I had grown up in a small town in Illinois with white Christmases. Bundling up like Randy in A Christmas Story to go sledding with the neighbor kids, making snow angels and snow men, and getting into snowball fights were the norm. Coming inside afterward to dry your wet clothes over the vents in the floor and being greeted with hot chocolate and fresh out of the oven chocolate chip cookies was what a Midwest Christmas was all about. It was right out of a Norman Rockwell painting.
Fast forward to present day Christmas in Buckeye, Arizona, home to citizens with a median age of 65. I drove to my mom’s house in a short sleeved shirt and running pants. All of the pants I brought had elastic linings; I would have brought maternity pants if I had a pair. Even at 34 years old, my mom still makes me chocolate chip cookies and does my laundry when I come home to visit. The only difference is that I have now substituted a cup of milk for a bottle of Merlot.
There was a ton of traffic getting out of Los Angeles. What would usually take no more than an hour and a half to get to Palm Springs now took over three hours. I was going to visit my friend Katie in Scottsdale first, and it ended up taking me eight and a half hours to get there. The trip should have taken five and a half hours, six hours tops. At one point during the trip, I looked up at a billboard and saw an old man standing with a young boy. The caption read “Teach him to do something that you love.” I did a triple take because it looked like they were smoking peace pipes (we were in Indian territory and this would not be unheard of. In fact I was faintly surprised that they were not holding jugs of moonshine up to their lips); it turned out that they were playing saxophones. That’s what an eight and a half hour trip filled with nothing but desert, mountains, and cactus will do to you…you’ll begin to see mirages of things that you would rather be doing.
Wondering what will fly out of my mother’s mouth always makes for a good trip, and this was no exception. She begins each visit sweet as pie questioning if there is anything that she can do to help make my visit more comfortable. A few days into the visit the niceties wear off, and I get remarks like “you’ve got two hands. Wash your own dishes.”
My mother loves to sit around and talk about the two loves of her life, George W. Bush and shopping at Kohl’s. She started referring to Dubya as “my man” after watching Barbershop with my stepdad Jim. She told me that she and Jim (who has taken to wearing pageboy hats because he thinks they make him look like Brad Pitt) were surprised to see that they were the only white people in the theater.
Mom: Why would they keep shooting me looks like I should be watching The Bridges of Madison County in the theater next door?
She thinks that Ice Cube is a good actor and that Barbershop is a political satire movie. My mother is to gangster what Jim is to Brad Pitt with his pageboy hat. Neither translates.
So sitting among a sea of Beanie Baby snowmen, my mother sits in a corner chair, sewing a rip in some of my work pants, and muttering under her breath about different celebrities. My mother also likes to refer to herself as being in the know to all things Hollywood since she reads People magazine.
While talking about Kobe…
Mom: He’s a jerk.
Sapphire: Why?
Mom: He cheated on his wife with that girl in Colorado. I don’t like hypocrites.
About Kanye…
Mom: He’s a jerk too.
Sapphire: Why?
Mom: He talked about “my man” after Hurricane Katrina.
My mom starts to hyperventilate when she gets worked up about something. While talking about issues that really matter like health care reform and Angelina Jolie being a homewrecker, she starts hyperventilating, and has to excuse herself to go sit down in the kitchen until she can get her breath back.
We go to church on Christmas Eve, and are surrounded by unruly children (I still don’t understand why people have them. All they do is need stuff: clothes, medicine, food, unconditional love. Why not get a pet? They give unconditional love and are loyal. Or a plant? They only need sunlight and water…and that stuff is free) running up and down the bleachers of the school (yes, the service was held in a grade school gymnasium). After the service my mother continues her conversation right where she had left off before we walked inside to do leg drags…I mean, to sit and watch a sermon.
Mom: So, like I was saying (an hour ago), our Christmas party was fabulous. We had at least 25 couples there. One couple said that they had tickets to see an Arizona Cardinals game, but that they sold them so that they could come to our party. And we only invite the nicest people. We have a bunch of bottles of wine left over if you want to take any home with you, Sapphire. (My ears perk up).
As we pull into the driveway I can see that her neighbors a few doors down are having a holiday party of their own. My mom tries to act disinterested as she scours the couple walking inside to see if she recognizes them.
Sapphire: Wow, looks like your neighbors are having a party, Mom.
Mom: Well I doubt that they will have as many people as we had. There are only a few cars here. Did I mention that we had 25 couples? That’s 50 people, you know.
I’m not a math major but yes, I got that.
I could tell that my mom was almost foaming at the mouth. How dare anyone try to top her annual Christmas party? And how dare they not invite her and Jim? Even if she didn’t invite them to her party.
Mom: What jerks.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Meeting Jay Mohr
I can’t remember the exact way that I met comedian Jay Mohr, but I do know that it started through a series of random MySpace messages. Other than some of the cast from the Real World, I had never gotten any sort of celebrity to correspond with me. Jay Mohr was down to earth and funny, and we were pen pals for a couple of months. He was doing stand up at the Irvine Improv so he was renting a place close by in Sunset Beach. I talked about the lameness of Jane Austin’s Mafia! (which he was in), and he talked about how awesome it was to watch if you were stoned. I’m sure at some point, after a few cocktails, I sunk low enough to make some obscure Bob Sugar reference. I told him that I had seen him perform at the Improv, and he told me that if I go again, I should find him and introduce myself, that he usually hangs out in the back of the theatre between comics. That’s right…eat your heart out, Nikki Cox! He’s my man now! I was so sure of it, I called my dad after a row of beer bongs at a friend’s house on Father’s Day (sadly it was 9am and we were still up partying from the night before). I let him know that Jay Mohr was about to be his son-in-law, and he gave me one of his usual “OK. Well that’s great Sapphire,” brush off remarks. Since I am sure that I was slurring my words anyway, there is no way that he couldn’t have been more proud of his only daughter at that point. And nothing says ‘Happy Father’s Day, you raised your children well’ quite like a drunk dial from one of the aforementioned children during breakfast.
So the stage was set to begin my torrid love affair with Jay Mohr. But I couldn’t go alone. No, I needed a wing man. All of my girlfriends were gorgeous so I couldn’t risk the chance that he would pick one of them over me. So I chose my friend Brian, we bought tix, and the stage was set.
To prepare Jay for the big day, I sent him a message that went a little something like this:
“Show Me the Irvine Improv Tickkkkkkkkeeettttttttssssssss! (Yes, I still snuck in a Jerry Maguire reference when I could). So I’m going to watch your act on Thursday night with my friend Brian. Since I am sure that you will have a big entourage, I must let you know that Brian is a Make-A-Wish kid, and watching you live will be a dream come true. So make sure that your bodyguards know to let us into the VIP area. Thanks, Sapphire”
At this stage in my life I was on a very strict diet of Chardonnay and Taquitos so I was overweight, and I had just had the worst long hair extentions ever sewn in so I was a walking hot mess. But alcohol will make you do funny things so of course I didn’t think that I was a hot mess…unless that was in a good way.
So the big night came and I went to pick up my friend Brian, who is hands down, one of the funniest guys on the planet, and who will roll with any situation. We went to the Irvine Spectrum, and got seated somewhere in the middle of the crowd. I immediately ordered a glass of wine to chase down…well, the bottle of wine I drank before coming. I glanced in the corner. Bitch! Nikki Cox and the rest of Jay’s VIP entourage sat back there drinking fabulous mixed drinks and laughing without a care in the world. Don’t worry, Ms. Cox, your days at that VIP table are numbered.
