L-7 Weenie

This is the first time I've ever written a blog on my phone, and it feels really awkward. But I'm sitting in the jury waiting room at the LA County Courthouse with nothing but an awesome book ("Dear Rick, Dear Teri" by the fabulous Teri Brown ((read it now, I say!))) and the entire Internet to entertain me. Sadly the public wifi blocked all the really *fun* websites. But Teri's book has inspired me to blog, and blog I shall!

So frickin' proud of my girl Teri!

Keeping with the spirit of my New Years resolution of awesomeness, let me tell you a little bit about baseball. "Including baseball and awesomeness in the same sentence, are you batty Child? Baseball is boring and long and stupid. America's pastime my foot!" You guys, it turns baseball is friggin' sweet! Who knew? (Still not as good as my first love, hockey, since there are far less fights and even fewer Canadians). But I do believe the LA Dodgers have found themselves a brand new fan.

This is a baseball with a Los Angeles logo on it. Get it?

"But Hutch, why the Dodgers? You're from Northern California. You are contractually obligated to like the Giants. Or at least the A's." The Bay Area is not Northern California. Ok, yes geographically it is in the northern part of the state. But it's doing it's own thing over there being pompous and expensive and douchey. (Sorry Bay Area peeps, but you know it's true!) I've lived in LA almost four years now, and I'm so much more at home here than I ever was up North.

Proof!

I'm also picking the Dodgers as my new loves because I'm highly susceptible to the power of suggestion. I know I always say I love the Ducks because of Disney, but in reality it's because my favorite professor at UCI took my friend and me to a game at the Ponda in 2009 and really introduced me to the sport. Her passion for the Ducks was contagious. As is the case for the Fella who worked at Dodger Stadium for three summers in high school. It's hard not to get caught up in the fervor of die hard, lifelong fans.

"You bob for apples in the toilet. AND YOU LIKE IT!"

I managed to get out early from work last Wednesday and we headed down the backstreets of LA to the less crowded entrance of the ballpark. Being too cheap to pay the snack shack prices for Dodger peanuts, we smuggled in our own huge bag. But I just had to complete my inaugural baseball experience with a beer and a hot dog (even though I like neither I those things usually. I'm nothing if not ceremonial.) Sixteen bucks later, I had a tankard of Blue Moon and a genuine Dodger Dog. I could hear Yeah Yeah and Squints echoing in my ears, calling me an L-7 weenie. From then on couldn't stop quoting the Sandlot (my third favorite movie of all time). Beer and hot dogs have never tasted so good though.

Disgusting. (Those aren't my feet by the way. I totally stole this photo.)

We found our seats in the second to nosebleed section and settled in. I was shocked to discover that people just drop their peanut shells on the ground for the staff to clean up later. Savages! I had consumed maybe a quarter of my beer by this point so naturally I was pretty toasted. I switched from quoting the insults of the Great Hambino to singing "Savages, Savages" from Disney's Pocahontas. Because that's what you do when faced with such rampant littering. (Mormons don't litter. Not even Former Mormons.)

You know you want to start singing now too. Give in.

As the sun was starting to set, a castoff from the Voice sang the National Anthem. And even though he Mariah'd the crap out of it (which never fails to make me think of how much my music teacher mother hates when people do that and how it's technically illegal to alter the National Anthem), I still got tears in my eyes. Because I'm a boob. (Which is totally something my mom also says. Dear lord, it's happening already...)

Without commercials, the game went by really quickly. I was shocked at how exciting it was and how much I really got into it. I was also surprised at how often the players hit foul balls. (Tee hee balls.) In movies it seems like this is a rare and dramatic occurrence. In real life, they seem to hit foul balls (tee hee) all the friggin' time! Apparently hitting a small ball hurled at top speeds with a thin wooden bat is really difficult? Huh.

Aww, Luis Cruz, you are just too adorable. Was that you I toured that one time?

On a related note, I swear that I toured Luis Cruz at my property a few weeks ago. I know it's a fairly common name for Los Angeles, but that guy was the same height, build, face shape and age. I even texted my colleague who had also assisted him to see if she remembered him mentioning anything about being a Dodger. But she didn't. That would be sweet, even though he didn't end up renting with us. Now I feel like a racist though... Sidebar, Luis Cruz has his own little, well cheer I guess is how you would describe it. When he goes up to bat, everyone starts yelling "CRUUUUUUUUUZZZZ" in a really deep voice. To me, it sounded like they were booing him and I was like, hey that's not cool. Mormons are also nothing if not sportsmanlike. But I guess it's a good thing. Sports confuse me sometimes.

I don't understand. But I do love it.

Shortly after tweeting about my Blue Moon-fueld one-woman Disney cabaret, my dear francophile amie Amanda texted me: "Are you at the game right now too??" Small frickin' world! Running into my old UCI/Bordeaux chum (who coincidentally happened to be the same friend that went with me to that first hockey game back in '09) in the middle of a crowded stadium at my first baseball game! (Also coincidentally the same friend I happened to run into at a hostel/campground outside of Venice, Italy completely out of the blue.) So I met up with her after the game in front of the giant statue of a macaroni noodle. Like you do.

