Bastille Day 2010

Not long after Americans celebrate their Independence Day every July 4th, the French honor a similar holiday ten days later. This is known as Bastille Day. I could go into the history of why the Bastille is important, (even though the monument in Paris dedicated to this event is tiny and underwhelming just like a lot of things I've experienced lately), but that's not what this post is about at all. Two years ago on July 14th, while the French were setting off lots of fireworks, wearing scarves, and eating patriotic colored cheeses (I'm really not sure how they celebrate to be honest), I was having quite possibly one of the worst days of my life.

That's it?

Let's rewind the clock back to Summer 2010. (*Diddly do diddly do diddly do*) I had basically been unemployed since mid-November, even though I had recently attained an expensive but ultimately worthless college degree. I had briefly worked for the Census, (oh god, the horror!), and was reading scripts for a screenwriting competition at $10 a pop under the table (shhhh!), but still drowning financially. My unemployment checks didn't even cover half of my rent, and I was tearing through my savings just to afford little luxuries like the occasional ramen noodle packet and electricity.

Oh life sustaining yet nutrition less white carbs.
So delicious when you don't depend on them for survival.
 I may have this for lunch just because I can now afford real food.

Thankfully, my parents were able to take over my exorbitant student loan payments temporarily, which was a major financial hardship for them. I was also hugely overweight at the time. Not that this was unusual for me, but it certainly didn't help matters. I didn't really know that many people in Los Angeles, even though I'd lived there for a whole year. So basically I just sat alone in my apartment all day desperately combing Craigslist and other job listing sites for anything to keep the tiny South Central studio roof over my head.

It was a shitty, shitty period in my life. Weeks would go by when the only time I would step outside my door would be to move Stan from one side of the street to the other for street sweeping days. If it wasn't for this simple, yet very important task, I would have had no concept of what day of the week it was. Street sweeping was the only thing that gave me structure in my life. That's why I awoke with a jolt when I heard the obnoxious beeping of the street sweeper at 8am on Wednesday, July 14th, two hours before it was due. I had been planning on moving my car right before 10am, so I bolted out of my iron screen door wearing only a t-shirt and bright yellow happy face boxers. Sure enough, the entire side of the street was empty, and Stan was nowhere to be found. A helpful neighbor sitting on his stoop informed me that my car had been towed.

It's sad when this is the only thing giving your life structure.

This was a first for me. I had never had a car towed or even legitimately ticketed in my life! (Ok, there was that time six months earlier when I got a fix-it ticket for a busted headlight because Stan's cover fell off and lightbulbs always seem to burst). I was flabbergasted, flummoxed, and in all other ways bewildered. Luckily, said helpful neighbor knew where it had been taken and the impound was within walking distance. So I got dressed and walked the streets of South Central to rescue Stan. Remember how I said I was unemployed and broke at the time? I think I had maybe $40 in my checking account and that was it. My credit card practically screamed out loud when I had to fork over $300 to retrieve my beloved vehicle. It turns out that they were paving the street that day, without notifying the residents of Mont Clair St. They did post signs saying 'temporary tow away', but they did not have a date on them and I swear they had been up since the previous week. You know how they tend to leave those signs up for weeks after completion...

Sigh.

When I got to Stan, I noticed that not only was I towed, but there was a ticket on his windshield. SERIOUSLY? I didn't know you could be both towed and ticketed for the same offense. Yup. You can. The ticket was only for $60, which doesn't seem like that much. However, this paltry amount would have literally bankrupted me. I was so depressed that I didn't feel like going home after the impound. So I drove. I ended up all the way in Santa Monica, just wandering the beautiful, clean, smoke-free streets. Until I found the King's Head pub. And proceeded to drown my sorrows with cider and over-priced fish and chips. (Hey, I'd already spent $300 on my only credit card, what's another $30 at this point?). After the pub, I walked around the beach and pier, being all classy and day drunk, wallowing in misery. I had to stay there for several hours until my ill-advised mini-bender wore off and I could go home.

Ye Olde King's Head Pub. 

But I ended up fighting the ticket. I sent in a letter to the Parking Violations stating my case, and waited. And waited. To this day, I never received anything from them. Then my dad gets a letter from the DMV saying that I can't re-register my car until it's paid. Only now it's $154 with the late fee.

"We could certainly party with the Haiti-ans!"