The show began with my boyfriend’s monologue, and then when the first comedian came onto the stage, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I had to step over Brian, who was seated on the aisle seat. I went to the bathroom, searching through the lobby leisurely as if I was fascinated by the former comedians who had graced the stages of the Irvine Improv. No Jay. I went to the bathroom and washed my hands for lack of anything else to do. I headed back to my seat to wait for the next comedian. When he came on and Jay had ran to the back of the theater, I again excused myself and hurried out. Still no Jay. I scrubbed up like a surgeon again, and headed to my seat. Finally, the final act was on. I was running out of time to meet my future ex-husband. I excused myself for a third time when an annoyed Brian muttered “will you just go suck his dick already?” The couple across from us, whom we had been laughing and cutting up with all night, gave us an uncomfortable look. To save the last shred of dignity that I had, I shot Brian a “I’m a lady, and I’ve never been talked to that way before!” look. Then I excused myself to look for Jay so that I could give him a blowjob. Still not finding him in the hall, I went outside dejectedly, not caring that the glass door hit the rear wall when I threw it open, and not caring that I might get lung cancer one day from the back to back cigarettes I puffed on on the apron. Finally I made myself go back inside so that I could get Brian, and then go home to write to my 8th grade diary and to cry myself to sleep. I hadn’t been this heart broken since I was certain, absolutely certain, that I would fall in love with, marry, and have 5 kids with (4 natural and 1 adopted) Kirk Cameron. And that was when I ran into my Jay Mohr in the hallway.
Sapphire: Jay!
Jay: (blank stare)
Sapphire: Jay! It’s me…Sapphire…(how do I describe myself? Soul mate seemed a bit much upon a first meeting)…I’m your MySpace friend.
Jay gave me a hug, then stepped back to do a once over. Apparently my cargo pants, flip flops, fat rolls, and bad hair extentions didn’t have a huge impact on him because he looked at me like a kid sister.
We shot the shit for a minute (I told him that I had brought my mom to one of his shows, and that she was from the Midwest, and did not get his humor when he talked about buttholes and the like) before he grabbed my beefy upper arms, gave them a squeeze, and said: I have to go close the show!
I walked back into the theater as if on a cloud, and talked to one of the earlier comedians, who had posted himself along the upper stairs’ railing. He looked at me oddly and said “Your MySpace friend? That is so gay.”
Obviously this joker was oblivious to the love that Jay and I shared. We started small talk about how we were both from Illinois, and as I often do during celebrity-ish moments I began an awkward rendition of the Super Bowl Shuffle made famous in the 80’s.
Just then the lights came on, and I saw Brian coming up the stairs.
Brian: Did you finally see him?
Sapphire: Yes. Want me to introduce you? (Somehow I had a new glass of wine in my hand. If it didn’t materialize out of thin air, then I must have picked it up off of one of the nearby tables when someone wasn’t looking).
Brian: Yeah.
I grabbed Brian’s hand and walked up to the VIP booth where Jay, Nikki, and the rest of their entourage was sitting. A bouncer put his hand up to stop me, but I waved it away saying “No, I know Jay. You can let me in.”
The bouncer continued to look unsure until Jay came over, saying “It’s ok. You can let them in.”
I walked by the bouncer to be brushed to the side by Jay. He walked past me and hugged Brian.
Jay: Hey man, how are you feeling?
OMG. It dawned on me then that Jay really did think that Brian was from the Make-A-Wish foundation. Brian had short hair and with his pale palor did look a bit like a cancer patient.
Brian: Hey man, I’m good. How are you? Oh, hi Nikki!
Nikki stood behind Jay, waving excitedly. She was so pretty and seemingly friendly that I stared at her, trying to figure out how she could have ever dated Bobcat Goldwaith.
There is no moral to this story other than it was fun meeting Jay. Brian and I honestly contemplated sending him updates on Brian’s health, but then decided that we already had enough in our past that would guarantee us a seat in hell that we didn’t need to add to it.
So the stage was set to begin my torrid love affair with Jay Mohr. But I couldn’t go alone. No, I needed a wing man. All of my girlfriends were gorgeous so I couldn’t risk the chance that he would pick one of them over me. So I chose my friend Brian, we bought tix, and the stage was set.
To prepare Jay for the big day, I sent him a message that went a little something like this:
“Show Me the Irvine Improv Tickkkkkkkkeeettttttttssssssss! (Yes, I still snuck in a Jerry Maguire reference when I could). So I’m going to watch your act on Thursday night with my friend Brian. Since I am sure that you will have a big entourage, I must let you know that Brian is a Make-A-Wish kid, and watching you live will be a dream come true. So make sure that your bodyguards know to let us into the VIP area. Thanks, Sapphire”
At this stage in my life I was on a very strict diet of Chardonnay and Taquitos so I was overweight, and I had just had the worst long hair extentions ever sewn in so I was a walking hot mess. But alcohol will make you do funny things so of course I didn’t think that I was a hot mess…unless that was in a good way.
So the big night came and I went to pick up my friend Brian, who is hands down, one of the funniest guys on the planet, and who will roll with any situation. We went to the Irvine Spectrum, and got seated somewhere in the middle of the crowd. I immediately ordered a glass of wine to chase down…well, the bottle of wine I drank before coming. I glanced in the corner. Bitch! Nikki Cox and the rest of Jay’s VIP entourage sat back there drinking fabulous mixed drinks and laughing without a care in the world. Don’t worry, Ms. Cox, your days at that VIP table are numbered.
The show began with my boyfriend’s monologue, and then when the first comedian came onto the stage, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I had to step over Brian, who was seated on the aisle seat. I went to the bathroom, searching through the lobby leisurely as if I was fascinated by the former comedians who had graced the stages of the Irvine Improv. No Jay. I went to the bathroom and washed my hands for lack of anything else to do. I headed back to my seat to wait for the next comedian. When he came on and Jay had ran to the back of the theater, I again excused myself and hurried out. Still no Jay. I scrubbed up like a surgeon again, and headed to my seat. Finally, the final act was on. I was running out of time to meet my future ex-husband. I excused myself for a third time when an annoyed Brian muttered “will you just go suck his dick already?” The couple across from us, whom we had been laughing and cutting up with all night, gave us an uncomfortable look. To save the last shred of dignity that I had, I shot Brian a “I’m a lady, and I’ve never been talked to that way before!” look. Then I excused myself to look for Jay so that I could give him a blowjob. Still not finding him in the hall, I went outside dejectedly, not caring that the glass door hit the rear wall when I threw it open, and not caring that I might get lung cancer one day from the back to back cigarettes I puffed on on the apron. Finally I made myself go back inside so that I could get Brian, and then go home to write to my 8th grade diary and to cry myself to sleep. I hadn’t been this heart broken since I was certain, absolutely certain, that I would fall in love with, marry, and have 5 kids with (4 natural and 1 adopted) Kirk Cameron. And that was when I ran into my Jay Mohr in the hallway.
Sapphire: Jay!
Jay: (blank stare)
Sapphire: Jay! It’s me…Sapphire…(how do I describe myself? Soul mate seemed a bit much upon a first meeting)…I’m your MySpace friend.
Jay gave me a hug, then stepped back to do a once over. Apparently my cargo pants, flip flops, fat rolls, and bad hair extentions didn’t have a huge impact on him because he looked at me like a kid sister.