I'm weirdly turned on by this.

Back to baseball though. It's a hell of a sport. I also have much more respect for the game after hearing about the brawl between the San Diego Padres and the Dodgers. Now that's more like it! (I'm shockingly bloodthirsty. I think I was a gladiator in another life.) I'm determined to see a grudge match just in case someone starts throwing punches in addition to curve balls (tee hee, balls). It's also kind of sweet that everyone stands and sings "Take Me Out to the Ball Game," in the Seventh Inning Stretch. Like I said, I dig ceremony. I also dig the fact that the elderly organ player is a big fan of old musicals and that these big tough baseball fans probably didn't realize that they were singing along to showtunes from "Guys and Dolls" and "South Pacific." True Story.

I should probably also mention that we lost. Because I'm bad luck. But I won't let that stop me from going back to the ball park!

Playing Ketchup Part 2: Electric Boogaloo

As promised, here is the sequel to Playing Ketchup Part 1. Things get a lot cheerier in 2013. I decided to follow through on my recurring New Year's resolution to do more awesome things. So far, I think I've been doing alright. Here is a list of the cool stuff I've done:

1. I stayed in a hostel when I was in San Francisco visiting Eric. Even though I was only there for one night and I spent most of that night throwing up, it was still cool to harken back to my backpacking days. The tiny dorm rooms, the familiar silver Ikea bunk beds, meeting cool people from other countries (my roommates were from France and Germany), and the cute guy at reception with the adorable accent. I never get to travel for real anymore now that I'm broke and have a grownup job. Even though San Francisco was only a few hours away from my hometown and I had been there several times growing up, it still felt like a vacation.

That's my girl, killin' it!

2. I got to see my homegirl Kelly Bean in a creative re-imagining of Twelfth Night set in the Golden Age of Hollywood. Needless to say, she NAILED it! This was another mini-vacation all the way in Camarillo. Our best friend Jenna also came down from NorCal for the event. We needed a girls' night something fierce and celebrated afterwards with wine, cheese, and other delicious treats. We also watched "She's the Man," since you know, Twelfth Night. And if you haven't seen it, it's pretty frickin' epic. Tragic what happened to Amanda Bynes, isn't it?

3. I re-enacted the Ferris Wheel scene from Season One of "The OC" at the Santa Monica Pier. Check that one off the bucket list. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, don't even worry about it.

Damn good chicken and damn good waffles. Still not sure they go together.

4. I finally explored Downtown LA. I had never seen the Library, ridden the Angel's Flight trolley, hung out at the swanky Bonaventure Hotel (with the terrifying glass elevators!), explored California Plaza, and walked down Olvera Street. I also took the time to really check out Union Station and not just rush to and from the Gold and Red metro lines. I've always found it sad that if a place isn't on my way to work or not an Irish pub, I probably don't know it exists. Sidebar, I also finally went to Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles, another LA landmark.

Swoon!

5. SOCIAL DISTORTION!!!! AAAAH!!! I saw them once in college at the Disneyland House of Blues. And that was the last concert I had been to. Until I saw them again at the House of Blues on the Sunset Strip (Which is another area I've hardly ever been to even though I've lived in LA for years). I don't care if Mike Ness is as older than dirt and shorter than I am. I would do awful things with that man. Especially in his Machine Gun Blues gangster getup... We were about five feet from the stage which was super awesome except we were right in front of the mosh pit. I got kicked in the head by a crowd surfer, had at least six drinks spilled on me, and spent most of the time being knocked over. Soooo worth it!

This was at the Eddie Izzard venue.
I don't know what it is but I find it simultaneously terrifying and hilarious.

6. Eddie Izzard. What what??

Toepick!

7. Anaheim Ducks vs. the Los Angeles Kings. Hockey is the world's greatest sport. It has everything I love. Canadians. Burly men. Violence. It's glorious. Plus I was a Ducks fan sitting in a major Kings section. Gotta love crosstown rivalry games. It was a good one too. We scored in like the first 10 seconds, and then it was back and forth until nearly the end when we stomped on them. There was an insulting mass exodus of Kings fans when they realized they couldn't win and left before it was even over. (Sidebar, I'm usually a Kings fan, but the Ducks will always be Mighty to me thanks to Disney). After the game, we went ice skating at the Ducks practice rink in Anaheim. It turns out that skating is hard and dangerous.

I also shot at a zombie I named Hank. Because I'm also awesome.

8. LA Gun Club. Best. Date. Ever. Me and the Fella (oh yeah, did I mention there was a Fella?) got to shoot a Beretta handgun at a surprisingly popular gun range in the scary part of downtown that has also known visitors such as Queen Latifah, Exhibit, and Ryan Gosling. I'm not a great shot, and it felt a little like being in a war with so many guns going off (I left a bit shellshocked), but it really is a fantastic feeling. Amazing stress release. I have no interest in owning my own gun, but in a controlled environment it's AWESOME.

