Once Upon A Midget

Most of my Halloween costumes blow. For as creative as I claim to be, I often shop last minute through picked over slutty Halloween costumes the day before the holiday. I have been a Border Patrol Agent, a Golddigger, a Sailor Girl, a Cheerleader, and a Zombie Prom Queen. But this year I wanted to be something different...something that people in my small bubble of Naples Island would talk about for years. I have had friends tell me that I remind them of Chelsea Handler so I bought a blonde wig, but now I needed a prop. Belvedere Vodka, the preferred vodka of Chelsea, Ms. Handler if you're nasty, would not be enough. I needed something bigger...yet smaller. So I googled "Renting A Midget." The questions you find yourself asking when inquiring the going rate of a Little Person for chosen evening feels what I like to call "Leaving Vegas and needing at least five showers" dirty. But its all business, and I soon found that Halloween and Christmas are the Little People's biggest holidays. I only had days to decide between a Latino LP named Gaspar and an African American LP that went by the moniker of Five Cent. While the latter was tempting, the aforementioned was more practical.
The big day finally arrived, and I was a ball of nerves. I'm not sure if this is how newly adoptive parents feel, but I was nervous all day, making sure that his nursery, or in Gaspar's case my bedroom full of Magnum condoms and Marlboro Light cigarettes for picture taking were ready. He pulled up like a true gentleman, in an early 2000 model of Ford Taurus with push pedals and a booster seat to make driving easier. He wore a page boy hat and an argyle sweater, and was incredibly sweet. Since I had never rented another human being besides a stripper before, and really they don't count, they are not nearly as special, I found myself very attentive towards' Gaspar's needs. But since he was my bitch for the night, I put him to work. I let my friend Alisha carry him around, I played 'airplane' with him, he carried my bottle of Belvedere around and lit my cigarettes.
All was bliss until the day after the rental...and the six days following that. Gaspar texted, emailed,  Facebook messaged me and my friends, called...and then on the sixth day after I didn't respond, he deleted me as his Facebook friend. I initially went through all of the feelings of grief: sadness, anger, disbelief, finally acceptance. But really...can't a girl just rent a midget and call it a day?

Cat Scratch Fever

So I went to dinner with MFL Amy (short for My Favorite Lesbian) and her wife Michelle. I've known Amy for ten years, ever since the Enterprise days. We went down to Wokcano in downtown Long Beach for dinner, and in the middle of eating a Philadelphia Roll, Amy popped the question.
Amy: So, would you be able to take an animal?
Sapphire (my guard already up): What kind of animal?
Amy: Does it matter?
Sapphire: I hate cats.
Amy: Well you haven't meant Mama. She is a cat who has had babies (yep, I figure that), and we need to find her a good home. We just have too many animals (why couldn't you throw me one of your extra dogs then? Those I like). But you should know that Mama has feline AIDS.
It's still amazing to me that Amy is in sales with that little pitch of hers. Not only do I not like cats, but I do not want a cat that makes poor decisions.

You Know What I Hate?

When people write on their Facebook "OMG, I have so much to do today. Does anyone want to come over and (insert lame verb here)?" Um...fuck no. Why would I want to come over and clean your house, watch your kids, wrap your presents, mow your lawn, grocery shop, or wax your cooter? Let alone for free, and when I have my own shit to do. Really? Has anyone ever said yes to that? So stop this nonsense Facebook friends...you're better than that.

So what had happened was...

I recently read a story in the paper (or more accurately on a friend's Facebook) that told the story of a twelve-year old girl in Africa who was raped by her uncle as she used the outhouse in the middle of the night. His wife discovered them and beat the girl, and then called the police. The courts ordered the girl to 100 lashes and the uncle to 200 lashes. The girl died after being whipped 70 times, the uncle ran away after only being whipped twice. I'll be honest...before reading this story I had thought torture was watching a Vin Diesel marathon.