We shot the shit for a minute (I told him that I had brought my mom to one of his shows, and that she was from the Midwest, and did not get his humor when he talked about buttholes and the like) before he grabbed my beefy upper arms, gave them a squeeze, and said: I have to go close the show!
I walked back into the theater as if on a cloud, and talked to one of the earlier comedians, who had posted himself along the upper stairs’ railing. He looked at me oddly and said “Your MySpace friend? That is so gay.”
Obviously this joker was oblivious to the love that Jay and I shared. We started small talk about how we were both from Illinois, and as I often do during celebrity-ish moments I began an awkward rendition of the Super Bowl Shuffle made famous in the 80’s.
Just then the lights came on, and I saw Brian coming up the stairs.
Brian: Did you finally see him?
Sapphire: Yes. Want me to introduce you? (Somehow I had a new glass of wine in my hand. If it didn’t materialize out of thin air, then I must have picked it up off of one of the nearby tables when someone wasn’t looking).
Brian: Yeah.
I grabbed Brian’s hand and walked up to the VIP booth where Jay, Nikki, and the rest of their entourage was sitting. A bouncer put his hand up to stop me, but I waved it away saying “No, I know Jay. You can let me in.”
The bouncer continued to look unsure until Jay came over, saying “It’s ok. You can let them in.”
I walked by the bouncer to be brushed to the side by Jay. He walked past me and hugged Brian.
Jay: Hey man, how are you feeling?
OMG. It dawned on me then that Jay really did think that Brian was from the Make-A-Wish foundation. Brian had short hair and with his pale palor did look a bit like a cancer patient.
Brian: Hey man, I’m good. How are you? Oh, hi Nikki!
Nikki stood behind Jay, waving excitedly. She was so pretty and seemingly friendly that I stared at her, trying to figure out how she could have ever dated Bobcat Goldwaith.
There is no moral to this story other than it was fun meeting Jay. Brian and I honestly contemplated sending him updates on Brian’s health, but then decided that we already had enough in our past that would guarantee us a seat in hell that we didn’t need to add to it.
Monday, December 13, 2010
The date that never happened
I don't think it's unreasonable for a woman in her thirties (and I'm trying really hard not to channel Carrie Bradshaw right now) to expect that when a guy asks her to dinner that it is considered a proper date. And since I am a dating expert and not a relationship expert, I know the difference between a date, a possible relationship, and a hook-up. A date is often with a guy that you are on the fence about sleeping with, but are totally open to ordering the steak and lobster on his dime. A possible relationship date is one in which little to no alcohol is involved because you are actually intersted in getting to know more about the other person than what they look like naked. A hook-up date is really not a date at all, but a simple text (no one calls any more, that is so 2002) where you hook up at a bar to prepare for the hooking up you'll be doing later on in the bedroom.
After a bunch of cocktails I thought a guy I had seen out on 2nd Street many times, Rick, was nice and fun. But then I saw him at a party two weeks later with a button down shirt and without his baseball hat on, and I realized that he was half my size with a receding hair line. At that same party I gave him my number because I have professed this time in my life to be "the year of the nerd" where I need to give guys I would not typically give a chance, a chance.
Rick ended up texting me the next night asking if I wanted to meet up for a drink. Since I try to limit my weekday drinking, I said no but then later asked if he wanted to meet for coffee the next night. Rick suggested dinner, and I agreed to meet him at 6 o'clock.
The next day I finally heard from Rick at 5 o'clock (via text of course): still wanna hang out?
This was already looking amazingly promising and romantic.
Sapphire: Sure. I'm starving. Where do you want to meet?
Rick: Evo. I'm having a drink with a friend. Want to meet us, and then we can do whatever you want?
If he would have recited some Robert Frost poetry after that text, it for sure would have been a panty dropper.
Sapphire: Are you hungry at all?
Rick: Kinda. I've been snacking all day.
Why didn't this guy plan anything? In case Rick and his Olsen twin frame didn't end up wanting to eat, I decided to make dinner at home. And then I realized that I'm not in my twenties any more, and I didn't want any more "let's hang out, have some brewskis and watch da Bears" dates. Like if someone asks you out, it's not supposed to be meeting you at a local bar so that you can drink your dinner.
After a bunch of cocktails I thought a guy I had seen out on 2nd Street many times, Rick, was nice and fun. But then I saw him at a party two weeks later with a button down shirt and without his baseball hat on, and I realized that he was half my size with a receding hair line. At that same party I gave him my number because I have professed this time in my life to be "the year of the nerd" where I need to give guys I would not typically give a chance, a chance.
Rick ended up texting me the next night asking if I wanted to meet up for a drink. Since I try to limit my weekday drinking, I said no but then later asked if he wanted to meet for coffee the next night. Rick suggested dinner, and I agreed to meet him at 6 o'clock.
The next day I finally heard from Rick at 5 o'clock (via text of course): still wanna hang out?
This was already looking amazingly promising and romantic.
Sapphire: Sure. I'm starving. Where do you want to meet?
Rick: Evo. I'm having a drink with a friend. Want to meet us, and then we can do whatever you want?
If he would have recited some Robert Frost poetry after that text, it for sure would have been a panty dropper.
Sapphire: Are you hungry at all?
Rick: Kinda. I've been snacking all day.
Why didn't this guy plan anything? In case Rick and his Olsen twin frame didn't end up wanting to eat, I decided to make dinner at home. And then I realized that I'm not in my twenties any more, and I didn't want any more "let's hang out, have some brewskis and watch da Bears" dates. Like if someone asks you out, it's not supposed to be meeting you at a local bar so that you can drink your dinner.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Gladiator Run
The Gladiator Run is, in layman's terms, fucking brutal. It is a 5K that has 20 obstacles throughout the course, including not one but three mud obstacles. I had signed up last minute to do this course with my friend Nikki in an attempt to shed some of the pounds that my strict diet of Chardonnay and Taquitos had caused.
But it's funny how people train differently. Nikki got a good night's sleep the night before... I partied for my friend's birthday until 2am. I then woke up the next morning with horrible cramps and to find another friend curled up behind me in the twin bed so that my face was against the wall. Nikki had a breakfast of fresh squeezed orange juice, coffee, eggs and toast. I grabbed a handful of M&M's and popped a couple of Advil. I highly thought about ditching the race for the comforts of my bed. It was cold out, and all you got out of the race was a free beer and a lousy t-shirt... but I didn't want to flake on my friend so I forged ahead.
We ran the 9:30 heat, and as soon as we took off running I twisted my ankle. This literally happened as I was crossing the starting line. My very supportive friend Nikki started screaming "Are you serious? We just started? Come on! Shake it off!"
The first obstacle was running up and down the stairs at the Irvine Center Arena followed by running through tires and carrying 20 pound bags of sand to a buddha statue. The run itself was hard after a night out on the town, but the obstacles were hellacious. I slid head first into the first mud obstacle that we came to, and was covered head to foot. I imagine that I looked like Will Ferrell in Old School after he got shot in the neck with a tranquilizer dart. I was lunging left and right with my arms in front of me yelling "I can't see. Where am I?" The mud had literally sealed my eyes shut, and every attempt at wiping them only resulted in them becoming re-sealed by more mud. As it started to dry, caked heavily onto my eyebrows and eyelashes, and in my nose, ears and mouth, I could see that I was going to have to army crawl through the mud and under barbed wire to the other side. I dove back in and was immediately greeted by the sweet tingle of hypothermia. The muddy water was freezing! Its funny the things that you think about as you believe that you may be on the brink of death: wow, all of these people cheering me on are about to watch me die... why are the paramedics just standing with their arms crossed and gossiping instead of helping me? Can't they see that I'm not going to make it?... this is never how I thought I'd go. I thought it would be something much classier like in a Vegas hotel room after a drug overdose... and did I turn my hair straightener off before I left my apartment last night?