It's even cooler inside!

9. I saw Noel Cowards "Fallen Angels" at the historic Pasadena Playhouse. Oh the witty banter and the hilarious drunk old British ladies brandishing umbrellas at each other. I literally live around the corner from this beautiful historic theater and I had never ever seen it. I was also going to see Jekyll and Hyde at the Pantages, but I was too sick to go. Boo.


10. After my dear friend (and the woman responsible for my gainful employment) Allison, had her going away party (at where else but our favorite karaoke dive bar, Gabe's), I got stranded at Union Station at 3:30 in the morning. I had read the metro timetable incorrectly and missed the last train. I decided just to take a taxi, since it would take at least a half hour for the fella to come rescue me. I ended up waiting even longer than that for the taxi to come pick me up until I realized that I was on the wrong side of the station and that there were five taxis standing by the whole time. And I had to work four hours after arriving home at last. While this seems like a bad thing, Union Station after hours is truly a magnificent thing to behold. I got hit on three times (I must have looked like a fairly expensive prostitute I guess, though I didn't think my outfit was revealing at all), saw two people without pants on, and witnessed what I'm pretty sure was a drug deal. Fascinating I might have to go back on purpose sometime just to observe.

Meet CJ, the classy, blind, anorexic business fish.

11.  I bought a fish and named her Claudia Jean after my favorite character on the West Wing. Sadly, she died the other day because I can't keep a fish alive to save my life. Which is too bad because I'm not a cat or a dog person and cage animals like hamsters and birds freak me out. That leaves fish. Which are the least commitment possible. Speaking of low commitment, seven-day Betta food blocks do not work. Ask your roommate to feed your fish if you need to leave town.

I have this admittedly cliche poster on my wall and I was so excited to see that there was a statue of it! I tried to get homeboy to recreate the pose with me, but he would have none of it. Even after being shamed by a random Midwestern lady. Men are useless sometimes.

12. Speaking of leaving town, after living in Southern California since 2005, I finally went to San Diego for the first time. The fella and I decided to get the hell outta dodge and go exploring down Mexico way. (Without actually going to Mexico because despite being of Mexican descent, he doesn't have a passport and wouldn't be allowed entrance). Since we're both poor, kind of lazy, and didn't bring proper walking shoes, our exploration was somewhat limited. But it was lovely to take a Bridget Jones mini-break regardless. The beauty of San Diego is that it's so close, we can always go back. There wasn't so much pressure to fit in as much sight-seeing as is humanly possible, which is the speed I'm used to when traveling. San Diego in March is also bloody cold at night, which I also didn't prepare for. But I scored a $90 white Burberry-esque pea coat for $46 in under five minutes, so I think I just won at shopping.

I think this lists covers most of the awesome/interesting events of late. Basically it's a compilation of status updates/tweets/iPhone photos to serve as a memoir for a much happier time than the previous crap-tastic era. Let's hope the streak continues! Next on my list of conquering Los Angeles is to finally go to a Dodger game (or any baseball game for that matter. I'm a bad American for never having been...)

An Exercise in Sublimation

I went to Target just now to buy a yoga mat. It was on sale for $12. Somehow, I managed to spend over $200. I was feeling reckless and impulsive. When I get like this, it manifests in either of the following two ways: A) Eating too much of something that's bad for me; or B) Spending way too much on stuff I don't really need and can't really afford. Check and check. Not to generalize for over half the world's population, but I think these are pretty typical female coping mechanisms. These past few months at work have been inconceivably stressful (I know, what else is knew, but for reals, it was bad), and there's some stuff in my personal life that's just a tad effed up as well.

Strange, my yoga mat didn't come with a pretty flcwer...

FALSE ADVERTISING!!!

This was a recipe for disaster that almost cost me all the amazing progress I have been making with my healthy lifestyle changes. I gained back six of the seventy-six pounds I had lost, on top of reverting to some of my old compulsive over-eating habits. There's nothing worse than feeling out of control. Especially when you can undo six weeks of hard work and weight loss with three days of poor decisions. I let myself wallow in misery for a whole weekend. Sometimes you just have to. But then last Monday, I got over it. I did laundry, scrubbed my whole apartment (including the shower which I confess had not been cleaned in... let's just say a while), and paid bills. There's something to be said for a cathartic cleaning and organizing purge to reset yourself and gain new perspective.

I'm the life of the self-pity party!