Chelsea y Chuy

For someone who fancies themself to be on the creative side, I am extremely uncreative when it comes to Halloween costumes...until this year. I wanted to be something so out of left field that people would weep and clap and throw rose petals at my feet for the sheer genius of my costume. While I often opt for a last minute store bought purchase (please see Border Patrol, Sailor Girl, Cheerleader, Zombie Prom Queen), this year I was going to be unconventional...and I needed a prop. I had tried stand-up a few times, and friends had told me that I reminded them of Chelsea Handler...so that's who I would be this year. But wearing a blonde wig and donning a bottle of Belvedere all night was not going to be enough. I needed my own midget, my own Chuy, but I didn't know if renting a person was even possible. It turns out that it is.
I Googled "Renting A Midget" on the internet, and found Tiny Entertainment, a troupe of little people who pimp themselves out to be oompa loompas and elves for the holidays. I briefly considered renting 5 Cent due to Chelsea's alledged fling with the rapper/horrible actor/Vitamin Water and Energy drink mogul, but somehow inherently knew that Chuy was the way to go. They only had one Latino LP (Little Person)...his name was Gaspar...and for the low low price of $425 for 3 hours, he was mine.
Gaspar far exceeded my expectations...although anything would have exceeded my expectations. I had rented a midget! It didn't matter that I used all of my money to rent him, or that I would be eating Ramen noodles the entire following week until pay day...the memories that he would bring would last a life time.
Gaspar was married to another LP, and they had an LP daughter named Gaby. He was very sweet, and was basically my bitch for the evening. He lit my cigarettes, deferred all free drinks given to him my way, carried around my bottle of Belvedere, and didn't put up much of a fight when my friend Alisha and I tried to carry him around like a child or play airplane with him. Before we even went out, I made him (bitch, I paid for him, don't judge me) pose on my bed amongst Magnum condom wrappers, empty bottles of booze and Marlboro cigarettes.
Not having children of my own, I had no idea until I rented Gaspar how protective mothers must be over their children. I felt the need to make sure that he was OK, and that he hadn't lost my bottle of Belvedere. Around midnight I started to fade so Gaspar walked me home. When we got to my door step to say good night, I wasn't sure what the proper ending should be so I slurred "We're not going to have sex." He shrugged his tiny little shoulders, told me it had been a pleasure, then hopped into his Ford Taurus with the gas pedal extenders and booster seat to drive back to Riverside.
Truly that should have been the end of it, but since my life is filled with weird occurences that have basically forced me to start this blog, it wasn't the end...but the mere beginning to a week of emails, phone calls, texts, and Facebook messages professing how great of friends we were. Um, if we were that great of friends, then give me my $425 back so that I could stop eating Ramen noodles until pay day. Knowing that he was married, and not wanting to be a Little Person homewrecker, I stopped answering his insistent communication. I was at my friend Angela's house the following Friday night doing our normal routine of drinking too much wine and stalking ex-boyfriends on Facebook, and I flipped onto his page to show her who Gaspar was...and much to my chagrin, saw that he had defriended me. Our six day friendship had been a whirlwind of unanswered text messages and emails, and now that it was over, it left me feeling hollow inside. It also left me with the age old question that I'm sure you've heard a million times: Can't a girl just rent a midget and call it a day?

