Late One Night

"What are you doing?" he whispered into the phone as she staggered into her apartment.

"I just got home," she answered, intrigued by the faintest of Spanish accents on the other end of the line.

"It's nearly midnight," he murmured.

"It is."

"Come over."

She laughed. "Why?"

"I just got a copy of The Exorcism of Emily Rose."

"Ooh, scary."

"I know..."

She arrived wearing a purple turtleneck and glasses. He liked the librarian look.

Of course, the tv was set up in his bedroom. Half-reluctant, she crawled into the bed, ignoring thoughts of the absentee Engineer while her host put on the movie. It was a bad copy of the film, clearly stolen before final edits. Nonetheless, she found it enjoyable.

Her host respectfully behaved. Until it was time to leave.

"Don't go."

"I have to." She opened the door.

"Okay, hold on." He grabbed her and kissed her gently. She pulled away. He moved closer. She relented.


P-N-R Theater for Kids

I posed the same question regarding personality archetypes to my niece G-brat, who is 4 1/2 years old, and my nephew C-note, who is 3 years old.

The G-brat without hesitation decided she is a robot. And then immediately started doing The Robot. She's four. Where did she pick THAT up? It's fucking awesome.

C-note, after a recent viewing of Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest and being the my nephew after all, has decided he is a pirate. Like his auntie. With whom he shares a birthday. And an affinity for playing with swords. Also very fucking awesome.

They're too damn smart and hysterical for their own good these days, kids. Gotta love 'em.


Overheard at Gingergrass

Mom: I read somewhere that several millenia ago, the Druids came to the Americas and taught the indigenous people about the earth. And that's why you have all these early civilizations that have similar beliefs about reverence for Mother Earth and whatnot.

GPG: What the hell?

Dad: Yeah, and the Egyptians were aliens. That's how they retained their power.

GPG: And enchanted the Romans?

Dad: They were probably aliens, too.

My parents, my aliens.


Dear John Letters #5

(I'm not the only one annoyed with the world these days. Avatar's got herself some irritation at Overworked & Underf*cked. Note, though that particular post is pretty PG-rated, the rest of the content is NSFW. Be warned.)

I'm much less cranky than I was this morning. Instead of going on a
San Matias-flavored bender, I opted to play online poker for the first time ever. I doubled my money but then remembered it was a fake $2300. So here you go:

Dear Toilet Paper Ad Execs:

We get it! Marketing toilet paper requires walking that fine line between crude bathroom humor and prissy references to body parts only diaper commercials are allowed to show. But why for the love of god are we forced to endure the obvious allusion to that famous retort about bears in the woods? You're not clever. The cartoons are creepy. Anthropomorphizing bears only leads to
this stupidity. Bring back the 80s commercials of kids stuffing their pants full of Charmin so when they fell on their asses it didn't hurt. That was cute. And completely inoffensive.

And don't even get me started on those weirdo winged handymen pretending to oui-oui in those Angel Soft commercials. Ick.


Dear "Beauty" Product Companies:

"Limited edition" products are absolutely senseless. Like these deodorants you're trying to promote as a celebration of the 50-year fight against smelly armpits. They're only available until the end of October, so why bother? Though this is not unusual. Because you beauty companies are notorious for putting out products that we fall in love with and then suddenly yank off shelves, never to be found again. And then we women drive ourselves crazier than shit house rats trying to find an exact match in some other product line. But we never do. That perfect shade of red lipstick that Clinique put out in the mid-90s? Gone forever. Because you are cruel, heartless, faceless corporations more concerned with your bottom line than making us look pretty!

Lets just hope Revlon grows some brains and decides to buck the trend by keeping it's "Raisin" ColorStay lipcolor around till I die. Because an unhappy GPG is not a customer with which you'll want to deal.


Dear Phone Company Nitwits:

Simply put, this overlay bullshit sucks. I wanted to order a pizza the other day, from a place a mere 2 miles, in the same area code. But because of your ridiculous new dialing procedure requiring me to dial my own fucking area code for this simple transaction, it took 3 tries before I got it right. Why is it I have to dial a 1 from the landline, but not my cellphone?

Remember when the operator actually admonished you for adding the extra digits when dialing within the same area code? Those days are long gone, my friends. Because there are too many fuckers in the 310, clogging up the streets and our phone lines.

