humans are funny

Category: Santa Monica

  • 5 days. 17 emails. I have a stalker. And validation.

    I have a stalker. And I have to say I feel pretty good about it. Nothing like a stalker to fix up the old ego. I’ve never really had any out-of-line unwanted male attention except for in Cancun, and everyone knows that doesn’t count. I’ve always been a bit offended that I’ve never been raped. No uncle has ever tried to fondle me. Am I not fondle-worthy, uncles? Now I finally have the validation I need. I’ve got myself a stalker. My ego, Lawrence, can now bask in the uncomfortable attention.

    I met him in line for a $5 footlong. I guess even stalkers need a good lunch deal and/or want in on a rare weightloss plan that includes bread and mayo.

    “You look like a hot nerd,” the soon-to-be stalker said as he saddled up beside me.
    I laughed. What a good line. None of this Whole-Foods-complimenting-my-aura crap. Yeah. I’ll take hot nerd. I could be a hot nerd. Right?

    I turned to see that this bold pick-up line sprang from the mouth of a wee youngen just barely able to buy his own beer. About 5 feet tall. Almost a teenager. And hanging out on The Promenade. [we all know how I feel about teenagers on the ‘Nade] Great. Fine. I’ll take it. Why not? An almost teenager thinks I’m a hot nerd. At least he’s not in line for an abortion. Progress.

    Then he asked me to take him out to dinner. I chuckled and declined. But before I bid him adieu, I gave him my card. YES! I did. I gave him my card. Why? Because it only lists my name and blog, and I take any chance I can to let more people know about my blog. I know. I’m desperate. My insane narcissistic desire to have my writing be read by all has now bit me in the ass. For punishment, I am forcing myself to write ‘bit me in the ass’ instead of a more creative idiom.

    Lesson #1 Don’t give your card out to men in line for a $5 footlong. Ever.

    Lesson #2 Maybe you don’t need everyone to read your blog even if you secretly hope that all new acquaintances are related to some literary agent who’s dying to contract a blogger to write a new book franchise.

    I was planning on posting the entire stalking exchange here. But now there is too much to post. 17 emails in 5 days. This does qualify as stalker, right? RIGHT?

    Here is a selection of choice tidbits (Direct quotes. Please excuse the grammar):

    “This place [no idea to what ‘this place’ refers. LA? Earth? His van?] is full of sex starved, males with little or no skills to really satisfy a woman sexually or emotionally. I should take these chumps to school, but I got better things to do… I’m latin so it’s my blood.”

    “Are you going to fucking reply or should I just stop emailing you?”

    “reply you arrogant white bitch.”

    To which I DID reply (I don’t know why!) in Spanish: “Fuck off. Actually, I’m Hispanic. And I prefer not to speak with people like you.”

    To which he replied: now we’re talking mami.

    Then he must have read some of this here blog and found [this article]. Because he came at me with this one:

    “you’re half spanish you fucking liar. you’re like a strawberry milkshake except you’re not very sweet. have a miserable day.”

    And it got better:

    “I think spain is great you guys have great people.. world cup champs, nadal, tour de fance champs, picasso, dali
    but get off your high horse bitch cause the world will soon be dominated by the”peasants” … so be nice or I’ll tell my grandkids to make your grandkids clean toilets for a living.”

    AND BETTER:

    “I got bored so I read your blog.. like half a post at least. couldnt do more.
    then i checked out your [professional advertising] site… so you’re the one to blame for the annoying art in jack and the box… I couldn’t figure out what the hell to do when I first got there.. just a big black box and your name..no click here or nothing – not very good marketing if you ask me.”

    AND when I still refused to reply, I got this one:

    Listen I’m sorry for being such a dick. I was wondering if maybe we could be friends?

    Lesson #3 Stalkers can be hilarious. As long as they don’t know where you live. Hey wait, is that bush rustling out there?

    Lesson #4 In the end, everyone just wants to be friends.

    My plan was to post his email here and encourage all of us arrogant white folks to email the Latino for some sexual advice. But then I thought I might get arrested. And then I realized that the five people who read this blog don’t have time to send out emails to a random crazy, potentially inviting him to stalk them. So, I refrained. But, you know, if you’re bored or something, just email me and I can pass you that address. In the meantime, Lawrence and I are off to get some sleep. We can finally rest knowing that we’re worthy of stalkage.

  • When I was a teenager, I hated myself too.

