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.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
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!!!
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
A Christmas Story ... Arizona Style
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.
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.
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.
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