You're just a bunch of morons. The
909/951 split illustrates that quite nicely.


Dear iTunes,

Why you have suddenly decided that I cannot legally download music is beyond me. Didn't you get the memo? PCs and Macs are playing nice now, so you can quit crashing everytime I try to access the Music Store. I still have $23 in free downloads, which you're holding ransom by refusing my connection.

Better yet, why doesn't Apple make the Music Store a stand-alone portal, so I don't have to dick around with you? Probably the same reason it packages that weird little doo-dad with its iPods without any explanation. Because you're a bunch of elitist geeks who couldn't get laid in college, so you had to resort to frustrating the rest of us in the here and now. Yes, blue balls suck. But don't take your revenge out on me.

Pansy assholes.

Why Mondays Suck

Accomplishments this morning, thus far:

- using Angel reruns to get finally get to sleep at 2 am
- allowing the sun to win and wake me up at 7:30 am
- answering the phone at 8 am sounding fully awake, despite the fact that I wasn't
- ruining my breakfast
- being rejected by a company I interviewed with three times last week

All in that order and before 10 am.

I'm tired, cranky, and not in the mood to undertake the cleaning project required by having visitors this weekend. I'm not feeling social.

But at least the History Channel is airing a documentary on Alexander the Great, who I dreamt was my running buddy the other night. We were jogging along the Silk Road and the arrogant bastard was quizzing me on his conquests.

Greek manservant will be less cocky, but no less commanding.

Dear John Letters up later if I don't find some happy.


Training Week #21

There are only 7 weeks left until Race Day. And I think I may have finally gotten over the hurty-hump.

There have been many, many hurdles. Like the weirdo leg pain that's been a constant burden since mid-June, making it difficult to drive, walk, and even
sleep. I went through 2 different pairs of shoes to try to correct the problem, invested in custom orthotics, saw countless medical professionals to determine the right course of recovery, and gave my body over to a sadist of a massage therapist who beat the shit out of me on Tuesday.

Finally, someone suggested wrapping my leg while running. Two months of trying to figure this out and then the simplest of remedies becomes my life-saver. I ran 4 miles on Friday night, and then went out drinking. I woke up with a headache the next morning, but none of the leg hell I was expecting. I almost thought I'd had a transplant.

Today I did 9 miles--slowly--and all wrapped up like a mummy. Then hit a bottle of
Cytomax like it was tequila-flavored Gatorade.

And I feel fucking fantastic. It's been a very, very, VERY long time since I was able to say that sans the assistance of something alcoholic. Now I'm thinking I'll actually be able to handle my event like a pro.

I just have to
raise another $1,000. But that's a worry for another day. Today I get to enjoy my small triumph over the aches and pains.

It's also my favorite whisky-lovin' blogger's 35th birthday. Go on over and wish our Jack a good one. He deserves it.


Recipe for Disaster

Here's a combination I do not recommend:

1 adorable Foreigner
3 glasses of Pinot Grigio
1 plate of Bó Saté (it's Vietnamese food)
1 very long and enjoyable conversation consisting of 10 years worth of catching up

Mixed vigorously with:

1 Starbucks green tea latte
1 bitch session with Hollywood about the possibility of moving to Pasadena
1 short ride home accompanied by The Killers cd

Chased with:

60 minutes of email catch-up
a sprinkle of blog reading
10 minutes of fantasizing about the aforementioned Foreigner, interrupted by the dreaded prospect of moving inland

Will give you a bad headache. I'm queasy.

Donate to the anti-sickness cause here. Or the terrorists will win.

More Charity

Check out this story about the 29-year-old virgin. She needs a man. Desperately. I have some male readers, some of whom are actually quite attractive and engaging. Maybe one of you will be the lucky cherry poppin' daddy.

Sorry, that was gross. But if blondes are your thing, go throw your hat (and cock) in the ring.

I can't imagine what 29 years without sex is like. I don't recommend any of you doing it either. In fact, lets all celebrate our non-celibacy by having as much sex as is humanly possible today. Maybe the wonderful folks over at
Pererro can name this International Makin' Hot Whoopee Day or something.

Back to my personal needs and desires for
a better world: thanks to everyone who donated yesterday. I'm up another $200! Which means I'm almost halfway to minimum and more than a third of the way to goal.

But there's still a ways to go. Every little bit counts. I mean it. Even $10.