We finally finished the race in just under an hour and I was exhausted. I got my free beer (I've done much more for a free beer so I took that small present in stride), and then went home to nurse my sore ankle and sleep for 16 hours straight.
But it's funny how people train differently. Nikki got a good night's sleep the night before... I partied for my friend's birthday until 2am. I then woke up the next morning with horrible cramps and to find another friend curled up behind me in the twin bed so that my face was against the wall. Nikki had a breakfast of fresh squeezed orange juice, coffee, eggs and toast. I grabbed a handful of M&M's and popped a couple of Advil. I highly thought about ditching the race for the comforts of my bed. It was cold out, and all you got out of the race was a free beer and a lousy t-shirt... but I didn't want to flake on my friend so I forged ahead.
We ran the 9:30 heat, and as soon as we took off running I twisted my ankle. This literally happened as I was crossing the starting line. My very supportive friend Nikki started screaming "Are you serious? We just started? Come on! Shake it off!"
The first obstacle was running up and down the stairs at the Irvine Center Arena followed by running through tires and carrying 20 pound bags of sand to a buddha statue. The run itself was hard after a night out on the town, but the obstacles were hellacious. I slid head first into the first mud obstacle that we came to, and was covered head to foot. I imagine that I looked like Will Ferrell in Old School after he got shot in the neck with a tranquilizer dart. I was lunging left and right with my arms in front of me yelling "I can't see. Where am I?" The mud had literally sealed my eyes shut, and every attempt at wiping them only resulted in them becoming re-sealed by more mud. As it started to dry, caked heavily onto my eyebrows and eyelashes, and in my nose, ears and mouth, I could see that I was going to have to army crawl through the mud and under barbed wire to the other side. I dove back in and was immediately greeted by the sweet tingle of hypothermia. The muddy water was freezing! Its funny the things that you think about as you believe that you may be on the brink of death: wow, all of these people cheering me on are about to watch me die... why are the paramedics just standing with their arms crossed and gossiping instead of helping me? Can't they see that I'm not going to make it?... this is never how I thought I'd go. I thought it would be something much classier like in a Vegas hotel room after a drug overdose... and did I turn my hair straightener off before I left my apartment last night?
We finally finished the race in just under an hour and I was exhausted. I got my free beer (I've done much more for a free beer so I took that small present in stride), and then went home to nurse my sore ankle and sleep for 16 hours straight.
My Momager
I'm not sure what retired people do all day, but whenever I have an issue or need help with something, I know that I can call my parents, and they'll be on the case. So when I recently tried to get in touch with my second cousin, Secretary of Transportation Ray LaHood, for work reasons, my mom and stepdad helped me out. I was hoping that Ray could do some Public Relations work with my company to get some of our products in the spotlight. I drafted a letter to Ray, whom I hadn't seen since Bush's inauguration in 2004. My stepdad edited it for me and sent it back, adding in silly Bureaucratic jokes and puns, and my mom sent an email suggesting that my company fly me out to Washington DC to do interviews with Ray and Barack, and then shop around the footage. None of this never came to fruition, but I know that if I ever want any sort of entertainment career, I already have a hype man and a momager.
Sideways
For my friend Keith's birthday, his wife Tina arranged a wine tasting trip up in Solvang. My friends Jeff and Pam came along, as did a guy I had recently started dating, Jason. The day was great; I picked up Jason from his place in Ventura, and we drove up the coast, stopping in Santa Barbara for a pre-wine tasting drink to whet our palates (and because we're alcoholics). I like wine tasting but each time they pour a small amount into my glass, I always give the bartender the look of death, and then nudge my glass closer to his bottle. I'm not so much the wine tasting type as I am a wine shooter; I throw back my wine in a single shot. Screw the swirling and smelling, and I'll be damned if I spit it back out...over my dead body will alcohol be leaving my body without some sort of written consent. And you wouldn't think that wine tasting would lead to the drunken debauchery that it did that night. I won't get into the specifics of the evening as I would like to remain friends with the aforementioned people, but I woke up the next morning next to Jason in the hide-a-bed...with no pants...and covered in piss. O...M...mother f'ing...G. It was the first time I had slept in the same bed with Jason, and I didn't want him thinking that if our relationship continued that he would need to invest in plastic sheets.
What was I going to do? I needed to get up and get my pants on, any pair of pants on, before everyone woke up. I heard voices coming from the next room, followed by laughter.
Jeff: Who wets their bed at this age? (Laughter)
Pam: OMG, I don't think I've wet the bed since I was 10 years old. (More laughter)
How did they know that I wet the bed? I must have left evidence in the bathroom. I wrapped a towel around me, and walked into the bathroom to see my wet pants (and only wet in the crotch) lying right in front of the toilet, inside out, with my blue thong underwear prominently displayed. I found my phone in the back pocket which had shorted out so I pulled it apart and laid it on the counter to air out. I needed to confront the situation head on and get it over with so I walked into Pam and Jeff's room.
Sapphire: What are you guys talking about? (my efforts at concealing my guilt were Razzie award winning).
Pam (laughing): I wet the bed last night.
Relief flooded over me.
Sapphire: OMG, I wet the bed too! What are the chances?
Pam: I haven't wet the bed since I was like 10 years old.
Sapphire: I haven't wet the bed since college. This is crazy! What should I do about Jason? He's still asleep.
Pam: Just...blame...him.
Sapphire: Genius. Come with me for moral support.
We walked into the spare room where Jason was just starting to wake up, stretching out in the middle of the bed. I needed to tell him soon so that he had ample time to shower before we left.
Sapphire: Jason, I have something to tell you... you had an accident last night.
Jason: What?
Pam was laughing, and not helping my already poor acting skills.
Sapphire: You...you wet the bed.
Jason: I did? (He starts feeling the sheets)
Sapphire: No! Don't do that! Listen, its nothing to be embarrassed about. People...well, kids... do it all the time.
All of a sudden Jeff rushed into the room.
Jeff: Bro, I can't let you go down like this. Sapphire wet the bed, not you.
Thanks a lot, you bed wetting blocker.
Oddly, Jason didn't find it that odd that I wet the bed in the middle of the night, at 34 years of age... which I almost find more disturbing :)
What was I going to do? I needed to get up and get my pants on, any pair of pants on, before everyone woke up. I heard voices coming from the next room, followed by laughter.
Jeff: Who wets their bed at this age? (Laughter)
Pam: OMG, I don't think I've wet the bed since I was 10 years old. (More laughter)
How did they know that I wet the bed? I must have left evidence in the bathroom. I wrapped a towel around me, and walked into the bathroom to see my wet pants (and only wet in the crotch) lying right in front of the toilet, inside out, with my blue thong underwear prominently displayed. I found my phone in the back pocket which had shorted out so I pulled it apart and laid it on the counter to air out. I needed to confront the situation head on and get it over with so I walked into Pam and Jeff's room.
Sapphire: What are you guys talking about? (my efforts at concealing my guilt were Razzie award winning).
Pam (laughing): I wet the bed last night.
Relief flooded over me.
Sapphire: OMG, I wet the bed too! What are the chances?
Pam: I haven't wet the bed since I was like 10 years old.
Sapphire: I haven't wet the bed since college. This is crazy! What should I do about Jason? He's still asleep.