Being A Cougar

Being a cougar is not all that it's cracked up to be. It's very much like dating yourself, but 5 years ago.
I met Paul at an Angels game at the end of April. I was still in the midst of using up any downtime that I had so that I would not sit at home and cry over what a mundane life I could have had with Graham. My good friend Keith is an A's fan, and got tickets for us on a Tuesday night. Our friend JR went as well, but said that some younger guys in his fraternity had his tickets, and he would meet up with us later.
I spent most of the night drinking beer and taking self-portraits of myself and Keith (or of the sky, our arms, anything but our faces). Since I was PMS'ing, I ate like a pregnant lady. I ate a hot dog (btw, Angels dogs are NO Dodger dogs) and nachos, and later, I would eat Paul's fries, double dipping (but not biblically, at least not yet) in his sauces.
I don't drink anything except for chardonnay, so when I drink any other type of liquor, I don't handle it well. After Keith and I had been up at the Bud Beer Garden, and after beer #4 or 6 or 12 I went to the bathroom. Stumbling back, I could not find my friend, one whom I had known for at least twelve years. I'm not sure how long they watched me scan the sea of red Angel hats for until they finally called my name. And that's when I looked up and saw Paul. He was cute. Really cute.
I saw Paul on Facebook the next day, and friended him. We talked casually for a while on FB, and then I sent him a message with my cell phone number. He texted, and then we slowly built a textual relationship. It was over a month before we finally sealed the deal, and I really felt like I had put in work.
Paul had a great body...and he required a magnum condom. But he was not circumcized. Which is fine, but there is something about an uncircumcized penis that is just so aero-dynamic. It's kind of like being f*cked by a Ford Windstar.
Since I had not been expecting Paul that night, I had went to dinner with my friend Coco. There is a great place right down the street from us that has $5 entrees and wine on Tuesday nights. Guess who has more wine than entrees? That's right. This girl.
I tried to set boundaries with Paul, like I'm not going to come over to your house after a night of drinking but I will send you a picture of myself in a bra and panties. Come on people, I was raised right. So when Paul sent a message that night and asked if I wanted to meet him and his friend out a mile down the street from me, I suggested a place in between (my laziness grows in exponential bounds as I age). Part of my putting up boundaries has to do with the fact that I'm not in my twenties any more, and I simply cannot exert myself like I used to. Double dipping, and not just in Paul's fries, is a thing of the past. People take notice if I'm wearing the same suit two days in a row now, and buying a toothbrush or panty hose on the way into work takes away at least five more minutes from my already bad REM sleep. Paul asked me to come over one weekday night around midnight, which I would have jumped at like a fat person clawing at a Twinkie, in my twenties. Now, these thoughts ran through my mind: 'I haven't shaved my legs. Do I have Scope? No. Crap, I'm going to have to brush my teeth again. Should I put makeup on? Straighten my hair. I'd only get a few hours of sleep after all of this preparation. Never mind. I'm just going to go to bed.' In my twenties I would have thought: 'This is just like a Porky's movie. Awesome,' and then I would have floored my car at 80 mph down sleepy Long Beach side streets to get to his place.
The second Angels game came a few days after Paul and I did the deed. The deed did not consist of earthshaking or mountains moving, but it was nice and I was hoping that a summer fling could commence. He brought his friend Nathaniel, who was a 4'11 Caucasian Jewish hip hop artist with a patch of gray hair on his bangs. The day was filled with booze which spilled back to Second Street after the Angels game was over. Paul was clearly over hanging out, but Nathaniel still wanted to party. My cousin Mindy, Nathaniel and I went back to my place where we downloaded Nathaniel's hip hop songs, and drank beer. I told Nathaniel that I wanted to hump Paul again...nothing more, nothing less. I'm still not sure where the distortion lies, but Nathaniel suggested that I send Paul a message, talking about what a great guy Nathaniel was and how funny he was, and how I'd like to hang out with Paul again soon. Exactly. The message was more of a bromance written note a la The Notebook than a message to get me laid.
Paul's birthday was shortly after that. Neither he nor Nathaniel bothered to invite me to the bash, which hurt my feelings since I had gotten them into the Diamond Club less than two weeks before. I wasn't looking for a relationship, but I felt kind of used and disrespected. I definitely wasn't planning a wedding and a future that included a baseball team of kids and quincineras. But the flirting was fun, and all I really wanted out of my friendship with Paul was the textual part of it. I really don't need much more than a man with opposable thumbs.