Be a Good Boy (or Girl)

I'm cranky. Usually, you'd get a slew of Dear John Letters (and they're coming!), but after today's leg therapy torture (like I told Jack, think bikini wax + root canal - novacaine + angry donkey kicking you in the ass and you have an idea...I should just cut my fucking leg off), I'm too worn out.

Instead, lets opt for increasing our good karma.

Our own lovely Dr. Danger (aka Sandra of
Over Here) is up for the prestigious Young Blogger of the Year Award, given out by the equally esteemed Ill Man. You can push her to the top of the pile by voting often in the poll. She's nice. Therefore, she should win.


Then be a dear and go help me out with my fundraising
here. I only have $1250 to go before hitting the minimum. Every teensy bit counts. And you'll even get to see a picture of me. Isn't that cool?

Go be cool.

Peace, love, and rock n' roll.


Reunited and It Feel So Good

The reunion was fucking awesome. And now, for the first time in a bazillion years, I am hungover.

But the party was worth it. Moments after walking in the door, someone across the room started screaming my name. And in a scene that would repeat itself hundreds of times throughout the night, I screamed hello back, then wondered who the hell it was.

It was dark. We were outside. With mood lighting. And alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. $8 for a mixed drink. Served in a beer stein-sized cup. I had three Maker's Mark with diet cokes. Which, given the serving, means I had 18.

There was booby-grabbing, kissy facing, catching up with people I wouldn't have recognized if not for our handy name tags, and did I mention alcohol? Holy shit, my head hurts.

It was interesting to see who was married (usually with kids) and who was still single. Luckily, the cute guys were still mostly single. Like the Fireman, who walked in proclaiming he was on the hunt for pussy. Klassy (and explains his single status). He came with the Lawyer. Who, after all these years, is still very sweet and adorable and hopefully in town long enough to have dinner.

I recognized the Foreigner immediately, despite not even having thought about the man in 10 years. We weren't really friends back then. But he's even more swoon-inducing now than he was all those years ago. I love a man with scruff and an accent. They make for hot model-whores.

Of course I had to deal with questions about what I'm doing these days. Which I answered graciously:

"Oh, I lost my job last month so I'm living on welfare." (I like being uncomfortably ironic. Remember, the last time these people saw me, I was on my way to UPenn. I've fallen a long way down. Hee.)

[Cue them wincing and/or cringing]. "Oh man, that sucks."

"Not really. I got a severance. And I'm a freelance photographer."

"Oh okay. What do you shoot?"


"Dude, that's totally fucking cool."

Yup. I am.

(Amazingly, one of these conversations did lead to someone telling me about an event planning gig open at their company. I'll send her my résumé tomorrow!)

The night ended with many exchanges of phone numbers, myspace addresses, and promises to hook up soon. Ooh, the Foreigner just emailed me!

Looks like we're doing dinner this week. Oh yeah.

Now, I think I need saltines...


School Meme-ries

Mr. Exile tagged me, since my reunion is this Saturday. So here you go:

How many schools did you go to?
2 elementary (one Catholic)
1 middle school
1 high school
3 colleges

Teacher's nightmare or teacher's pet?
Total pet. They all loved me. Because I'm cute (and pretty fucking smart).

Did you have a label in school? (nerd, jock, etc)
"That girl"? Who knows? I guess I find out on Saturday.

What's the biggest rule you broke in school?
Forging notes from mom junior year so I could leave campus for lunch with seniors.

Were you in any clubs or organizations?
JHS: President of Kiwanas Builder's Club
HS: Swim team, photo club (duh), 12th grade rep for the CA Scholarship Federation
(I was so fucking cool)

Did you have any nicknames in school?
Raul (courtesy of the Princess & Co.)

Three subjects you enjoyed?
1. Sex
2. French
3. AP Calculus

Three teachers who inspired you?
Grogan - 9th grade English
Tindell - 11th grade Pre-Calc
Harris - 12th grade Calc (the coolest guy on the planet)

Would you go back and do it over?
It was a hell of a lot of fun. But I'm glad it's over. There is very little I'd do differently. Except defy my parents and go to Lollapalooza that year they wouldn't let me (1994, they were so overprotective!).

Any major fashion faux paus? Bonus for pics!!
Yeah, but everyone was wearing their skinny jeans rolled up with 2 different pairs of colored socks in the 80s.