Pam: Just...blame...him.
Sapphire: Genius. Come with me for moral support.
We walked into the spare room where Jason was just starting to wake up, stretching out in the middle of the bed. I needed to tell him soon so that he had ample time to shower before we left.
Sapphire: Jason, I have something to tell you... you had an accident last night.
Jason: What?
Pam was laughing, and not helping my already poor acting skills.
Sapphire: You...you wet the bed.
Jason: I did? (He starts feeling the sheets)
Sapphire: No! Don't do that! Listen, its nothing to be embarrassed about. People...well, kids... do it all the time.
All of a sudden Jeff rushed into the room.
Jeff: Bro, I can't let you go down like this. Sapphire wet the bed, not you.
Thanks a lot, you bed wetting blocker.
Oddly, Jason didn't find it that odd that I wet the bed in the middle of the night, at 34 years of age... which I almost find more disturbing :)
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Moving Day Part Deux
The moving truck arrived in Los Angeles on a Friday, but for some reason it was not allowed to be dropped off at my new place until Monday evening. Do you know how hard it is to find people to help you move on a Monday? On a scale of 1-10, its a 57 (with 1 being the lowest). A co-worker and my old friend Chris helped me move but they were not able to get my 2-ton bear of a dresser out of the moving van. Knowing that I would again have to beg old male friends to help me move, I found two more co-workers willing to help me "move my dresser. It shouldn't take more than 20-30 minutes of your time." The moving truck had dropped off the trailer that had all of my worldly possessions in it down the street so at 5 o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon me and my friends went to get my dresser out of the trailer and into my apartment. That's when the shit went down. It began with Peggy, a frail old lady who I'm sure was very pretty during her prime in the Great Depression.
"Who's truck is this?" she asked.
"Mine. We're just getting my dresser out, then the moving company will pick up the trailer," I said.
"Well, it's very rude that you would park this thing in front of my house," she sneered.
"We just need to get this last piece out, then it'll be picked up tonight." I was taken aback at her abrasiveness. Wasn't Judge Wapner or Judy or Brown on? Shouldn't she be pre-occupied with a Sodoku puzzle?
"You should have asked for my permission to park it here."
Now I was getting frazzled. "I need your permission to park on a public street? I apologize. It'll be gone soon."
Peggy paused. "You don't seem very sorry."
Now I've never been in a fist fight and it wouldn't help my street cred at all if my first one was with a AARP card carrying member, but this bitch was getting on my nerves.
Then another old neighbor lady came walking over. "Whose van is this?"
"My roommate's," I lied.
"How long will it be here?"
"It's leaving tonight. We're getting the last piece out for her now."
This was soon followed by the third Golden Girl, I would think she would be the Rose of the bunch, coming outside to see what all of the ruckus was about. "Whose trailer is this?"
"Are you kidding me?" my friend Nilax asked as he and Manny tried to maneuver
"Who's truck is this?" she asked.
"Mine. We're just getting my dresser out, then the moving company will pick up the trailer," I said.
"Well, it's very rude that you would park this thing in front of my house," she sneered.
"We just need to get this last piece out, then it'll be picked up tonight." I was taken aback at her abrasiveness. Wasn't Judge Wapner or Judy or Brown on? Shouldn't she be pre-occupied with a Sodoku puzzle?
"You should have asked for my permission to park it here."
Now I was getting frazzled. "I need your permission to park on a public street? I apologize. It'll be gone soon."
Peggy paused. "You don't seem very sorry."
Now I've never been in a fist fight and it wouldn't help my street cred at all if my first one was with a AARP card carrying member, but this bitch was getting on my nerves.
Then another old neighbor lady came walking over. "Whose van is this?"
"My roommate's," I lied.
"How long will it be here?"
"It's leaving tonight. We're getting the last piece out for her now."
This was soon followed by the third Golden Girl, I would think she would be the Rose of the bunch, coming outside to see what all of the ruckus was about. "Whose trailer is this?"
"Are you kidding me?" my friend Nilax asked as he and Manny tried to maneuver
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Moving Day
I had lived in Orlando Florida for two years with work, and had asked to transfer back to California as I feel more comfortable living in a bankrupt state ran by a former Action Hero. My dad, who had been retired for the last couple of years, had offered to come down and help me pack my things and put them into the moving truck. It is funny how my dad has evolved over the years, and not in the neanderthal knuckles dragging on the floor kind of way. But my dad was a guy's guy, and came from the old school form of parenting where all he had to do was give you "the look," and you shit your pants. I don't remember him ever taking care of me while I was sick in the literal sense, but he was good about bringing home a 2 liter of Sprite and a package of Saltines before retiring to his La-Z-boy to watch Cheers. And that is why it took me by such surprise when he announced that he had volunteered as a candy striper at the local hospital now that he was in his twilight years. I'm not sure if my dad had an epiphany into his own mortality one day or not, but he slowly began going to church again, and sending me Chili's gift cards for no reason with notes attached like "Kathy Griffin loved her dad and wouldn't have sent him to a nursing home." (For the record, I love both Chili's and Kathy Griffin in equal parts).
Two days before I moved my dad came down and boxed up all of the things I had left him on my honey do list while I was at work. Some male co-workers were generous enough to come over and help me move my furniture downstairs to the moving truck below. When we were finished, we had decided to meet at The Ale House around the corner for appetizers and beers, but when I pulled up to the restaurant, I noticed that my wallet was missing. Being a minimalist in every sense of the word, I had nixed even tiny purses for simply carrying my wallet. I had "lost" my wallet three times in the past year because I am extremely absent minded. I have a useless trap of a mind for things that will not further me at all in life like who your third grade teacher was, but I cannot for the life of me remember where I put my keys down five minutes ago. Needless to say, I was panicked and had a total OMG moment. I was flying to Colorado for my friend Susan's wedding first, before moving to California to meet the moving truck and move into my new apartment. This would be a problem since I could not find my wallet which carried my ID that would allow me to board any mode of transportation. I decided to retrace my steps, and let my dad know that I would have to nix dinner.
Apparently he decided that two people looking for the wallet, and him offering any sort of moral support to his panic stricken daughter, would be futile, so he stayed behind and had beers and chicken wings with the guys.
I met him at the moving truck the next day so that we could tear into my boxes and look for my passport. Since I hadn't eaten anything since lunchtime yesterday, he generously bought me his stale chocolate chip cookie from check-in at the Comfort Suites the morning before. We found my passport and I was able to make it to the wedding, but this was only the beginning of my treacherous journey...
Two days before I moved my dad came down and boxed up all of the things I had left him on my honey do list while I was at work. Some male co-workers were generous enough to come over and help me move my furniture downstairs to the moving truck below. When we were finished, we had decided to meet at The Ale House around the corner for appetizers and beers, but when I pulled up to the restaurant, I noticed that my wallet was missing. Being a minimalist in every sense of the word, I had nixed even tiny purses for simply carrying my wallet. I had "lost" my wallet three times in the past year because I am extremely absent minded. I have a useless trap of a mind for things that will not further me at all in life like who your third grade teacher was, but I cannot for the life of me remember where I put my keys down five minutes ago. Needless to say, I was panicked and had a total OMG moment. I was flying to Colorado for my friend Susan's wedding first, before moving to California to meet the moving truck and move into my new apartment. This would be a problem since I could not find my wallet which carried my ID that would allow me to board any mode of transportation. I decided to retrace my steps, and let my dad know that I would have to nix dinner.