Monday was also the first day I started going to the Burbank Athletic Center. They had a free three-day trial, so I figured I should check out the mythical place known as the "Gym." I'd never really gone to a regular gym before. I was always in sports as a kid, then I went to Curves a few years in high school (apparently they donate to some uber-conservative causes, so boycott them if you can). In college, there was a free state-of-the-art gym that supposedly Kobe Bryant used to work out at, but it was too far to walk to and I didn't have a car. After college, I was too poor to afford a real gym, so I would just go running around the 'hood. But you couldn't do that after dark at the risk of being murder-raped. Then I created this workout, but it wasn't terribly effective. I've been running here in NoHo since about September, but the repetitive motion and hard impact from the concrete really messed with my hip. It was terrifying to me to think that I might not be able to exercise for physical, not psychological reasons for the first time. But perhaps working out on commercial quality machines would fix my joint problems.

Fuck this dude. He makes me vomit.

I wouldn't want to work out at his gym anyway.

It turns out, I frickin' LOVE the gym!!! I can't believe I didn't discover this earlier! Think of how much weight and weight-related aggravation it would have saved if I'd have known that endorphins aren't just a conspiracy designed to get us off our sizable butts in pursuit of naturally occurring uppers. They really do rock, who knew? I always thought gyms were expensive, at least $40-50 bucks a month, but the BAC is actually super cheap at around $10. Even my broke-ass can afford that. I've gone every day for the past week and I look forward to it every time. If you know me at all, you know how crazy that is. They have pretty cheap yoga classes too, which I impulsively signed up for just now to try it. I'm going at 9am tomorrow, so we'll see if I'm just as jazzed on yoga as I am about cardio and strength-training. (I'm assuming Wii Yoga really isn't the same.)

Clearly I can't be trusted with a credit card when I'm emotional.

This initial impulse-buy led to the afore-mentioned yoga mat purchase. Which was accompanied by yoga pants, yoga capris, new sports bras, brightly-colored sweat towels, multi-vitamins, and a bunch of other stuff to get me excited about this new phase in my life. I think this is behavior I learned from my mother. If you're going to make a big change, it helps to buy new stuff to get you mentally prepared. Even though I probably could have made due with the million sports bras and workout clothes I already have, I needed to do this. I will probably regret it when I get my Target card bill, but for now, I'm just stoked to see what all the fuss is about. And it feels good to finally have some control again. Well, I'm still eating too many things I shouldn't, but at least I'm overcompensating for my short-comings with excessive exercising. And it's a lot healthier to take out all my rage and frustrations on the Stairmaster than getting drunk or high or eating a whole tub of cookie dough.

"Holy crap, Wayne Newton's hitting on Mom!"

Now that the hangover has subsided, the blistering heat has been replaced with pleasantly warm, and I'm no longer stuffed into Spanx and a little black dress, it is finally time to recap my adventures in Vegasland. While it was a fabulous three-day weekend filled with all kinds of amusing debauchery, the highlight definitely was my pilgrimage to what should be every straight girl and gay guy's Mecca, CHIPPENDALES. But I'm going to save that for its own blog. Because it was that good. For real...

Obligatory Vegas Sign

I'm sorry, where was I? Oh yes. Vegas. Which, like all trips I end up not regretting one bit, I started off dreading like nobody's business. Mostly because, despite the fact that I am gainfully employed and have been for six whole months now (practically a record!), I am still crazy broke. Also, because traveling even just to the next state over, is incredibly stressful. There are flights to book, taxis to reserve, and itineraries to plan. Not to mention strict budgeting that I will inevitably completely ignore while actually on vacation. Then there was the added stress of attempting to pull off a short Youtube video in approximately 24 hours (a topic for another blog altogether. Suffice to say, there will be Running Man). Basically, I had to work overtime like mad just to take one day off.

But by Friday night, I was in Vegas, reunited with my UC Irvine/University of Bordeaux girls, some of which for the first time in the two years since graduation. There were seven former Anteaters in total, and Vegas was stoked for us. We landed at the Carriage House sometime after midnight, then hit up Walgreen's for supplies. Meaning booze and junk food to stock our hotel room that was bigger than my whole apartment, including full fridge and dishwasher. It was a little alarming seeing Vegas for the first time since I was 15 and with my family. Probably because Vegas at 3 in the morning is a little alarming no matter how old you are. Crazies and drunks everywhere. It was fabulous.

The next day, we slept in, then headed out to the Strip. We made it as far as the Paris before deciding to partake in the grand Vegas tradition of comically large souvenir cocktails. My Eiffel Tower-sized margarita was delightful, as was the prospect of getting fairly drunk before one in the afternoon. It was even better knowing that I would have been at work, probably stressing about dog poop or parking snafus, had I not been traipsing down the corridors of various gambling establishments. The only downside was that it was hot as balls in Vegas. Everyday was at least 105 degrees, maybe 90 at night. So hot that if I even tried to sweat, it would evaporate before it could cool me down.