Now I tag the Princess and C-dub, both of whom need to blog more often!!

Knowing When to Say When

Interventions are never easy, regardless of what they're for: alcohol, drugs, or an obsession with mullets/Nickelback/garden gnomes. They're frustrating, painful, and no one really wants to be there but it's the "right thing to do." So here's a quickie guide on how to stage one:

1. Don't pretend you're not there to kick emotional ass. Luring the offending party in under false pretenses is only going to make them angrier than necessary. Because lets face it, they're going to be pretty fucking pissed at you anyway. Why make it worse? You can, however, ply them with alcohol. Especially if the person in question is an alcoholic.

2. Get restraints (not like the kind Jack & Exile want to put on my bed). You'll need this to tie the subject down so they don't run away. It will also make it easier to TASER (tm) them into submission. Electrified cattle prods are also useful, if you can't find a TASER (tm). You don't want the person getting loose and possibly killing you so they can sell your kidneys on the black market for quick money to further feed their addiction. That's a "bad thing" and contrary to your "mission."

3. Use "feeling" statements to avoid further antagonizing the subject. Saying "we feel you're an asshole" as opposed to simply calling the person an asshole is a much gentler approach to the truth. In the end, they will appreciate your tact.

4. Don't pull any punches. The person needs to know the full extent of how dangerous they have become to themselves and others. Keep in mind that addicts are completely indifferent to the disasters they create. They don't care, so someone has to. Make them feel the pain they have caused. Liberal use of the cattle prod is not discouraged.

5. Don't quit until you have driven your point deep into the person's cranium. This could conceivably take a lifetime because some people are not ready to change, and you can't really force them to. Unless you are willing to keep them restrained and periodically electrocuted.

Interventions are no laughing matter. Do not undertake unless you are serious about the work involved. Because Nickelback seriously needs to go away.


Money Well Spent

I just sat down to pay bills and noticed some rather interesting activity in my bank account.

I present to you a snippet of my recent spending habits:

08/02/2006 - JOXER DALYS CULVER CITY - $23.50
08/06/2006 - JAX BAR & GRILL GLENDALE - $29.44
08/08/2006 - THE IRISH TIMES LOS ANGELES - $16.00
08/08/2006 - BOARDWALK II LOS ANGELES - $10.50
08/09/2006 - WINE AND LIQUOR DEPOT VAN NUYS - $42.16
08/10/2006 - BRENNAN'S PUB MARINA DEL REY - $12.25

This doesn't even take into account the drinks I paid cash for. Or were bought for me. And I was just telling a friend that he had the wrong impression of me being a drunk.

Guess I lied.

But technically I was scouting shooting locations. So techincally they're all business expenses!


Cutting The Fat

Here's a good solution to that pesky global overcrowding issue:

"Monster Dad"

Find more brilliance at www.pbfcomics.com. Enjoy.


Party Like It's 1996!

My 10 year high school reunion is next weekend. The Princess and I have opted to go sans male escorts for the opportunity to tag along with the Queen of Suburbia/Krazy Mommy and her husband.

Like a harem. Because a night with my oldest childhood friends is nothing if not a Boobies on Parade event.

I've been excited about this for a really long time. I'm in that -.0007% that actually enjoyed high school. It was so easy! My parents let me get away with all sorts of shit because I brought home the grades. And they had no idea that some of my closest friends were notorious drug addicts since they were so polite when they came over to the house.

Man, those were some good times. And through the magic of Myspace, I've been reliving them for the better part of the last week.

I just want to get dressed up and party! And catch up with everyone I haven't seen since June 1996. Back before I dropped out of the Ivy League, before I lost my kick-ass job, before I wrote a blog all about myself.

I had been putting off buying a dress for the occasion, when I decided to give my existing wardrobe the once over. And there was the perfect burgundy cocktail dress that I had completely forgotten I own. Score! I love shopping in my own closet.

Now I just have to decide which pair of strappy 3-inch stilettos I'm pairing with it.

Oh, my life. So hard!

P-N-R Theater

There is only one personality quiz you will ever need to take to read this blog. And there is only one question on it:

Are you a pirate, a ninja, or a robot?

Clearly, I am a
pirate. The curly hair, the penchant for drinking too much, the inability to remember a fucking thing. It all leads to piracy.