The Valentine's Day Massacre

I view Valentine’s Day much like I do New Years Eve. I hate participating. Except this year I had a date. His name was Graham, and I had went to college with him. He was sweet and great, and of course I would end up messing it up, but this date was hilarity in the making. My friend Coco called me during the day, and asked if I would go out with her and some guy from her high school that was in town on business, and had asked her out. I told her that I had a date with Graham that night, but if she was uncomfortable, then she could come with us.
I stopped at my watering hole, Chili’s, on the way home and had a glass of wine. Graham called and told me that he had burned his balls while Nairing them. I would say that that story sets the tone for the evening.
Coco was buzzed by the time I got to her place, and then she and the boys did shots before leaking her apartment. We went to Sushi of Naples where our favorite sushi maker, Yoshi, was slaving away. (After our breakup, Sushi of Naples closed. Graham ran into Yoshi and apparently it is going to reopen under different management again. In my heart, although Graham and I are broken up, we share 50-50 custody of Yoshi if Sushi of Naples is ever to rise again. It is California after all). The sake was flowing like a sieve, and after deciding to ditch Coco’s lame date, we headed out to a few more bars.
To say that we needed a kid leash for Coco that night was an understatement. She would wander off while Graham and I were talking, and then we would have to look under tables, in bathrooms, and on the streets for her before she would wander back in from the abyss with a glazed look in her eye and an undesirable man on her arm.
We ended up going to Alex’s Bar in Long Beach. Basically the night would go like this: Graham and I would be talking, and someone would come up to us to let us know that Coco was in the photo booth posing. There would be no money in the booth for pictures, there would be a line of people wanting to take a picture, and Coco would refuse to get out. I was able to get Coco out of the photo booth, and then she walked onto their karaoke stage and started dancing with dimly lit fluorescent light fixtures. We managed to get her back into a seat at the bar (or maybe she wandered over there herself, I can’t recall).
Cut to, I was talking to Graham again, and one of his friends from the band Mars Volta walked up. Graham said hello, and the band member said, “Your friend just spit in my face.” Apparently Coco didn’t like this guy hitting on her so she spit her drink out in his face. And then came the best part of my evening (outside of being with Graham).
Graham and I were talking, but he was looking over in Coco’s direction. She sat there, glazed eyes and all, stirring her hundredth Jack & Coke, her feet up on the bar stool in front of her.
Graham: “She’s peeing.”
Sapphire: “What?”
Graham: “She’s peeing. And she’s making eye contact with me while she does it.”
I looked over and locked eyes with Coco who was in fact peeing while sitting in her bar stool. It was hypnotic. I couldn’t watch but I couldn’t turn away.
Graham: “Get her out of here.”
I put Coco in my backseat and drove to her house while Graham talked to the owner, who was left to mop up her urine.
I couldn’t figure out how to open Coco’s door, and she was even less help than I was. My phone was dead so I went home to wait for Graham. He came home, and said that he had had his cab stop by her place to make sure that she was OK. He said that no one was there. We went to bed, and then my phone rang one hour later.
Coco: “This is unacceptable.”
Sapphire: “Oh my. Are you still outside?”
Coco: “Unacceptable.”
We drove the half a mile to Coco’s house. I stayed in the car while Graham went up to Coco’s apartment to look for her. This is how he tells the end of this tale.
Graham: “She came up out of the darkness (oh, did I forget to mention that she was wearing a dress, but used an off the shoulder Pat Benatar shirt as a cover up from my back seat) with vomit on her shirt.” And this was how I spent my first and only Valentine’s Day with Graham.

You Give Love A Bad Name

That's right Bon Jovi, I do. To say that I'm bad at relationships is an understatement. I know that it's all psychosomatic, but I've always hung out with guys who are allergic to paying for dinner or don't want to be with me exclusively or don't know my correct name (i.e. Sapphire Jordan). I'm not sure that I've figured out what I'm looking for, but I figure that I'll just know when I find it, that we'll fit like puzzle pieces.
I recently thought that I had found my missing puzzle piece in Graham. I had known Graham since college, although not super well. He was in a fraternity and I was in a sorority, but I spent most of my time hooking up with losers in other fraternities. My friend Kristy invited me to a local bar for an 80's style New Years Eve with Graham, but as much as I love champagne and kissing strangers at midnight, I have never liked this holiday so I stayed home. Thank you for keeping me company, Andy Cohen and Real Housewives.
I met up with a hungover Graham and Kristy the next day for brunch. Remembering that Graham also worked out at 24 Hour Fitness, I got his number and because health comes way after partying, we made plans to work out like a month later. We had fun working out together on the elyptical machines until his back gave out, and then we went and had dinner at Sushi of Naples.
Hanging out with Graham was effortless. He was funny, sweet, romantic, kind…he was the perfect boyfriend. So naturally I messed it up. I got scared and pushed away. I partied like I was Andy Dick. I did everything that Kate Hudson did in 10 Ways to Lose A Guy only he didn’t come back after we broke up.
I want to invent the Heartbreak Clock. It will be bigger than Billy the Big Mouth Bass, and will revolutionize the way we look at heartbreak. It will look like one of those countdown clocks mounted on the wall of a dive bar that says “10 days, 14 hours, 5 minutes until St. Patrick’s Day.” And when you finally stop waking up with that dull pain in your chest, then you can stop the clock and see officially how long it took you to get over the heartbreak.
They say that your heart takes half as long as the relationship lasted to heal. Since my relationships are often short-lived, it takes me 100 – 150% of the time to heal from a breakup because you don’t mourn so much as you speculate as to what could have been. Your significant other hasn’t had time to leave the toilet seat up innumerable times and get on your nerves. I missed Graham every day; he was my bud and I adored him. I used to hyperventilate when he wanted to spend so much time with me because I couldn’t figure out why anyone would want to be around me for that long. I don’t even like being around me for that long.
The best thing about having a boyfriend is that you are finally able to graduate from the kids table. I felt like I was able to do more, and instead of getting to know what a great guy Graham was, I showed him off like a Westminster show pony.
I began to feel manic after that breakup. I knew that I was the reason that my relationships were insubstantial, and I didn’t want to grow up to be (or look like) Dorothy from the Golden Girls. I didn’t like being around or hearing about couples. I would cry at night a lot. I worked out in the hopes that if I looked like a supermodel then I would have better relationships…only to gain 6 pounds. I finally decided to see a therapist that I went to right after college. Being the child of divorce, my mother trounced me around like a Westminster show pony from therapist to therapist when I was in high school. If I rearranged my closet, I was “depressed.” If I stayed home on a Friday night, I was “depressed.” I had been on Prozac and Xanax , and Beer and wine coolers, and nothing fixed the problem. I would watch Intervention, and think that my parents should be throwing me a ticker tape parade because I wasn’t that messed up…after all, I was functional. I called the therapist that I hadn’t seen in twelve years. Not only did she say that she remembered me (what kind of fucked up shit could I have told her that she remembered me more than a decade later?!?!), but she scheduled an appointment for the following evening.
I went into her office. It looked just like I remembered, only older. She came to the door, and we exchanged pleasantries, and she asked for my check right away. Back in the day, my insurance covered a bulk of my therapy and the co-payments were like $8. I now had to pay full price, and the payments were close to $100. We sat down and she started asking questions. When we talked about substance abuse, she asked if I could give up drinking while we worked together. She asked this like she would ask me to take out the garbage. This was of course after she made the mistake of saying, “You drink alcohol like I eat ice cream.” I remember staring at her, and realizing that in that moment, I was sitting across from my mother. I was not going back to see her again. What makes me feel good is church, working out, and writing. I think as long as I stick to those things, the heartbreak clock doesn't have anything on me.

