on each side immediately sprung open the gates to sweet oxygen heaven. Eureka! I actually floated a little. Afrin has brought me ecstasy in a way that actual ecstasy once did. I should have picked up some glow sticks at Walgreens while I was there.

Hooray! Now everyone at work will think I was faking it the last two weeks. But I shall preach the intoxicating joy of Afrin to my coworkers so that they, too, can be soothed. Because it's likely that I'm still contagious and they will now catch what I had.


*Bomb dig is an abbreviation for bomb diggity -- used by those with so much bomb dig shit in his or her life that it would take forever to say out bomb diggity every time and thus abbreviated.

The Little Dipper

After an unsuccessful search and careful consideration, I decided it would be a bit uncouth to call the front desk to ask if anyone had turned in my missing bikini top from the pool area...

Oh well, charge it to the game, I guess.

Fag-u-lous!

I love gay men.

Unfortunately, they don't love me back. Well, not in that way... Not that I really want them to, actually. But what's a single girl to do when the perfect man is usually just a sexual preference away. It's not fair!

I definitely don't have gay-dar. My sophomore year roommate was a body-hair-having, Indigo-Girls-worshiping, RAINBOW-BELT-WEARING lesbian. I traveled all around Europe for a semester and even had a joke about "spooning" with another girl -- both rugby teammates of mine, no less. I had no clue until months later on both accounts! (Btw, should I be offended that I never got hit on?)

However, I do have fabulous-dar. I can find fabulous from five miles away, lady. And where's there's fabulous, there's usually gay men.* That's why gay men and I are instant cohorts. I guess I am boldly including myself in the fabulous category here, but I'm low-woman on the totem pole fo sho'. Maybe it's because there's no sexual tension, so it's safe to do and say and drink and eat whatever the fuck I want without being judged as a potential mother of future children, which is good because I probably score low in the "nurture" category these days.

What can I say? I love a good party. So do my gays. We laugh and call each other "lady" and they call me "mister." When I complain that keeping an all-gay-man audience derails my potential for marital bliss, they make snide remarks about my vagina and tell me I need to broaden my horizons and consider dating trannies. And then we fall out laughing and act obscene.

Gay men -- especially in L.A. -- don't give a shit about your trite hangups. They are accepting, caring and FUNNY, lady! They are always full of life. They're like Italians; they dress better, eat better, decorate better and drink more than me. Damn them!

I want to be a gay Italian man when I grow up.

*Please note, I do not mean to insinuate that gay women are not fabulous. I watch the L Word; I know they are.

That's a Wrap 2006

As we're 1/12 of the way into 2007, I thought I'd give a quick follow-up on a few things since my posts in 2006. Please note: this may or may not be funnier if you go back and read my previous posts if you have not already. Chronologically from the first post:

Obrigado: Marcio and I talked on the phone a few times. He's very sweet and eager, but in the end I threw him back.

Hollah!: My dance instructor came up to me while I was eating at the gym's restaurant and commented that my thumbs were smoking from sending text messages -- just like his 25 year old daughter's do... He's my dad's age.

Be You: I am still awkward around men. This week I saw the man of my dreams sitting at the table next to mine. I couldn't stop looking at him. I finally worked up some nerve, wrote my phone number on the back of a receipt and left it on the bench when I left. Unfortunately, the receipt folded itself in half so the writing was hidden. He didn't even see it. My friends told me I'm passive-agressive.

I heart iTunes: I went to see Justin Timberlake in concert a few weeks ago and it's confirmed. He's f'n sexy. Just as I was about to melt into my seat, Timbaland took like 20 minutes of the show to do a self-tribute. It sucked. Timbaland is the Scientology of hip hop. JT's high-pitched singing annoys me sometimes but he is a sexy bitch all the same.

Go Dog, Go!: I still am all over the place. Last week, I flew from LA to Seattle to Orlando to San Diego.

9/11: My family is struggling with the idea of Bush's "surge" plan because it means my brother will likely be sent to Iraq again, this time leaving behind his young new family. We continue to support the troops.