Also, pirates were the original rock stars. And we all know how I feel about them.

This isn't hard, since you only have three choices. Are you a raucous mess like a pirate? Stealthy like a ninja? Or emotionless like a robot?



Whoring My Skills

After 3 interviews this week, I really just want to spend the rest of the week in bed, hiding from the world. Which I think I'm due.

This shit is exahusting, you know?

The first interview ended with a question that had to be thrown out there. Thankfully, I'm friends with the recruiter, allowing me to be quite candid. So when he asked, "you don't really want this job, do you?" I could honestly say, "it would be like having the marrow sucked out of my soul" and he knew exactly what I meant. And then we made plans for sushi.

So I will not be working for the Japanese auto maker. Oh, darn.

Today I was walking out the door to the Last Comic Standing finale taping in Pasadena , when I got a call from a billiards club in Old Town looking for an event sales manager. I hadn't applied for the job, but the GM saw my résumé and wanted to meet me. Since I was going to be in the area this afternoon anyway, I figured why not?

I don't know how the hell these sales jobs keep dropping in my lap. I plan events, I don't sell the space; I'm the client not the vendor. So I don't get it. But this gig would be pretty cool...except for the commute.

I have a strict policy against driving through LA traffic to earn a paycheck. And the ride between West LA and Pasadena passes through some of the worst possible clusterfucks this city has to offer. Like the East LA interchange. It's the very reason road rage exists.

As such, I had to come up with several reasons to drive 25 miles to work each morning:

  • 7 types of tequila in the bar (including Corzo, Tres Generaciones, and Cazadores. Yum!!)
  • Pasadena = Rose Bowl = UCLA football (and yes, it is a decidedly Bruin house!!!)
  • Complete free reign to work this job as I see fit (no predecessor means I set the bar)
  • Honest-to-god, legit party planning, 24/7 (no really!)
  • With football season coming up, my work would be almost completely done for the entire rest of the year (which gives me a nice long time to find my groove)
  • Three words: Pimp & Ho Ball (and you're all on the invite list)

And finally: It's a fucking bar, yo!

What's funny is that while the Princess was looking for a job, I kept trying to convince her to become a club promoter. And now she's a corporate whore. Things really do come full circle.

Hopefully tomorrow I find out about the job I really want. Which will save me from wearing those ridiculous stripey socks. That, apparently, you all loved.



Acts of Boredom

I've decided I'm going to wear these until I get a damn job:

They'll look great with my vintage paint-splattered 10-hole Docs. Because 1994 was a good year, dammit! I'll listen to Chili Peppers and Stone Temple Pilots and Mazzy Star and wear lots of black eye make-up.

(Slowly but surely I'm turning from cute and quirky to eccentric and pitiful. It's just a hop, skip and a jump to owning 82 cats from here. I never even wore goth make-up in high school.)

I just need a fucking job. I'm going stir crazy here. And the two interviews I have this afternoon do not excite me. But maybe stripey green thigh-highs will!

Pick a song and sing a yellow nectarine.



Lack of Memories, circa 1996

I have an especially bad memory. How I managed to come away from college with a degree in dates when I can't even remember what the date is today is beyond me. And just goes to prove that 6 years spent in college at least taught me to be crafty! (Now you know why it took 6 years. I kept forgetting to graduate!)

I'm watching an episode of Made on MTV (unemployment has its privileges) where this girl does no laundry whatsoever. She's away at school and basically lives in filthy clothes. Which is gross, but then got me thinking about my own freshman year in college. And I cannot for the life of me remember doing laundry. Ever.

I know I must have because dirty clothes gross me out, and walking around in the snow meant I had a lot of dirty jeans that winter. Hence, the need to do laundry. But where and how? Totally lost to the ether.

It's a completely mundane detail and bears no significance on my life today. But it freaks me out that I might have lived in filth for 9 months. Eww!!! 18 year old me couldn't have done that!!

I lived on the 2nd floor of Warwick House in the Quad. If anyone knows what that means, please remind me what laundry day was like.

And just to prove to you how utterly stunted my memory is, my insurance company just called to tell me I paid them twice this month. There I go, throwing money away when I don't even have a job!

I'm mentally retarded in the brain.

Adding Insult to Injury

I nearly fell out of bed last night. And not because of any enjoyable activity, either.