Tsunami Ami...the longest night of my life

I mean this in the most PC way possible, but unless I was in Japan, I shouldn't have been affected by their tsunami in the way that I was. And I owe that honor to my mother. Granted, in hind sight and after much rest, her concern was appreciated. And thus begins the preface to my story.
Picture it...Long Beach...Thursday March 10, 2011. The calls and emails to my phone begin around 1am. It begins with the courtesy email "Hey Sapphire, an earthquake and tsunami just hit Japan."
2 am email: "Sapphire, are you watching the news?" (Why wouldn't I be? It was 2am on a week night. I only had to be up in 4 hours).
3am email: "Sapphire, are you watching the news? You never answered me. Send me a text that you got this. They say that waves are coming to the West Coast."
I wake up for the third time that night, and send her an acknowledgement text that I got her message, and I turned on the TV. I assume that this lack of sleep and being awoke every hour or so would be equivalent to having a newborn baby? I watched until 5am, and was just drifting back into a blissful sleep with dreams of Ryan Phillipe when she sent another email. This was my favorite.
Mom: "Sapphire, have you seen the news? A tsunami is headed directly towards Long Beach and Seal Beach (that seemed very specific). Get to higher ground. It'll be hitting around 7am."
I don't know if you've seen Armageddon or Deep Impact, but this email actually scared the shit out of me. I grabbed my makeup bag, and ran out the door. I ran to the back of my apartment building which was next to an inlet to the Pacific Ocean. The tide was low. Since I am a cornucopia of random knowledge, I knew that this could be the beginnings of a tsunami. Or simply a low tide. A total flip of the coin.
I walked out to my car and noticed all of the cars still parked along the street, but there wasn't a soul around. Were they still in bed? Had they already fled? Or was I just smarter than the rest? Was this my own Night of the Comet and I would be one of only a handful of survivors left? Would I turn crazy and befriend a volleyball named Wilson? Why is the sky blue? OK, now I'm just plain freaking out.
I wasn't sure how far inland I was supposed to go. The tidal wave in Deep Impact was huge, but I wasn't sure if I could make it to the Inland Empire, 45 minutes east, before being engulfed by waves. I settled on driving towards Long Beach State, which was 10 minutes east, but had an Einstein Bagels next to it. The world may be about to end, but I had a mocha ice blended on the mind. I pulled into the parking lot of the bagel shop, grabbed my makeup bag and purse, and went inside.
You know those dreams where you walk into a room and then you realize that you forgot to put your pants on? Or maybe you're completely naked? This was just like that...only it wasn't a dream. I really was standing inside of a chain bagel joint in snowflake pajamas with my makeup bag tucked under my arm like a freak, and I was being stared at by maybe 15 diners in suits and ties who were smart enough to realize that a tsunami was not about to wipe out our fragile little city that Snoop Dogg often pays homage to.
I bought my bagel and ice blended slice of heaven, and ate in my car. No way was I going to eat inside, I was too embarrassed. And I was exhausted. How could I possibly call in late to work, and explain my mother's neuroses to my boss without it sounding like a 'my dog ate my homework' kind of excuse?