Me, Stefan (The Eiffel Tower Cocktail), and Tiffany

We only hit a few hotels before giving up to the heat, exhaustion, and extreme tipsiness. We came back to our own decidedly less impressive hotel to get ready for the evening's festivities. The lady Anteaters had decided early on in the planning stage to purchase slutty dresses to really get into the spirit of the place. We quickly discovered that California slutty is nowhere near as intense as Vegas slutty. We felt positively Puritanical with our skirts that extended longer than an inch past our cooters and heels less than seven inches tall. I don't know how those girls did it. My feet were screaming after walking a few blocks in my relatively conservative peeptoe wedges.

Mutinous Feet

Saturday night was Cirque du Soleil's Mystere. The primary reasoning behind our selection was that it was the show that Seth Rogen watches in "Knocked Up" where he freaks out whilst on shrooms. I am telling you now, you don't need shrooms to be freaked out by that show. I'm pretty sure it was the closest thing to an acid trip I will ever take. Especially that fat baby with the big orange ball. I fucking hate that baby. He is the stuff of your most obnoxious nightmares. There was also this ventriloquist in hot pink that just spoke jibberish and held a creeppy Dr. Seuss-looking dummy. Boo. But the actual acts were amazing. Especially the two half-naked guys who lifted each other with impressive strength. And I won't lie, despite the intense homoeroticism, it was kind of working for me. Then there was this big snail thing that was just bizarre. But I'm glad we went, because it's not Vegas without a big snail thing.

Weird big snail thing at Mystere

After the show we went to Botero Steak House for a fully vegan meal at the Wynn. Yes I can appreciate the irony of going to a steak house for vegetables. But Miss A.K. Brown as she was known by her assassin name had an in with the chef who created the menu. The same chef who also catered Ellen's wedding (be impressed, dammit!). So her family offered to pay for the meal as long as we all ordered vegan. I never thought I'd be so stuffed just by eating veggies and tofu. But five slow courses and gallons of water made eating just painful after a while. The food was fantastic, especially the mini-churros. And our waiter looked exactly like Chuck, so bonus. We had planned on going clubbing after dinner, but one look at the slutty and/or douchey mob outside XS (with one exception being the adorable guy in full formal Scottish regalia), we were over it.

Pretty fabulous

Sunday mornings were made for brunch buffets in my opinion. And Planet Hollywood had an amazing one. After brunch, we did some more Strip-ping. I made the mistake of wearing super thin flip flops so my feet were still not happy. But I consoled myself with another souvenir margarita cup, not quite as spectacular as the tower I named Stefan, but nearly as effective. Then came the Jello shots. And the vodka cranberries back at the hotel. Basically I was drinking from 3pm to 1am. Since it was over a long period of time, I never got crazy drunk, but I maintained a nice buzz. Vegas should be experienced no other way.

INSERT CHIPPENDALES SEGMENT HERE!!

Monday I woke up feeling slightly ill. But I considered it a seminal right of passage having vomited in a Vegas hotel toilet. But after a handful of dry Cheerios, I was right as rain. We checked out of the hotel and wandered around the City Center, this time at a much more leisurely pace. After killing some time at the Luxor, Mandalay Bay, and Excalibur, we dragged our tired, hot, aching butts to the airport. We were no longer drunk, unlike many people at McCarren who extended their walks of shame to the plane ride home. But I was done. Vegas is good for 2.5 days tops. After that, it is just too much stimulation. Plus there's nowhere to sit.

It was blissful coming back to Burbank where it was a perfect 72 degrees. It was weird to no longer be surrounded by intoxicated bachelorette parties and belligerent frat guys desperate to reenact the Hangover at any cost. But I appreciated the peace.

So now I think I'm all set for Vegas for the next several years. Though I'd be happy to fly in every other week to meet up with my Chippendale's husband...

Why I Will Miss South Central

I hate to say it and wreck the street cred I've been working so hard to acquire, but I think I'm finally over the novelty of living in South Central. I've been here over a year and a half, which was about a year and a half longer than anyone expected. Sometimes I love it here still. Like when I see the Liberty Tax dancers on the street corners dressed like Statues of Liberty, skipping, twirling, waving, never without a smile. Sometimes I hate it, like when I get accosted in the drive-through at McDonald's by people asking me for money. Then there are the times at the laundromat when I'm simultaneously frightened and amused by the colorful characters that stop by to do the laundry or sell pirated DVDs and/or tamales.

This is what happens at 10pm on a Thursday night.

My neighbors set old Christmas trees on fire

in the middle of the street. Classy.

I hear the most hilarious phrases from passersby (as my door is exactly two feet from the sidewalk and there's no insulation). Which while loud and irritating, is also great fodder for comedy. One such conversation I overheard part of the other night around 11pm. My friend Eric has been crashing at my place for the past few weeks until he moves into his new apartment. Since it was Friday night and he is not an old fuddy duddy like me, he was on his way to a sexy party that didn't even start until I was pleasantly tucked away in bed. (I also had to work the next morning, so that also explains why I was not going to the sexy party.) I woke up just as he was locking the door to this conversation:

Ext. South Central Neighborhood - Night

A stylish young black man locks the door to the heavy iron screen door on an olive green and red tile apartment building. ERIC (25), is somewhat of a hipster, but not the obnoxious kind so we can forgive him for this association. He also likes boys. Like, a lot. That's important to the story. Two young ghetto girls dressed like hookers approach him.