I need railings like you see on hospital beds, or what they put on children's beds when they first move out of the crib.

Maybe I need a crib?

The problem is the gimpy left leg. The pain was so bad last night that I couldn't find a comfortable position all night, so I kept tossing and turning. Around 2:30 am, in a half-asleep state, I didn't realize I was already at the edge of the bed, so I went to turn over one more time--in the wrong direction. The combination of my leg flopping off the bed and the sharp shooting pain up my thigh from that motion woke me right up.

I cursed at the bed, at my leg, and the damn comforter I was tangled in, and then started laughing. Because I'm 28 years old and apparently cannot sleep in a queen-size bed by myself lest I roll right out of it.

Think of the upside of having railings, though! Especially ones with restraints...

In the meantime, I'll just surround myself with pillows. Which don't come with restraints.



Aches, Pains & Automobiles

My issues with water retention and malfunctioning legs are becoming increasingly problematic. After spending the whole day sacked out on my parents' couch with a godawful headache and no discernable reason for being unable to keep my eyes open or move my limbs, I realized I could be in real trouble. And that I was terribly thirsty.

Because of my excessive dramatic streak, I started imagining how I would be able to face you all if I were suddenly hospitalized for "exhaustion and dehydration." Buzzwords that act as the precursor to rehab. I don't even have a job to deplete my energy reserves, much less afford me the luxury of drugs that would "exhaust" and/or "dehydrate" me.

Sunday I have another long-ass run. 8 miles along The Strand. I'm looking forward to it, mostly because I've never run a full 8 miles. That'll be a nice milestone. What I'm NOT looking forward to is the guaranteed leg cramps on Monday. Which makes it hard to dance salsa, you know?

My options, in terms of avoiding dehydration and paraplegia and/or amputation, are:

  • quit my alcoholic tendencies (I think not)
  • quit running (with almost $1000 raised for charity, also not an option)
  • quit walking (though that somehow helps, just not on stairs. Taking them is like sticking hot pokers in my thighs)
  • actually start taking drugs (not good, since I'm really bad at drugs)
  • hook myself up to an IV with equal parts saline and muscle relaxants (upside: a totally chill and non-mummified GPG)
  • sack up and just ignore it, drink more fluids and stretch 23 hours a day

I wish there was tequila-flavored Gatorade. Then staying hydrated wouldn't be such a pain in the ass.

And if some medical professional could finally give me a straight answer about my legs, that would be a great treat. But I'm afraid that might be like asking for the moon.

Off to bed so I can quit my whining. Though I'm no longer tired.


Confidential to my drinking buddy: NASCAR is on tomorrow at 1:30. Bring beer. (I'm kidding. No really, I'm just kidding! Please don't sic your degenerate garden ornamentation on me!)


Hello, I'm Blue

The results of yesterday's poll are:

2 votes for the
'fro, one for the martinis, one Joe who can spot the trend and another who can't follow the rules.

So the winner by a landslide is the 'fro. Which is kind of what I would look like if I were a blue iPod commercial.

We'll see how long this lasts...

Oh, and confidential to Sandra: who DOESN'T love the kitty?


Time for a Change

I'm a little tired of the pissed kitty avatar. I'm in the mood for something different. You get to help me pick.

Choose one from the following pictures I've stolen off the internets. Vote in the comments. Tell us why your choice is superior to the others. Voting ends when I wake up tomorrow morning. Which could be at 7 am or 12 noon PST, depending on whatever the hell I do tonight. I'm thinking sushi. Who wants sushi for dinner? It comes with sake. Mmm.


Blue afro:

Flaming martinis:

The Blue Room:

Your turn.


Waiting for "The Call"

Yesterday I received two unexpected and wildly differing phone calls.

9 am - cellphone rings from a 714 number:

"Hello, this is GPG."

"Hi GPG. This is Self-Important So-&-So with Such-&-Such Staffing Firm. I received your résumé in regards to a job I posted for a client. Now, I'm not one to mince words, so I'm just going to come right out and say this: you're not qualified for this job"

Then why is she wasting both our time calling me?

"This is an EVENT planning job, not a MEETING planning job. You need to be really creative. This is not rote. I was a meeting planner for 12 years and I wouldn't be qualified for this job. Do you think you could pull that off?"

