Awkwardly Social

When I was a kid, I used to dream about growing up and what that would be like. I always imagined fancy dinner parties with red wine and a lot of laughing about sophisticated things. So last night when we went to El Cholo for dinner with a couple of friends, I felt like, well, grown up. And in the good way.

I drank two margaritas and unfortunately there were side effects. Those side effects being somehow related to me thinking I should eat everything on my plate. And all the pralines plus more that the waiter so graciously (maliciously) brought to the table. For those of you who don’t know, El Cholo’s meals are fucking huge. As Louie calls them, man meals. I ate all of it, save a little of my rice.

Oh the pain that resulted. I had a stitch in my side from the pain of all that delicious Mexican food pressing on all my other organs. I think I kind of know what the early stages of pregnancy feel like now. I was pregnant with an El Cholo baby. I’m not going to talk about the birth of that process, because scatological, ew.

I remember as I was trying to fall asleep with my El Cholo baby pressing on my bladder, I sort of remember asking Louie really weird questions. Questions about really random things. Or was that this morning. Black outs? I don’t know, I only had two! Oh, how I love tequila, but it’s becoming a sad strange mistress. A mistress that I think will someday be traced back to my downfall. Because if there is one thing I cannot do, it is break up with tequila.

I was reading a blog, as I am oft to do, and read some reminisce about the Berlin Wall falling. In 1989. Uh. I was in high school when the Berlin Wall fell. But I was not in high school in 1989. How does one explain this?

1. I remember clearly being in the high school office talking to the German foreign exchange student.
2. Did I hang out in the high school office when I was in 8th grade?
3. Maybe. I was in advanced math, and also a trouble-maker.
4. Advanced math for eighth graders was held at the high school with dumb high-schoolers.
5. I was not so much of a trouble-maker in eighth grade that I would have been in the office.
6. Why is this in list form?
7. List form is laziness. I didn’t want to write a paragraph.
8. Just now, I forgot which ‘write’ to use. I wrote ‘right’ then ‘rite’ (which isn’t even right).
9. I should have never done drugs if I wanted to remember my youth.
10. No one tells you that. They say drugs’ll kill you. And make your brain bacon and scrambled eggs. Not just stupid and forgetful.
11. Hi!
12. Who’s sitting at their desk dreaming about margaritas?
13. Me.
14. Oh. So, wow, where were you when the Berlin Wall fell? Me. I was in the high school office.
15. But not in high school.

No, I did not miss a comma up there. I had a Passover brunch (I know, weird right? Add to that, it was called brunch but our call time was 9am. People over fifty need to get wise to the fact that brunch is at least 10:30am or later. Just ’cause they eat breakfast at 5am does not give them the right to call 9am ‘brunch’. Yeah. I was cranky. Saturday is sleep in day, not 9am ‘brunch’ day.) with Louie’s family. They’re a friendly lot who like to heap on the compliments. Apparently I’m absolutely gorgeous, skinny and ‘totally in sync’ with Louie. heh. I like his family. I say keep the lies rolling in. There was face pinching and standing too close, but I’m not complaining because there was no inappropriate ass grabbing this time.

So breakfast is wrapping up and one of the kids pulls out a big picture book. A book filled with pictures of the Taliban. And their guns. I think I saw a picture of Nazi’s, too. It was called “The World’s Great Small Arms.” I could not hide my horror. I gasped a little. Apparently the kid likes guns and the parents aren’t afraid to encourage that. Hmm… I’m sitting here trying not to judge and failing miserably.

Later that night I went to a birthday party for a friend of Louie’s. I only had two drinks. I stopped myself from drinking too much. It was hard. And not a lot of fun. Curse you, Responsibility!

There are things that I cannot control. Embarassing things. Things that 29 year old women should have a handle on. And if those 29 year old women do not have a handle on them maybe they should be, you know, held back. I never got held back in school, but in life? that’s a different story. I’m not grown up enough to be turning 30. I still (you know, this is embarassing) watch American Idol. And that’s just the tip of the ice berg.