There's Nothing Like Mom When You're Sick

I rarely get sick, but when I do, it's a tidal wave of germs. And being a control freak, the thing I hate most about getting sick is the fact that I cannot schedule the sickness. I recently got a really bad cold, and this totally conflicted with my social life. I got sick on a Wednesday, and as the week progressed, it got worse. By Saturday morning, the day of my 5K race, I was convinced that I had walking pneumonia or a bronchial tract infection. I ran half a mile with my friend Autumn, and then slinked off to the side to blend in with the crowd, inconspicuously taking off my racing number and untying the timing chip from my shoe lace. My lungs felt like they were on fire, and I wanted to vomit. I had a plane to catch to Arizona later that day, and I couldn't flake again.
And so it happened. I was that person on the plane that no one wants to sit next to. And since I was one of the last people on, I got to sit in the back between two people. I ordered my usual (a Chardonnay with a water back), and as we were making our final descent, I began coughing to the point where I threw up in my hand. Not sure what the etiquette for this was, I just shoved my vomit back in... This happened twice. It boggles the mind that no one looked my way, offered assistance or asked if I was OK. Damn you, Southworst!
My mom and stepdad picked me up, and as I told them that I was going to have to miss my friend Katie's birthday party that night because I felt like I needed to go to the hospital, my stepdad wouldn't hear of it. "You don't need to go to the hospital. We'll get you better." This was immediately followed by us pulling into the driveway, and then Jim walking into the entertainment room to watch a movie.
My mother must have felt the need to check the box for her one maternal duty of the year, and she made me a bowl of soup. However, as I sat at the counter talking to her, I had to blow my nose. I put the dirty kleenex on the counter, and without saying a word, my mom came around the corner with a garbage can saying "I don't want to touch that. There is a limit to a mother's love."
Feeling close to death, I finished my soup and walked down the hall to my bedroom, listening as Lysol was sprayed on the chair and counter where I was just sitting at. My cough wouldn't stop so I came outside and asked for cough syrup.
Mom: Sapphire, I have cough syrup, but its prescription. If anything would happen to you, I could get in trouble.
Never mind that I could die of pneumonia in her bed because of their blatant refusal to take me to Urgent Care.
Sapphire: I'm going to chance it. Give me the spoon.
I slept like a baby. The next morning I woke up, feeling a little better. Perhaps I was feeling cocky or I was delusional from my mother's LSD tripping cough syrup, but as we began our hour drive to Scottsdale, I didn't take any water or medicine.
Fifteen minutes into the drive, I still say due to the dusty Arizona desert, I started my cough of death all over again. My mother sighed, asking if I needed her to pull over. Really? Was pulling over really going to stop my cough? I finally managed to gasp "I need water."
Mom: OK. Should I stop at BP or Walgreens?
Is this really a pertinent question right now?
Sapphire (wheezing): It...doesn't...matter.
Mom: OK, then we'll go to Walgreens. I have a discount card for there.
I still can't figure out if the 13 cents that she would have saved on a single bottle of water would have went towards my portion of the will, but my mother will always be one of those couponing freaks that you see on the OWN Network.