    My office sits in the center of 3rd St. Promenade, the tourist haven of Santa Monica. It’s a smattering of Western discretionary income, sunburned shoulders, and overpriced ‘American Food.’ It’s a beehive of buzzing consumers all vying for the best sale item at the Gap on their way down to the polluted beach. There are so many tourists here, all clad in summer dresses and sandals, that I am amazed the Taliban targeted this place. If you want to hit Westerners where it counts, I say go for the always crowded outdoor strip mall. But whatevs. Osama has not returned my calls, so F that guy.*

    My office is nestled between Johnny Rockets and Benetton, and I have to pass Forever XXI, H&M, Zara, and Mango just to walk in. This is creating unnecessary cravings for leggings and holey jeans. No! Stay away, appetite for clothes. I’m barely staying within my budget now. Plus, I pride myself on wearing the same thing every day. I’m cultivating quite a unique odor.

    When I eventually walk into my building, I often share the elevator with a pair of teens, either nervous and giddy or terrified and crying. This is because my cubicle is directly above the Santa Monica Planned Parenthood. Directly above. This means that there are screaming teens getting abortions right below me as I write this. And when I go get a coffee, I’ll ride the elevator once again with a girl whose feet were in stirrups just moments before. She doesn’t know that I know that her little paper bag is filled with the NuvaRing and condoms. But I know.

    Working here has taught me many a lesson in such a short time:

    1. The recession was either a lie or it’s over. Everywhere I look I see people spending money.

    2. My gag reflexes are in ship shape condition. I can’t walk within a mile radius of Abercrombie & Fitch without gagging. Frat boy smell. Gross.

    3. Teenagers have more sex than I do.

    4. Oh yeah, and I hate teenagers.

    I’m sorry.
    I see them every day because where there are clothing stores and free birth control, there are teenagers. They are skateboarding suddenly out in front of my car, pushing each other, littering, laughing about balls, flirting with girls by way of flashing braces and squeezing butts. Their oily skin mocks mine: ‘I’m supposed to be oily and zitty because I’m teenage skin. What’s your story?’

    Their entitlement disgusts me. Their know-it-all-ism angers me. I know they feel entitled. Because it wasn’t that long ago that I was one of those dickweeds. I too squeezed butts and flashed braces and padded my bras in a pathetic attempt to hide my insecurity. So maybe these guys are just reminding me of the annoying person I used to be; hence my hatred.
    Maybe.

    But I can’t help but worry about when and if I have kids. I’m sure I’ll love them. I’m sure they’ll be cute at first. But what happens when they become teenagers? What happens when they get all awkward and act as if I know nothing? Am I going to be that mom who rolls her eyes and gets a bumper sticker that says, ‘You can’t scare me. I have teenagers?’ Or will I be the mom who locks her kids in a closet and only slides meals through a hole? Probably the latter. Either way, I will never bring them to the 3rd St. Promenade for a pair of leggings or an abortion. But I know they’ll come anyway. Because they’ll be teenagers. And they won’t listen to anything I say.**

    * Please relax. I don’t call Osama. I text him.
    ** Fuck. I’m a kurmudgeon. Please alert me if I begin starting sentences with ‘The kids these days…’

  • A poetic tantrum

    Fuck. I’ve caught up. No more travel stories. No more muddy pant legs or sweaty scarves or damaged cameras. It’s all over. I’ve got a lease in my hand and a pen that is about to sign my life back into normal-dom. And I don’t wannaaaaaaaa. Somewhere along the way, I got the idea that staying put and having a job and having pets and being ‘normal’ was horrific. So, this pen represents for me a life that I don’t want to live. Ah! What should I do? I was just frolicking among the rubber trees in Laos and now I’m in a sterile cubicle. My synapses are protesting. I’m pounding my feet into the warm Santa Monica ground and screaming and wailing and tantruming more than I did when I was fourteen and calling my mom a bitch. I am in a perfect state of confused chaotic panic that I secretly love because it can only mean a new beginning. In times like these, I can only write a poem, which is weird because I’m not really a poetry kind of girl. Something is seriously amiss.
    I saw the world
    I wrote a blog
    I ate a lot
    I pet some hogs
    I sweat on trains
    I puked up peas
    I chased the rains
    I switched to teas
    I met new friends
    I donned new clothes
    I gave kids pens
    I took some blows
    I pet a fish
    Saw skirts on men
    Some made of pigs
    Some made of hens
    I had this thing
    It defined who I am
    Now, very over
    And I question again
    Back to life
    Back to reality
    Searching for a word
    That rhymes with reality
    Back to work
    Back to before
    This time it’s different
    I’m so much more