GHETTO GIRL 1

You locking up?

ERIC

Um, yeah.

GHETTO GIRL 2

Where you going?

ERIC

To a friend's house.

(Ed. Note, Wisely not

mentioning the sexy party)

Eric starts walking towards the bus stop. The girls follow him, wobbling a bit in their high heels, obviously intoxicated. (Ed. note. This was all I heard. Meanwhile I was panicking, thinking he had been talking to my landlady. I'm probably not allowed to have guests for this long, since she pays the water bill. But I went back to sleep shortly after my panic attack. What follows is the story Eric told me later on.)

GHETTO GIRL 2

What's your name?

ERIC

Eric.

GHETTO GIRL 1

My name's Janae, but everyone

calls me Little Vicious.

GHETTO GIRL 2

And everyone calls me Baby Vicious.

Eric tries not to snicker under his breath and keeps walking.

LITTLE VICIOUS

You cute. I would totally

fuck you.

ERIC

Uh...

BABY VICIOUS

Oooh gurl, me too. I

would lay it on you.

ERIC

That's nice. No thanks, though.

LITTLE VICIOUS

What's the matter? Do you

like boys or something?

ERIC

Is it that obvious?

BABY VICIOUS

That's ok. We like other

girls sometimes.

LITTLE VICIOUS

Yeah, we even have gay

friends.

BABY VICIOUS takes out her cell phone to show Eric pictures of their gay friend.

BABY VICIOUS

Yeah he's cute too. I

would totally lay it on

him if he weren't gay.

LITTLE VICIOUS

We could call him, and

hook you two up if you want.

ERIC

That's ok. I actually have

to go. Nice talking to you.

BABY and LITTLE VICIOUS

Bye Eric, sexy!

A shiny old school cadillac pulls up to the sidewalk blaring a repetitive bassline so loud it shakes the foundation of the olive green apartment building. Baby and Little Vicious squeal and teeter over to the car. Eric walks faster. He may be African American, but he's afraid of black people.

That story makes me so happy for some reason. I get hit on all the time here also. But in the five years since I've known Eric, I've never heard him being so brazenly propositioned by females. He's just so out of his element here in the ghetto. We both are, I suppose. But that's not the reason I've decided to move. I'm a big girl now, and I think I deserve a big girl apartment. One that has a separate bedroom and living space. An apartment in which I can actually fit a whole couch instead of just my big blue comfy chair. Somewhere I can have friends over, or flying spaghetti monster-willing, an actual party without having strangers sitting on my bed. It would also be nice to not have people be afraid to come visit me like my sister-in-law who was genuinely nervous to bring my then six-month-old nephew to visit. I would love to have a place that has an actual heater and air conditioner so it's not miserable six months out of the year. Somewhere with a full size refrigerator that isn't just barely bigger than my microwave. Ideally it will be somewhere with my own washer and dryer, and an easy parking situation for both me and any guests I might have. I don't want to have to commute longer than 10 minutes to work. That's the big thing. And I also don't want roommates. Overall, I don't think it's too much to ask for. I just wish moving wasn't such a pain. Let the apartment hunt begin!

So long, South Central. It's been real. Real what, I don't know. But real nonetheless.

Sally Tomatoes out on the Town

I have managed to stave off the boredom of unemployment for a few days now, celebrating my freedom instead of lamenting it. Friday night I set aside my deep abiding hatred for all things that end in 'z' when they should end in 's' and hit up Popstarz (shudder) night at the Factory in West Hollywood. This marked the second time the Sally Tomatoes have painted the town in our own special shade of red (the first being our kickass karaoke excursion last month). And WeHo will never be the same.

As with any time I ever try to leave my house, I got lost on the way to pick up two of my friends, Eric and Michelle. I'm probably the only person who gets consistently lost even when I've been to the destination several times before. It was around ten when we finally pulled into the valet parking lot. Normally I'm against valet parking, and paying to park in general when it can be avoided. But in West Hollywood, you can waste half the night hunting for street parking, and then the other half walking to and from the club (in painful shoes no less). So I bit the bullet and handed over my baby to the valet guys, uncertain that they would understand how to operate a delicate automobile like Stan.

We finally entered the Factory, a hip gay club off of La Peer, 20 minutes later. Not because we had to stand in line with hoards of other sequined revelers. But because we couldn't find the damn thing. Seriously. There were at least three clubs that shared the same building. We asked at Ultra Suede and some cool nameless club with a red carpet (which I thought might be the Factory, but Eric was scared of the intimidating black folks outside and insisted that that wasn't it. Sidebar, Eric happens to be black. I'm more ghetto than he is.) So we wandered around the building, going through some sketch looking alley and another parking lot and finally found our Popstarz night.