Apparently he decided that two people looking for the wallet, and him offering any sort of moral support to his panic stricken daughter, would be futile, so he stayed behind and had beers and chicken wings with the guys.
I met him at the moving truck the next day so that we could tear into my boxes and look for my passport. Since I hadn't eaten anything since lunchtime yesterday, he generously bought me his stale chocolate chip cookie from check-in at the Comfort Suites the morning before. We found my passport and I was able to make it to the wedding, but this was only the beginning of my treacherous journey...
Saturday, January 30, 2010
A little Chardonnay makes the medicine go down
I hate flying, but I love airports. I don't mind waiting at the airport as long as I have a couple glasses of wine, an appetizer and a People magazine. I'm excited to get to wherever I'm going, but I absolutely hate take-offs. I feel like that's when all of the bad things happen with flying, and I hate that I have no control.
Not that I'm any better of a driver when I'm in control. I went skydiving in Lake Perris, CA, with my friends Angela and Jason on my 26th birthday. I'm overtly paranoid that I am going to rear end the driver in front of me so I'll slam on the brakes if I see red brake lights even a football field ahead of me. As I was dropping off Jason he turned to me and said, "the scariest part of today was your driving." Not even jumping out of a plane at 13,000 feet rattled Jason as much as my driving. I guess that's what you get when you grow up in a small town and learn how to drive from the woodshop teacher.
I was flying recently, and didn't have any cocktails before take-off. Big mistake. I'm sure that we were never in any real danger, but for the first half hour of the flight we were engulfed in a sea of whiteness. 'How can they see?' I thought. I secretly started praying that somehow Captain Sully was our pilot. I was next to the window, with a businessman in his mid-thirties next to me. He was completely unaffected by our, in my mind, impending doom. He had his laptop out and was putting together some sort of power point presentation. I squeezed my eyes shut, and gripped onto the armchair next to me. A few minutes had passed when I noticed that the armchair shifted a bit. I cracked an eye open, and looked down to see that I was not gripping the armchair, but the leg of the passenger next to me. My eyes flew open, and I looked over at him, immediately releasing my grip.
He looked at me and laughed. "Nervous about flying?"
"Yes. I'm sorry if I left fingernail marks on your leg."
"Yes, well, I'll try to hide them from my wife."
How embarrassing. "Could you grab the beverage cart when it comes by again?"
Not that I'm any better of a driver when I'm in control. I went skydiving in Lake Perris, CA, with my friends Angela and Jason on my 26th birthday. I'm overtly paranoid that I am going to rear end the driver in front of me so I'll slam on the brakes if I see red brake lights even a football field ahead of me. As I was dropping off Jason he turned to me and said, "the scariest part of today was your driving." Not even jumping out of a plane at 13,000 feet rattled Jason as much as my driving. I guess that's what you get when you grow up in a small town and learn how to drive from the woodshop teacher.
I was flying recently, and didn't have any cocktails before take-off. Big mistake. I'm sure that we were never in any real danger, but for the first half hour of the flight we were engulfed in a sea of whiteness. 'How can they see?' I thought. I secretly started praying that somehow Captain Sully was our pilot. I was next to the window, with a businessman in his mid-thirties next to me. He was completely unaffected by our, in my mind, impending doom. He had his laptop out and was putting together some sort of power point presentation. I squeezed my eyes shut, and gripped onto the armchair next to me. A few minutes had passed when I noticed that the armchair shifted a bit. I cracked an eye open, and looked down to see that I was not gripping the armchair, but the leg of the passenger next to me. My eyes flew open, and I looked over at him, immediately releasing my grip.
He looked at me and laughed. "Nervous about flying?"
"Yes. I'm sorry if I left fingernail marks on your leg."
"Yes, well, I'll try to hide them from my wife."
How embarrassing. "Could you grab the beverage cart when it comes by again?"
If you wait til Thursday, my check will be good...ish
I don't know the exact root cause of why I'm physically incapable of saving money, but I am. I would think that it was a gene passed down from my parents, but they are smart with their money: making wise investments such as cutting me off financially right after college.
Starting with my very first credit card, I would look at a maximum spending limit like a goal. Right after I left one job, I received a credit card in the mail that had a $10,000 max. The first words out of my mouth were, "I'm rich!" followed by "I'm going shopping!" or "Drinks are on me!"
Then a peculiar thing would happen. Once a month I would get an unwanted gift. Well, two unwanted gifts but the one that I'm referring to here is my credit card bill. Say what? They want me to pay them back?!?!?!?! And with interest?!?!??! What nerve.
To punish myself I started to cut off the magnetic strips on the cards so that they would be unswipeable. This slowed me down from everything but online shopping and the desperate bartender who would offer to punch in the numbers for me. I also put most of my checks into an investment account that I cannot get to so that I will not spend my hard earned money at Chili's like I want to.
A couple of weeks ago, my friend Chris and I went out for drinks, a local hole in the wall that did not take credit cards (magnetic strips intact or not), and naturally, I had no cash. I used my best sales technique on her, and offered to write her a check with the promise that "if you cash this on Thursday, it will be good...ish."
"What do you mean 'goodish?'" she asked.
"I mean the more time you wait past Thursday to cash it, the less likely that it will have viable funds." I often write a lot of checks around my pay day, but do not enter them into my checkbook. One of these days I will grow up and be a responsible check-writing adult that learns how to use their check register properly. But until then, may the first check to the bank win!
Starting with my very first credit card, I would look at a maximum spending limit like a goal. Right after I left one job, I received a credit card in the mail that had a $10,000 max. The first words out of my mouth were, "I'm rich!" followed by "I'm going shopping!" or "Drinks are on me!"
Then a peculiar thing would happen. Once a month I would get an unwanted gift. Well, two unwanted gifts but the one that I'm referring to here is my credit card bill. Say what? They want me to pay them back?!?!?!?! And with interest?!?!??! What nerve.
To punish myself I started to cut off the magnetic strips on the cards so that they would be unswipeable. This slowed me down from everything but online shopping and the desperate bartender who would offer to punch in the numbers for me. I also put most of my checks into an investment account that I cannot get to so that I will not spend my hard earned money at Chili's like I want to.
A couple of weeks ago, my friend Chris and I went out for drinks, a local hole in the wall that did not take credit cards (magnetic strips intact or not), and naturally, I had no cash. I used my best sales technique on her, and offered to write her a check with the promise that "if you cash this on Thursday, it will be good...ish."
"What do you mean 'goodish?'" she asked.
"I mean the more time you wait past Thursday to cash it, the less likely that it will have viable funds." I often write a lot of checks around my pay day, but do not enter them into my checkbook. One of these days I will grow up and be a responsible check-writing adult that learns how to use their check register properly. But until then, may the first check to the bank win!
A Boy Named Rex
I have always been attracted to muscles and to the guys that wear them. I remember dating a personal trainer once , Mo, who had a "surprise" for me for my birthday. You can imagine my discontent when we pulled up to the gym where he worked, and he pulled out a key. The gym was not a 24 hour gym, and closed early on the weekends, which is when my birthday fell that year.
"My boss is letting me borrow the key for the night," he said, his voice quivering with excitement as he unlocked the door.
I stared at him. "Is this your birthday present or mine?"
He looked at me blankly, his mind being totally incapable of grasping that this would not in a million years be fun for me.
To his credit, later that week he took me to a park and tried to teach me mixed martial arts, thinking that I would enjoy working out more if we were outdoors. That turned out to be our first and last session, as he tried to tell me as nicely as possible on the car ride home that I had been "his worst student."