"I do. [Insert something about being a fiercely creative photographer and having planned wildy ingenious events.] But it appears you have already made your mind up about my experience so I don't see the point in continuing this conversation."

But she wouldn't let it end there. She kept up her brusque tirade and finally, 5 minutes later, had talked herself into submitting my résumé to the client (who later told her they had already received it directly from me and were indeed considering it, effectively removing her--and her commission--from the process).

And for the record, the job listing stated Meeting Planner in the very title of the ad. Nice false advertising, yo.


6 pm - cellphone rings from a 310 number:

"Hello, this is GPG."

"Hi! This is the Really Cool Newly-Hired Director of Catering at Super-Swanky Private Beach Club. I saw your résumé online and feel you would be a perfect fit for the Catering Manager position [that I didn't apply for because I honestly didn't think I was qualified!] I have available. Is that something that you're interested in?"

I have an interview with her at 4 pm today.

In the mean time, I'm waiting for the ridiculously bureaucratic unemployment folks to call. They decided they need to review my case before granting me my frickin' $450 a week. Which isn't enough to pay my bills anyway, so I really should just tell them to suck my cock.

It couldn't hurt.


Just as I was about to publish this post, the unemployment folks called. It's all cleared up and they're going to start sending me money within the week. I didn't even have to tell them to suck it.



July by the Numbers

What started as a month of me at the very top of my game now finds me trying to figure out what the fuck I'm going to do next. But it actually isn't so bad...yet. If I'm still here next month, I'll be singing a different tune.

And now, the stats:

20.3 miles run
1 semi-reunion at The Park for Ry's bday
5.5 days spent loving rocker boys in Texas
18.50 dollars per shot of tequila
3 shots ordered
92 dollars for that dinner eaten solo
2 hours spent in line for Last Comic Standing
103 degrees in the shade in Pasadena
40 minutes until you see my face on tv in that episode
2.5 seconds of screen time
2 lovely meals spent with the visiting C-Dub

87 gagillion pieces of sushi eaten in one sitting
359 pictures taken at a one-year-old's birthday part
95 attendees for said one-year-old's party
107 degree temperature in the Valley on that day
7 o'clock when the power (and with it, the AC) gave out

71 pictures shot of my baby brother
3 outfit changes for said shoot
2 days spent amassing bug bites
5 reasons for moisture loss
3 high school boys fatally shot in my neighborhood
1 worried phone call from my dad after he heard the news report
5 minutes spent assuring him I'm okay
10 days spent unemployed
2 interviews spent charming the pants off hiring managers
4 female interviewers foiling my H. Wood-supported plan to utilize the ta-tas to their full extent
3 games of pool played
2.25 dollars total paid for those games
1 supremely misguided and irritatingly obtuse Scotsman trying to figure out his pickup lines
1 German Indian who knew better
1 Irishman who won the pot by playing the blues guitar and generally being as adorable as a puppy...on Scotch
20 blogs posted

I Missed a Day Somewhere

I love calendars. I live by them. I need three of them on the wall next to my computer just so I can stay on top of the day. Because what I do--or, did--requires that I constantly project at least a few weeks, if not months, out. While still operating in the present.

Which can be disorienting, all that time travel.

I also carry a Palm Pilot. And am wedded to it for my daily agenda. Because I have a bad memory and am quite capable of messing up all my dates.

Which I did. Today. Because for the longest time, I thought today was July 31st. I had planned all my last-day-of-insurance activities for today: the acupuncture, chiropractic and optometrist appointments. Yesterday, all these visits would have been covered. Because yesterday was July 31st. All day long.

I also thought I had a party to go to tonight at one of my favorite bars. I put it on the calendar(s) as being Tuesday. Never bothered to check that the second box on the grid is actually the Monday box (I love the things, but I don't know how to use them, clearly).

Meaning that yesterday, while Lex and I were avoiding annoying Scots at Backstage and shooting pool at Joxer Daly's, I should have been wearing fangs and fake blood over at Saints & Sinners.

And that when I woke up today, thinking I had all these appointments, I was actually lying to myself. I had tricked myself into living in the past. The realization of this hit me like a ton of bricks right across the forehead. Turns out I'm pretty free all day long!

But after all that bourbon, tequila, and boys last night, a long morning in bed certainly cannot hurt. (The BTB, my favorite cocktail.)

Happy August 1st everyone! July by the Numbers up later.