The Factory

The organizer of our get-together had the foresight to have us sign up to be on the guest list so we could get in for free. God knows I love free. And the fruity delicious drinks like my pomegranate cosmo were only three bucks! Now this was my kinda place! (Most other clubs/bars in WeHo and LA in general are so outrageously expensive, that I tend to stay at home and mix my own vodka tonics). Armed with our pink cocktails, dangly earrings, and sparkly shoes, the Sallys (plus Eric) hit the dance floor. Normally I'm not a big fan of pop top 40 kind of music. I'd much rather listen to Social Distortion, Dropkick Murphy's, or classic CCR, etc.. But Popstarz night means they bring back all our old favorites from middle school. So there we were, eight twenty-something grown women (plus Eric), rocking out to Britney, the Spice Girls, 'N Sync, Backstreet Boys, and Destiny's Child. That's my idea of a party. And naturally because we're all choir geeks, we were singing our little hearts out, the lyrics still memorized from ten years before.

Sounds of my childhood.

Serious nostalgia, combined with deceptively strong cosmos, and the wild abandon that accompanies dancing at a gay club where you don't have to feel self-conscious or impress anyone, made for one stellar evening. Whenever a song came on that we weren't a fan of, we'd run over to the second dance floor to hear more contemporary girlie anthems from Rihanna, Lady Gaga, and Kelly Clarkson. Later on, we even braved the raised platform and performed our best 90s moves (including the Running Man and the Humpty Hump) for the crowd of adoring gays and the girls that love them. Sadly though, I brought it so hard that I think I pulled something in my knee. I rocked out so hard I injured myself. The very definition of go big or go home. So I had to take it easy the rest of the night.

Promoting the new Cher/Christina Aguilera film "Burlesque" to the only audience who will appreciate it, was the group Barbie's Addiction. I didn't catch her name, but the drag queen in Ke$ha garb with wicked lip liner issues, owned her lip synch number of Rihanna's "Only Girl in the World." She pranced about surrounded by adorable, scantily-clad boy gogo dancers who seemed to worship the ground she strutted on. One of the gogo boys was especially mesmerizing. Wearing only what could be described as 'man panties,' this guy was a vision in spandex. He moved with a ballet dancer's grace and a stripper's sensibility. We think he might have been half-asian and half-black, which made him strikingly beautiful and exotic looking. Whenever he was onstage, the crowd could look at no one else. He seemed to be so lost in the music that you just wanted to lose yourself right along with him.

As the magical night wore on, however, things started to go downhill a bit. It's my theory that the club kind of wants you to leave as it gets closer and closer to 2am, the Cinderella hour. The music starts to get even more generic. The sweaty, stinky sensation from dancing hard for hours on end becomes unbearable. The crowd becomes suffocating as people push and shove their way past you with their full, icy drinks perilously perched in their unstable grasp. I can't dance if I don't have space. That's why it was so fun at the beginning. The Sallys dominated the floor, inspiring the wallflowers to join us in our revelry. But when you're packed in so tightly that you can barely move (and it hurts to move if you have a hurt knee), it's no longer fun. Not to mention, I usually go to bed around 9:30 and it was past 1am. I finally dragged Eric and Michelle away from the floor to go pick up my car from the valet.

Exhausted, in pain, freezing, hungry, and in all other ways crankypants, we limped back to the parking podium. But no, you can't pick up your car where you dropped it off. So we had to walk what felt like two excruciating blocks to the pickup station. Waiting in line in the cold, we saw a group of girls stumbling towards their car. The driver was a girl who was probably my size (read, not small) in a dress so short, her vajajay was completely hanging out. Seriously. She was wearing underwear, thank god, but we were scandalized. Women of any size should not be walking around with their junk out in the open, but this was just wrong. If you don't even notice that you're feeling a bit too free and breezy, chances are you aren't sober enough to drive. But she got into the car and drove away. We wanted to tell someone, but what can you say? Open vajajay isn't strictly proof of inebriation (at least not in this town). So we were glad that it took forever to get Stan back, just for safety's sake.

This is more my style.

I dropped off Eric and Michelle and headed back home to South Central. I was terrified that I was going to get pulled over for my busted headlight again. Unlike vaj-girl, I was completely sober, having danced all of the effects of my cosmo out hours before. But I made it back sans-fix-it ticket and all was well. So even though it started and ended kind of rocky, Popstarz night was a resounding success. Normally I'm not a big fan of clubbing. I'd much rather spend the evening as I did on Saturday, hanging out with my friends, playing rock band and holding a Freaks and Geeks marathon. But with the free entry, cheap drinks, and infectious (the good kind) atmosphere, I'd definitely hit up Popstarz again. Just leave early and beware of exposed vagina.

