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.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, April 15, 2011
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?
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?
Friday, April 8, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
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.
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!!!
"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!!!
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