Flexitarian: I am still revolted by the idea of chicken and eggs. I had to have the last hotel switch all my down pillows. Thank goodness I live in California, where people are proud to be particular about what they eat. Most of the rest of the country thinks I am absurd.

Boris the Filthasaurus: We think Boris is dead. = ( A neighbor left us a note that she was going to take him in at night. We haven't seen him -- even around the neighborhood -- since. RIP, Boris, we miss you.

Just Breathe: I still smoke occasionally. Now it's mostly when I'm pretty drunk. I'm likely to make friends later in the evening with unsuspecting folks toting a pack. It's getting better, though. I rock the lozenges.

Kick It: My work study boss from college got a last-minute deal on a weekend trip to LA the same weekend of my company's holiday party. So, once again, I went with a woman. And this time, it was a 45 year old one. We had a blast. I've received some interesting feedback on my "requirements." One of my ex's told me he had four strikes in the first six requirements. I also received an email from a guy who did a line-by-line tally and came out 24/26. Not bad.

Take Five: I was promoted in January and now have my own, brand new office in a building right down the street from my house. It takes me seven minutes to get to work. Totally sweet.

You Go, Gore: I got a great deal on the lightbulbs, but left them in my friend's car, so they're not yet installed.

Boyz II Men: I was in Orlando last week on business. I don't often travel for business, so I am seldom alone with nothing to entertain me but my cell phone. I had cause for celebration because it was my nephew's first birthday, so I swan-dove into the mini bar and had a party for "one." Watching the Disney World fireworks from my balcony, I was elated. So, despite my recent soap-box rant about communication etiquette, I proceeded to drunk dial and text EVERYONE in my phone. My "outbox" has been renamed, "cringe!" My publicist has released the following: "My client apologizes for her blatant hypocrisy and retracts her earlier statements; you all may now soberly and/or drunkenly text her whenever you want. No further comment."

Here's to a safe, ridiculous 2007!

Boyz II Men

Last year, my two best friends and I dressed up as football referees for Halloween.

We had the little black and white striped tops, mini skirts, whistles, yellow flags and hats. We even learned the signals so we could call, "Offsides," "Illegal Use of Hands," and "Too Many Men on the Field."

We walked into the party and proceeded to chat in our close circle when a man approached, skipping. He was also in costume: a blonde, pony-tailed wig (I think it may have been on backwards, actually) and blue polyester cheerleader costume, complete with pleated skirt and hairy man naval-exposing halter top. He had huge biceps for a cheerleader, I remember. He effortlessly "broke the huddle" by saying, in a woman's voice, "Guys are such dicks!"

Ha! It was the best one-liner ever. We laughed for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes after. Nobody else stood a chance that night.

It's funny because it's true.

What is with guys these days? Even guys-dressed-as-girls notice it! Are we all just more insecure than ever? I blame the tabloids. They broadcast every teeny, potentially embarassing moment all over their covers as if it were the most mortifying thing on earth. They rip their subjects to shreds at any and every sign of weakness. And, these rags sell like hot cakes. We salivate and consume every juicy rumor. Why? Does it make us feel better about ourselves?

The answer is no. It doesn't just suck for the poor (and by that I mean rich), anorexic, drunken, drug-riddled celebrities who get stalked round-the-clock. I think it also has serious social repercussions (and by that I mean it affects me negatively). I think men and women alike are afraid that if we take a risk and show someone else we think he or she is impressive, we will exude some strange hint of weakness and immediately expose ourselves to front-cover rejection and mocking.

Why else has the old-fashioned phone call gone out of vogue? Even if you do manage to get to know someone well enough to swap digits, it's almost certain that a text message or email is in your future. I.T. folks call it PEBKAC -- Problem Exists Between Keyboard and Chair.

It's understandable; a text message is a small, safe morsel of sentiment. Gone are the days of charming over-the-air banter and gazing into each others' eyes over a steamy cup of coffee or god-forbid dinner and a movie.