When he was getting ready for bodybuilding competitions, he would expect me to diet with him, but could never figure out why I wouldn't lose much weight. It was because after he left my apartment where we had dined on fish with asparagus (again), I was f*cking hungry. I would wait for 10 minutes to make sure that he wasn't sitting in his car on his cell phone or lurking somewhere around the corner, and then I would drive to the nearest Taco Bell for some Nachos Bell Grande.
I met Rex while working at Enterprise. He came in wearing a tight white shirt and bad boy from The Karate Kid good looks, and I was smitten. His car was down the street at the bodyshop, and as it turned out, he knew my Assistant Manager Dario from high school. Dario gave him a big hug, forgetting that like most Enterprise people, he had just graduated high school a few years ago so not as much time had passed as he had conjured up in his head.
After Rex had left I tried to act cool as I asked Dario how he knew Rex, and what he was like in high school.
"He was popular, on the football and wrestling teams. He's a trainer for the Family Fitness in San Pedro...you think he's cute, huh?"
"What? How dare you...yes, he's cute. Why don't you ask him to our happy hour at the Blue Cafe on Thursday?"
If Jersey Shore would have been on back then I would have known then what I know now...Rex was a bonefied Caucasian Guido juicehead. And better suited for the likes of Snooki than me.
I wasn't sure if Rex was going to show up that night, but Dario had given him my number (he must have thought that I was crazy when he first saw me. I spent most of my time in my office doing paperwork or reading People magazines, but seeing how cute he was, I busied myself around the office, watering rubber plants and making coffee even though we were out of filters), and we had texted throughout the week.
I was a few Bud Lights in, and having a good time playing pool with my co-workers when preppy as could be Rex walked up. His right arm was in a sling. He said that he hurt it wrestling with someone at the gym, but instead of being frightened, I was kind of turned on. I have a weakness for neanderthals.
The night progressed with Rex not drinking much (of course he was watching his figure), and I drinking enough for the both of us (that's how I cope with dating anxiety). I am a social smoker, and wanted to smoke so badly, but knew that health conscious Rex would not approve. I told him that I had to go to the bathroom, and then ran downstairs and outside to join my boss Renee, and co-worker, Craig, outside. Craig is one of the funniest people you will ever meet. He had a belly full of beer, and probably had not seen a gym since being called last for dodgeball games in elementary school. But what Craig lacked in physical aptitude, he made up for with wit and impecial comedic timing. I was searching for a lighter when I saw the flame of a lighter coming towards me out of the darkness. Rex was standing there; he had apparently produced the lighter from its hiding place inside of his sling. Not knowing what to do, but not seeing a disgusted look from Rex, I went ahead and smoked my cigarette. He sat down in the chair between Craig and I, and embarked on a conversation that made me lose respect for Rex but gain respect for Craig. Out of the blue, Rex turned to Craig and said, "I have 6% body fat."
Without skipping a beat, Craig looked at Rex and said, "that's great. I have 96%."
"My boss is letting me borrow the key for the night," he said, his voice quivering with excitement as he unlocked the door.
I stared at him. "Is this your birthday present or mine?"
He looked at me blankly, his mind being totally incapable of grasping that this would not in a million years be fun for me.
To his credit, later that week he took me to a park and tried to teach me mixed martial arts, thinking that I would enjoy working out more if we were outdoors. That turned out to be our first and last session, as he tried to tell me as nicely as possible on the car ride home that I had been "his worst student."
When he was getting ready for bodybuilding competitions, he would expect me to diet with him, but could never figure out why I wouldn't lose much weight. It was because after he left my apartment where we had dined on fish with asparagus (again), I was f*cking hungry. I would wait for 10 minutes to make sure that he wasn't sitting in his car on his cell phone or lurking somewhere around the corner, and then I would drive to the nearest Taco Bell for some Nachos Bell Grande.
I met Rex while working at Enterprise. He came in wearing a tight white shirt and bad boy from The Karate Kid good looks, and I was smitten. His car was down the street at the bodyshop, and as it turned out, he knew my Assistant Manager Dario from high school. Dario gave him a big hug, forgetting that like most Enterprise people, he had just graduated high school a few years ago so not as much time had passed as he had conjured up in his head.
After Rex had left I tried to act cool as I asked Dario how he knew Rex, and what he was like in high school.
"He was popular, on the football and wrestling teams. He's a trainer for the Family Fitness in San Pedro...you think he's cute, huh?"
"What? How dare you...yes, he's cute. Why don't you ask him to our happy hour at the Blue Cafe on Thursday?"
If Jersey Shore would have been on back then I would have known then what I know now...Rex was a bonefied Caucasian Guido juicehead. And better suited for the likes of Snooki than me.
I wasn't sure if Rex was going to show up that night, but Dario had given him my number (he must have thought that I was crazy when he first saw me. I spent most of my time in my office doing paperwork or reading People magazines, but seeing how cute he was, I busied myself around the office, watering rubber plants and making coffee even though we were out of filters), and we had texted throughout the week.
I was a few Bud Lights in, and having a good time playing pool with my co-workers when preppy as could be Rex walked up. His right arm was in a sling. He said that he hurt it wrestling with someone at the gym, but instead of being frightened, I was kind of turned on. I have a weakness for neanderthals.
The night progressed with Rex not drinking much (of course he was watching his figure), and I drinking enough for the both of us (that's how I cope with dating anxiety). I am a social smoker, and wanted to smoke so badly, but knew that health conscious Rex would not approve. I told him that I had to go to the bathroom, and then ran downstairs and outside to join my boss Renee, and co-worker, Craig, outside. Craig is one of the funniest people you will ever meet. He had a belly full of beer, and probably had not seen a gym since being called last for dodgeball games in elementary school. But what Craig lacked in physical aptitude, he made up for with wit and impecial comedic timing. I was searching for a lighter when I saw the flame of a lighter coming towards me out of the darkness. Rex was standing there; he had apparently produced the lighter from its hiding place inside of his sling. Not knowing what to do, but not seeing a disgusted look from Rex, I went ahead and smoked my cigarette. He sat down in the chair between Craig and I, and embarked on a conversation that made me lose respect for Rex but gain respect for Craig. Out of the blue, Rex turned to Craig and said, "I have 6% body fat."
Without skipping a beat, Craig looked at Rex and said, "that's great. I have 96%."
Monday, January 18, 2010
"Items" by Judy
Another great email from my mother:
Sorry to keep playing phone tag with you. First time you called I was talking to my sister Karen (granted it was about how f'ed up our family is). Second time a co-worker (granted it was about how f'ed up our family is).
We support Luke Air Force Base and went to hear Senator John McCain speak. Was able to shake his hand, chat with him a few minutes, and get our picture taken with him (hello 2010 Christmas card). He's a nice guy.
I included a recipe for Brocolli Cheese Casserole.
Have a good day.
Love,
Mom
Sorry to keep playing phone tag with you. First time you called I was talking to my sister Karen (granted it was about how f'ed up our family is). Second time a co-worker (granted it was about how f'ed up our family is).
We support Luke Air Force Base and went to hear Senator John McCain speak. Was able to shake his hand, chat with him a few minutes, and get our picture taken with him (hello 2010 Christmas card). He's a nice guy.
I included a recipe for Brocolli Cheese Casserole.
Have a good day.
Love,
Mom
Friday, January 15, 2010
Old people are funny
And by old people, I mean both of my grandmothers.