Dog the Bounty Hunter

My newest reality TV fascination is Dog the Bounty Hunter. My friend Susan lives in Colorado Springs, and said that they do a lot of their filming there. One Halloween she even dressed up as Beth, and was treated like a local celebrity.
Upon first flipping through the stations on a boring and rainy Saturday night (I have to stress that it was raining so that I don’t feel like such a loser for having no plans and committing my evening to watching reality TV marathons), and came upon Dog and his family.
Who hasn’t had a child with Dog? OMG, he has spawn everywhere. And they either have an interesting name or an interesting hairdo. I first had a crush on Leland until a later episode showed him wearing Laura Ingalls Wilder type braids in his hair. Then it was on Duane Lee, who was even hotter but had an affinity towards corny one-liners aimed at Leland. And finally my heart came to rest on Wesley, who is in very few episodes, but who is by far the hottest. Even hotter than Dog’s nephew with the one leg.
And yet, through all of the mullets and horrendous fashion ensembles, I find myself yearning to be a part of their family. I love that they’re reformed bad asses who praise God. I love that every redneck across America showed up for their book tour. It doesn’t matter that these people don’t know how to read, and that the women probably turned a couple of tricks to buy the book, but they formed friendships with Dog and Beth on Twitter, the way God intended. It was almost like watching a remake of the Goonies. I half-expected a camera to pan to Corey Feldman holding up a gold penny saying “this one’s my dream. I’m taking this one back!”
I hope that I’m never in a position where I’m a fugitive from the law, but if I happen to be one living in Colorado Springs or Hawaii, then I hope that Dog, Beth, Laura Ingalls and the rest of the gang are the ones to bring me back to justice.

There Once Was A Mayor of San Pedro

San Pedro, CA, was very much a locals sort of town, home to families who had lived there for decades. Working for Enterprise, it was easy to track down a renter who owed you money. They either were a longshoreman or a recovering alcoholic at a bar.
My favorite repeat renter was Alex. He was late 60’s or early 70’s, and owned The Green Onion restaurant. His staff was instructed to comp most of our dinner, which usually consisted of margaritas and chips y salsa. I went in there so often with my Assistant Managers, Brian and Danielle, that they took our picture and hung it up next to the table we frequented, a sort of Hall of Fame wall for patrons of the restaurant.
It was Christmas time in the small, sleepy seaside town of San Pedro. Brian and I had called it a day, and went to the restaurant for dinner. Alex had Santa Claus statues everywhere, and many of them were the big creepy 3’ tall kind that would give you nightmares as a child. Most of them were just lifelike dolls, but some would light up and sing & dance when you walked by. After a couple of margaritas, Brian and I looked over to see an elderly gentleman dancing with the largest of the dancing Santas.
After yelling out cheers of encouragement (this old timer very obviously had gotten some recent practice on his grandkids’ Dance Dance Revolution game the way he was moving), he came over and sat with us. He introduced himself as the Mayor of San Pedro.
Brian: OMG, it is an honor to meet you. Since you are a city official, I am surprised that Sapphire here hasn’t blown you in a public restroom yet.
The Mayor was so drunk that he good naturedly agreed, and then ordered us a round of shots.
For months after we saw the drunken Mayor of San Pedro get his groove on with the Pit Boss of Santa Clauses, whenever we would see him in The Green Onion, we would say hello and buy the Mayor a drink, which he would happily accept. This went on for about a year when one day we were having a talk with Alex at the rental branch while we waited for his Cargo van to arrive. Brian brought up the story about the Mayor dancing with the lifesized Santa, and Alex looked confused.
Alex: The Mayor? What Mayor?
Brian: The Mayor of San Pedro. He’s always at your place.
Alex: San Pedro doesn’t have a Mayor. That was probably Charlie, he always tells people that he’s the Mayor. He’s just the town drunk.
After that epic let down of meeting someone that could possibly be 1,725th in line to the presidency was all a sham, Brian and I continued to see the Mayor around town. And even though we knew the truth, we let him live his Sally Fields “you really like me” moment of glory, and never let on that we knew he was not San Pedro royalty. But we did stop offering to buy him alcohol.

More emails from Judy

I tell my mom that I am going to Cabo for my good friend Priscilla's wedding in June. She tells me that she and Jim have been asked to go with some friends on a Mexican cruise:
"We're not going on the Mexican cruise- for me it's the drug war activity- in today's news they just found 14 people beheaded in Acapulco. We're planning a Sicily trip later this year with friends, so that will be enough for me. But you have fun. Love, Mom"

A more recent email from Judy was after we had 5 days of rain in Southern California and there were some bad pile ups on the freeways:
"Saw there was a bad accident on PCH in Newport Beach. Not surprising there were as many dead and injured with the way everyone drives on those highways. Love, Mom"

I love my mom but she totally reminds me of the skit on Saturday Night Live where Debbie Downer has a depressing answer for every conversation. Waa Waa Waa!!!