Other things an almost 30 girl should have under control…

1. Obsessively adding movies to my Netflix cue. Movies in my Netflix cue now total 296. I have no idea how I get so out of control. It’s a list thingy, so I guess, since I like lists so much, that I just keep adding and adding to it.
2. Walking out of a book store without having purchased any books is impossible. I do not know how people can browse in a book store. My last visit, I had 6 books in my arms, I ended up putting three back, but it was very, very difficult.
3. The morning hissy fit. Every damned morning I have a hissy fit about getting out of bed. Who does that? 6 year olds, that’s who.
4. Reading YA fiction. I’m ashamed. Very ashamed. But I cannot stop.
5. Talking behind people’s backs. This is a bad habit, no? Shut up.
6. Wearing dirty clothes to work because I’m too lazy to A. go to the dry cleaners, and B. Do laundry. I hope I don’t smell.
7. Getting mad when my weekend plan of sleeping, reading and watching TV is interupted by having to ‘do something’ like go to damned Target. Or some seminar. You know, anything that doesn’t involve sleeping, reading or watching TV.

That’s all I can come up with and it’s enough to make me believe I’m recieving a low C high D in life at the moment. I am failing life. Someone help me out so I can get to the next grade!

I don’t have anything interesting to say. My life consists mainly of anecdotes about the post office (I think Rita Moreno was in front of me in line, I can’t be sure because of the dark sunglasses and lack of singing, but it sure looked like her), anecdotes about my crazy time on the computer switching between Windows and Mac operating systems (Did you know there’s a key stroke combination you can push while in windows that opens every program and every document on your computer? There is, I did it two days ago. I almost had a heart attack. Fucking PC’s.) the crazy amount of YA fiction I’ve been reading lately (it’s doing great things for my self esteem, and I feel like I would be the best damned 13 year old girl now, if only I could do it over again… hahaha!) and you know, my dump of an apartment (it’s still dumpy…)

So that’s about it. Something good’s gonna happen soon. I can just feel it!

So we went out on Saturday night to our local (read one and only) upscale haunt and had a few martini’s with Geof and his new girlfriend, who fills in her schedule with an event here and there schilling for Grey Goose. And dude, I have a huge bottle of Grey Goose in my freezer now, so I’m forcing Geof to stay with her. Forever. Besides that she’s quite the raconteur. She had us in stitches the whole evening. Quote of the night, “A condom salesman’s daughter does not get pregnant!” And since she can throw back the Dewar’s and is in a book club with Pamie I might just end up trying to steal her from Geof. Ssshhhh, Geof, don’t tell your girlfriend that I have a girl crush on her.

So, I was a little hung over, and by a little, I actually mean only a little (surprising, I know), on Sunday morning. Looking forward to a nice sleep in. But it wasn’t to be. There was a pop-by. I don’t like the pop-by. Mostly because as a kid, we never, ever had anyone pop-by because we lived in the sticks. And whenever someone did pop-by, I was always in some random pajama bottoms no bra t-shirt combination, sometimes sans the pajama bottoms, chilling on the couch watching re-runs at 3 in the afternoon, and was in no condition to answer the door. The big problem was, our house was basically a house of glass. So I couldn’t just go put some pants on because in order to get from the living room to my bedroom I had to walk right by the front door, and….wall of glass. Usually, I just hid in the bathroom until they left. People in my hometown were awfully persistant. Sometimes they would ring and knock for 15-20 minutes. Anyway, I, to this day, am one that gets home and gets undressed, including bra. I have taken to wearing pajama pants, for the most part, but on occasion, I’ll get caught in my bed pantless, with the doorbell ringing and the living room a disaster and my bra nowhere to be found. It still stresses me out when people come over unannounced. I guess if I didn’t laze around the house until 4pm not getting dressed or showered or bra’d until then, I would be less of a stress case when someone inevitably popped-by (my neighborhood is filled with people I know, so they stop in from time to time, it’s nice, for the most part), but seriously… It’s MY HOUSE! Why should I have to be dressed in it!?