My Grandma Joanne is my mother's mother. Looking back, it explains a lot. Graham Cracker, as I came to call her, was nuts. My uncle retold a story at her funeral about a phone conversation that they had. My aunt was not home, and my grandmother was happy to talk to anyone who answered so she began telling stories (picture Estelle Getty in Golden Girls saying 'Picture it. Peoria IL. 1945.)
"You know, when I was a waitress back in the day, men used to slap my ass all the time. One time, a guy slapped me on the ass so I slapped him in the face."
My uncle later recanted the story to my aunt who, without blinking an eye, said, "My mother was never a waitress."
I had a fetish when I was in high school where I loved to prank call Graham Cracker. I almost think that in some sick way, she looked forward to these calls. My favorite was where I was Gloria from Dallas Texas, and I was calling from the National Bingo Association. I was doing a poll where I was trying to see if Bingo Players across the United States wanted a second Free Space. "Sapphire...Sapphire, is that you?" She would be so excited that I would admit that it was me, and I would settle in for a round of embellished half-truths about her life.
My other grandmother, Mary, was the practical and silent type. She was the kind who wouldn't say a word, but when she was ready to leave, you would find her standing by the door with her purse on her arm. I would often wonder how long that she had stood there before anyone noticed.
Mary had a roatary phone that she had up until she was 90 years old. Normal children would let idiosyncracies like the fact that she had a collection of thimbles from different states and a cookoo clock that after thirty years sounded more like a frog than a bird, go. But not my dad or his siblings. They decided that after ninety years on this earth, that my grandmother needed a regular phone. The ultimate kick in the proverbial balls came when they not only got her a phone, but the kind that had the enlarged numbers on them. I stopped counting how many calls that we would get on the weekend mornings that would begin with "Charlie? What the hell? Did I dial this thing right? I can see that that number is a 3. People on the moon can see that that number is a 3...Charlie?"
If these are the Golden Years...then welcome.
My Grandma Joanne is my mother's mother. Looking back, it explains a lot. Graham Cracker, as I came to call her, was nuts. My uncle retold a story at her funeral about a phone conversation that they had. My aunt was not home, and my grandmother was happy to talk to anyone who answered so she began telling stories (picture Estelle Getty in Golden Girls saying 'Picture it. Peoria IL. 1945.)
"You know, when I was a waitress back in the day, men used to slap my ass all the time. One time, a guy slapped me on the ass so I slapped him in the face."
My uncle later recanted the story to my aunt who, without blinking an eye, said, "My mother was never a waitress."
I had a fetish when I was in high school where I loved to prank call Graham Cracker. I almost think that in some sick way, she looked forward to these calls. My favorite was where I was Gloria from Dallas Texas, and I was calling from the National Bingo Association. I was doing a poll where I was trying to see if Bingo Players across the United States wanted a second Free Space. "Sapphire...Sapphire, is that you?" She would be so excited that I would admit that it was me, and I would settle in for a round of embellished half-truths about her life.
My other grandmother, Mary, was the practical and silent type. She was the kind who wouldn't say a word, but when she was ready to leave, you would find her standing by the door with her purse on her arm. I would often wonder how long that she had stood there before anyone noticed.
Mary had a roatary phone that she had up until she was 90 years old. Normal children would let idiosyncracies like the fact that she had a collection of thimbles from different states and a cookoo clock that after thirty years sounded more like a frog than a bird, go. But not my dad or his siblings. They decided that after ninety years on this earth, that my grandmother needed a regular phone. The ultimate kick in the proverbial balls came when they not only got her a phone, but the kind that had the enlarged numbers on them. I stopped counting how many calls that we would get on the weekend mornings that would begin with "Charlie? What the hell? Did I dial this thing right? I can see that that number is a 3. People on the moon can see that that number is a 3...Charlie?"
If these are the Golden Years...then welcome.
I'm turning into my mother
There have been ever so subtle signs as I've grown older that I am in fact becoming my mother. The first incident happened about a year ago. I found myself (sadly) grocery shopping on a Friday night, and (even more sadly) in the produce section, squeezing a cantaloupe to see if it was ripe. I had never before squeezed fruit, and even now, when the realization of what I was doing dawned on me, I found myself frozen in between a row of watermelons and pita breads. I was squeezing as if I was an old pro, as if I knew what I was looking for.
The second time was when I was Christmas gift shopping at Barnes & Nobles. I had forgotten to print off some 20% off internet coupons that I had received, and even though it would only have saved me two or three bucks, I put the books back on their shelves, vowing to come back, coupons in hand. That's right. I will gladly pay $400 for a Diane Von Furstenburg Jersey dress for myself, but only $20 for Christmas gifts for my loved ones.
My mother is both loving and cold at the same time. She's kind of like a taco with mild sauce and sour cream. She has the best intentions, but they are quickly followed up with statements like, "Honey, it's so good to see you. Let's bond." This is followed by a few minutes of awkward silence and her staring at me. Another of my favorites is the last time we went to the grocery store. My grandmother had just passed away, and we needed to buy enough groceries to feed 30 clinger-on family members for the weekend. As soon as we walk in the door, she grabs a cart and pushes it towards me. This is my sign that I will obviously be the cart pusher. She then says, "Honey, pick out whatever you want." Walking through the meats area, I tossed two Rotisserie Chickens into the cart. She abruptly took them out, making a sour face. "Sapphire, who likes chicken? No one eats chicken. Who will eat this. It will just go bad." Umm... "Actually, mother, most of America eats chicken. How about soup? Kroger's has some fun soups. Let's get the won ton one." I get another face like the woman just stepped in dog poo. "Who likes soup? It will just go bad." I abruptly stop pushing the cart. "Mother, I thought that you said that I could get whatever I wanted?" My mother paused for a moment. Then without saying a word, she walked back, picked up the Rotisserie Chickens and the soup, and put them in the cart. Sapphire 1, Mom 0.
The second time was when I was Christmas gift shopping at Barnes & Nobles. I had forgotten to print off some 20% off internet coupons that I had received, and even though it would only have saved me two or three bucks, I put the books back on their shelves, vowing to come back, coupons in hand. That's right. I will gladly pay $400 for a Diane Von Furstenburg Jersey dress for myself, but only $20 for Christmas gifts for my loved ones.
My mother is both loving and cold at the same time. She's kind of like a taco with mild sauce and sour cream. She has the best intentions, but they are quickly followed up with statements like, "Honey, it's so good to see you. Let's bond." This is followed by a few minutes of awkward silence and her staring at me. Another of my favorites is the last time we went to the grocery store. My grandmother had just passed away, and we needed to buy enough groceries to feed 30 clinger-on family members for the weekend. As soon as we walk in the door, she grabs a cart and pushes it towards me. This is my sign that I will obviously be the cart pusher. She then says, "Honey, pick out whatever you want." Walking through the meats area, I tossed two Rotisserie Chickens into the cart. She abruptly took them out, making a sour face. "Sapphire, who likes chicken? No one eats chicken. Who will eat this. It will just go bad." Umm... "Actually, mother, most of America eats chicken. How about soup? Kroger's has some fun soups. Let's get the won ton one." I get another face like the woman just stepped in dog poo. "Who likes soup? It will just go bad." I abruptly stop pushing the cart. "Mother, I thought that you said that I could get whatever I wanted?" My mother paused for a moment. Then without saying a word, she walked back, picked up the Rotisserie Chickens and the soup, and put them in the cart. Sapphire 1, Mom 0.
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