Text messaging is cute. Emailing is a good way to indicate, "Hey, I was thinking of you." But, dammit, is it too much to ask for the call -- at least at first? Am I wrong to think that the text message plainly states, "By the way, I'm not that into you"? Am I an old fuddy-duddy? Do I need to progress with technology? Probably.

But it's so much easier to point the finger! It's them; it's him! Me? Leave my comfort zone? Am I ready for that? It's so... uncomfortable. What if I end up on the front cover of the South Bay Times, dumped? But, I guess if I ask someone else to be uncomfortable, I need to be willing to reciprocate... a little. Here goes: I will try not to rip on those who choose to text instead of call -- to their faces or to my friends. I will try to be sympathetic and perhaps even hip to my times and get with the program. However, talking on the phone, no matter how awkward, is my "method of choice." How was that?

"Call me! On the line. Call me, call me any, any time. Call me! On the line. You can call me any day or night. Call me!"
-- Blondie



PS I wish I could say I wrote this in the ninth grade.

You go, Gore!

Betty, if you call me, you can call me Al...

I watched the Al Gore episode of Oprah last week. Remember him?

It seems he's been busy since the robbery "in the year 2000." He talked all about global warming and showed stats and pictures of different glaciers just twenty years ago and today. It's pretty undeniable -- they are melting. It's scary.

I haven't seen An Inconvenient Truth yet (I wait until movies come out on cable), but even just the Oprah show has gotten me to rethink a few things. The executive summary is that we all need work together to reduce our emission of carbon dioxide or the glaciers will melt and we (not to mention our kids) will be fucked. It's happening now.

Here are the five suggestions he offers to help slow/reverse the damage:

1. Get those green light bulbs! Changing five of your regular bulbs to these things is like taking 100,000 cars off the road in one year, according to Al. They cost like five bucks each. Give them as gifts this holiday. How easy!

2. Household water heaters emit lots of CO2 -- who knew? Get a blanket insulator thing to wrap around it. Gore went to Lowe's. I recommend your local helpful hardware store, Ace Hardware. Mother Earth and I will be happy either way.

3. Solar powered outdoor lights -- they charge up during the day and emit no carbon dioxide at all.

4. Programmable thermostats set to 70 degrees.

5. Energy efficient appliances -- Energy Star, people.

For the holidays, I am wrapping my gifts in newspaper and reused gift bags. Why buy yet another roll of wrapping paper that will sit in a landfill? Check your inbox because I'm sending emails instead of using paper to mail my holiday greetings. We have a dishwasher -- no expensive, wasteful disposables! It's just lazy, really.

Also, no more bags when I go shopping. I'll bring my own from now on. Is it really that difficult to think ahead? I say no. Also, we will be recycling our tree to make mulch and I'm reconsidering paper towels all together.

Here are my Earth-friendly New Year's resolutions for 2007:

My poor car is about to shit the bed; the next one will be a hybrid. I will drive triumphantly alone in the carpool lane (eh, I'll take any excuse to celebrate my solitude), slowing only to high-five Leonardo DiCaprio as we efficiently pass, knowing. He will likely develop a crush on me. "How can someone so hot emit so few CO2 toxins?"

I am going to get on my company's case about recycling. I bought the department special bins, but everyone still mixes regular trash with the white paper. It drives me crazy! It ends in January. "Are you going to recycle that?"

I will switch my entire apartment over to those cool lightbulbs.

No more disposable utensils and plastic bags -- I'll bring my lunch in tupperware and a lunch box and eat with a metal fork like the grown-ups do.

You know, I almost forgot what I hippie I once was. Thank you, thank you, Mr. Vice President for the reminder! I am intrigued by your theory and wish to subscribe to your newsletter...

And you, dear reader, I hope you consider doing something -- anything -- differently. Even if you don't believe in "global warming," it couldn't hurt to reduce, reuse, recycle. Plant a tree. Say no to styrofoam. Walk somewhere instead of driving once in a while. You know your worst offenses. Get off your ass and quit being so selfish! It's only going to get worse unless we all act now.

Pass it along.