Growing up, my dad was a C.P.A. (technically, I guess he still is, he just doesn’t have a practice anymore…) So today was a big day in our family. Dad would emerge from his office, pasty, puffy and more than a little dark circled. Then the vacation planning would begin. We got a second spring break in our family. My parents were way too busy during normal spring break to go on vacation, so Tavia and I would sit home watch Days of Our Lives and Happy Days, and think about where we wanted to go on our ‘real vacation’. One year the four of us packed into the Ford Fiesta (it’s the tiniest car you’ll ever see) and drove to California. My favorite was the trip to the White Mountains of Arizona. We stayed in this funky little town called Hannigan’s Meadow. Had a cabin in the pines. Made fires in the fire place. Played cards on the porch. And walked through the woods getting scared by my dad who incessantly joked about bears. Which, no lie, visited our camp ground one night. Happy Tax Day, Dad!

Today also, is my third year anniversary living with Allie. Officially the longest I’ve ever lived with someone other than my parents. I remember that first night, all my shit in boxes, trying to find my damned W-2s and driving to the most ghetto post office in the history of post offices at 11:45pm, just so we could get our damned taxes in on time. So we must be doing something right, even if the dishes don’t get washed, the floor doesn’t get vacuumed and the cell phone reception is spotty, we have a great place and I’m glad Allie has put up with me this long. Happy Anniversary, Allie!

I had to go and wait in line at the “Crazy Post Office”. I call it that because, well, there’s alot of crazies that go in there. Old crazies. Young crazies. Stand too close to you in line crazies. People who gawk at crazies crazies. The list goes on. And there is this one clerk. I call her “Loud Mean Post Office Yelling Lady”. It’s not a short nickname per say but it is really exactly who she is, so… there you go.

Yesterday Loud Mean Post Office Yelling Lady was yelling about NOTICES! and EXPRESS MAIL CUT OFFS! and PASS PORTS! It was very loud in the post office. Me and the rest of the crazies shuffled around the queue and tried to ignore her. Then she got it into her head that Old Lady Crazy was trying to cause trouble in HER POST OFFICE! She starts yelling at Old Lady Crazy to GET THAT DOG OUT OF HERE! None of us crazies knew who she was yelling at, so we all sort of looked around. I think one guy thought he was the dog, and he sort of made his way towards the door, when another guy looked at Old Lady Crazy and shouted at Loud Mean Post Office Yelling Lady, “That ain’t no dog! That’s her damned coat!”

This is where the post office erupted in laughter and yelling and back and forthing. Old Lady Crazy is deaf. So she’s wondering what all the ruckus is about. And Loud Mean Post Office Yelling Lady is trying to defend herself from the onslaught of, “You crazy!” and “Haha! That’s her coat!”

I was really glad when I got to go to Pretty and Nice Post Office Clerk’s window because I was sick of hearing Loud Mean Post Office Yelling Lady talk about how she thought the coat was a dog. Jeez. We’re crazy, but we get it. Enough all fucking ready.

USC’s graduate film school program has a first semester class that everyone must take. 507. When you first get into USC people start throwing numbers around 507, 546, 508, 532, 535, etc, etc, ad nauseum. You have no idea what they mean. You smile and nod and figure, if I need to know what they’re talking about, I’ll ask someone about it later. Then you ask someone over beers at the Cat and the Fiddle (because that was the only bar 507 students wanted to go to) and they don’t know either, but you’re drunk and in Hollywood, so you don’t care.

Spring 2000’s 507 class (or some of us) got together last night. Most of us have no real connection to each other, other than we survived 507 together. But, as I was saying to Allie in the car on the way home, we’re all forever linked because we have this one moment in time in which we all were figuring shit out. Like boot camp.

I don’t really know what’s going on in most of their lives, other than these little snap shots we get when we’re at First Look or run into each other at the Grove and now our reunion dinners. But I like seeing them again, it reminds me of how far I’ve come and that I’m not alone in this crazy city where no one knows anyone but they ‘know’ everyone.

Oh, and there were margaritas. Which, for those of you who don’t know, is the sole reason I get out of bed some weekends. The sweet, sweet, smell of promised margaritas. That and BradKean.com’s pants. I will always go to a party where BradKean.com is wearing pants.

People will tell you that real rockstars won’t get up in the morning to help you try and jump start your car. They won’t make you coffee when you look at them pitifully and say, “Did you say you’d make coffee?” They won’t drive you to the mechanic. Then to the rental car place. Well anyone who would say that, is wrong.

I have two rockstars in my life. One writes here. Another one sleeps in my bed.

Thanks Allie and Louie, for taking care of my ass when my dumb car broke. I love you.