Hypothetical Halloween Costume

As much as I love the Fall season, the sweater weather, apple cider, pumpkin-flavored everything, I loathe dressing up for Halloween. I am the least creative, laziest, and cheapest costume creator alive. The only costume I was ever proud of was my viking opera singer when I was 14 and waaaay too old to be trick-or-treating. Luckily, we had a German exchange student that year so I got away with it so I could show her all the best neighborhoods that give out the really good candy, and how to use a pillowcase instead of a plastic pumpkin so you could haul more.

These are for weaklings.

When I was a baby I made a pretty damn cute clown. My parents were also thrifty, like me, and made me wear that creepy polka-dotted jumper two, possibly three years in a row. This started the tradition of crappy costumes, including one 4-year stint during which I was a princess in the same cheap, blue dress-up gown every Halloween. Other notably lame years include: a teacher (I think I wore a vest and my mom's tote bag that said "Teachers Make a Difference" or something), a graduate (wearing my mom's graduation gown and honors sash from college), and a gypsy, which sounds cool but was poorly executed.

As I got older, naturally I fell prey to the Halloween Slut rule. This is not easy to pull off when you're a chunky lass and have to incorporate spanx into any outfit that shows off the real estate. In college I wore a homemade toga, which actually turned out pretty cool, and was easy to wash after cleaning up my friend's vomit. Then I went as a sexy mobster/mobster's wife, which I thought was bitchin' (I even made my own cigar out of a toilet paper role. Ask me how!), but then I discovered 3 other girls at the same party who were far sexier and looked a lot more like actual mobsters. Halloween fail.

Honestly, the most complicated costume I ever put together. Two hours before.

Last year was my last day off before working two weeks in a row (including weekends and longer hours), so all I really wanted to do was relax. I put on my sweet fake hospital scrubs, acted super self-absorbed, and walked around like I was about to fall over (channeling Meredith Grey). Of course, this was for my own benefit as I spent the day alone watching Tim Burton movies, Clue, and Rocky Horror (my Halloween tradition for years now). I was super excited to give out candy to the neighborhood kids (I never got to do this before). Only 3 kids showed up because as I found out later, they bus all the poor ghetto children to Beverly Hills and the like where they can score real candy. At first I was unhappy about this, but then I realized we used to do the same thing essentially. So I pretty much was just comfy in my scrubs, eating candy, and watching movies. Solid evening.

The resemblance was uncanny.

This year I have to work. I'm cool with that. We're allowed to dress up, but I can't really see my co-workers respecting me after showing up in Lady Gaga's raw meat ensemble. I just don't have the figure for bloody flank steak. And as of yet, I'm not aware of any parties to go to, which is stellar for me. I never think about costumes until a few hours before it's go time, and then I don't believe in spending money on something I'm going to wear once and be uncomfortable in. Not to mention I can never think of anything good (something cute but funny, original, but that people will get, oh and something I already have all the ingredients for).

Where would I hide my spanx? Also, meat is expensive and I don't waste food.

But if I were to dress up, I think I would go as a yuppie. My cute yoga pants (which I only bought because they're comfy and have never actually used for yoga), stretchy work-out tank, obnoxious purple yoga mat rolled up and slung over my shoulder, a starbucks cup, maybe a baby backpack worn on the front, and oversized sunglasses. Cute, comfortable, funny, and for the most part readily available. I'll probably spend the night just like last year, curled up with Johnny Depp, Dr. Frankenfurter, and mini-sized snickers. And as sad as that sounds to you, to me it sounds like Halloween perfection.

Look at them. Their flexibility. Their ability to afford yoga classes. Boo.

Fat Pants and Ninja Turtles

There are few things as depressing as going to Wal-Mart for new fat pants because your former fat pants fit just a little too snugly for comfort. My new fat pants aren't going to win me any Miss Thang Awards, but at least they won't cut off circulation below my belly button. The only positive element of this experience was that it was the first time I could actually afford new jeans, even if they only cost $18. To console myself about having failed for the umpteenth time (I hate the word 'umpteenth' but it's the perfect description), to lose weight, I decided to buy myself some new DVDs. I definitely couldn't afford DVDs before, so I hit up the $5 bin to see what was what.

Here is what I bought to assuage my fat pants blues:

1. Billy Madison (I've always been a big old school Adam Sandler fan. That penguin kills me every time.)

2. The original live action Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Fuck. Yes.)

3. BONUS! A combo pack of Teen Witch and The Heavenly Kid! I've never seen the Heavenly Kid and since they had to pair it up with the 80s camp classic, Teen Witch, just to sell, it probably is not great. But then again, judging by the other movies in my basket, I have a very alternative notion of good taste. It could be my new favorite movie, who knows? Besides, two movies for five bucks? Uber-score.

Hopefully I'll end up not needing my new fat pants for very much longer (haha.), which is why I only spent $18. But in the meantime, I'll be super-comfy watching some of my childhood favorites!

By the way, if you have never seen Teen Witch, this video sums it up in one gloriously inappropriate rap battle. "Look how funky he is! I'll never be hip." (You can skip the first 35 seconds or so).