WHAT THE HELL????!!! I had to call in three separate times and wait on hold for them to determine that they sent the letter with the decision that the ticket was valid (B.S.) to the wrong address. Luckily, I was able to sweet-talk them into waiving that late fee, "totally based on my powers of persuasion." Cher Horowitz would have been proud. And since I now have a job (though I still manage to be broke all the time), it's not quite as painful to shell out $60. But since the registration deadline is ticking, I had to make sure that the check got mailed today. Because naturally this is the one case where you can't pay over the phone or online. Argh. So I literally chased down the mail man, who happened to be driving by. He was very friendly and took my letter for me. He was also a champ and didn't laugh when the back full of donated clothes I happened to be carrying split all over the road. (I was going to make a pit-stop at the Salvation Army barrel thingy). It was quite the slapsticky sight to see.

Clearly Sadie has a "Stan" of her own!

Super long, depressing, and boring story short, this was one of the worst days of my life. The only thing that got me out of my funk was that my adorable, spunky niece Miss Sadie was born the next day. So even though my life was still super crappy, I realized that being an aunt makes it all worthwhile. (Cue the Awwwws here!)

Appliance-Sexual

Being that I am still incredibly poor, despite being gainfully employed to the Man, I have been living in (over-priced) hovels ever since I left the warm, cozy bubble of UC Irvine. The primary criterion in determining whether an apartment qualifies as a hovel seems to come down to one major attribute: the fridge. When I was forced by a city-wide monopoly to rent from The Irvine Company, every single apartment I lived in had a dishwasher, microwave, fridge, and in most cases a washer and dryer. I took for granted that this was normal. I had yet to learn that these basic appliances equal "luxury" in Southern California. Which is probably why the only way I could afford those apartments was with a minimum of three roommates.

I swear, it was THIS big!

So when I moved to my first solo apartment in LA, I was a bit shocked to discover that I was only provided with a stove. Since I had no money for a fridge, I had to borrow a tiny mini-fridge my mom used to keep in her classroom that was barely big enough for three cans of soda. The freezer section was roughly the size of a shoebox and was perpetually iced over. I'm sure that I've complained about this fridge before on Sporadic Sporkitudes, that surely put the 'mini' in 'miniscule.' When I set out to move from South Central to the slightly less-ghetto North Hollywood, the only thing I really wanted was a fridge. I had acquired a microwave, gotten used to the laundromat, and I rarely did dishes, even when I had a dishwasher. But you just can't live without a fridge. And it's not exactly something you can tote around in an '89 Mercury Topaz.

With this determination to get my fridge, I made a deal with my then-future landlady. The apartment did not originally come with one, so to close the sale, I made her buy me a fridge. Because I'm sneaky and awesome like that. But it turns out, she was sneaky as well and found a loophole. I did not specify that the fridge had to be in working order. So for the first few months, the fridge froze everything from milk to grapes solid, no matter what temperature I set it at. Then it was just lukewarm despite having a repairman look at it twice. Sure, it would be reasonably cool for a few weeks on and off. But it was all just to lure me into a false sense of security. That sonofabitch.

Not only unappetizing, but a waste of money. Sigh.

Finally, I just gave up on perishable foods altogether. This was extremely difficult, since I'm on a diet that requires lots of fresh produce, protein, and low-fat dairy. I used to live off of dairy products and I could never trust them in my fridge again. I'd buy milk and it would go bad within a day or two. Cheese instantly developed a fuzzy green overcoat. And forget about leftovers from eating out. Because of this fridge, I have developed a latent intolerance for lactose. Not cool, Devil Fridge. Not cool. (Literally, hahahaha!). Now I've been subsisting on frozen food and dry goods. Meaning oatmeal, bananas, peanut butter, and 100 calorie whole grain hockey puck bread. It gets old.

But at long last, I was able to score a fridge of my own, one that actually works! I will spare you all the details on how I acquired it (let's just say there was a cage match, some Indonesian headdresses, and a handful of magic beans in the mix). But after a great effort (mostly by my chivalrous Gentleman Caller), I got the new fridge up the stairs to my second floor apartment, and the Devil-Fridge out to the alley. It was picked up within minutes from a junk pirate who happened to be scouring for roadkill. (I also gave her my old stereo that I never use because I haven't bought a CD since high school when I was going through a wicked Broadway phase, and hadn't even turned the damn thing on in 4 or 5 years.)

My actual thumb, and my actual fridge. Isn't it purdy?

No go away, we wish to be alone...

To celebrate my good fortune, I went grocery shopping for the first time in months last night. You cannot imagine the freedom of being able to shop for the foods that you want (and that are allowed by a semi-restrictive diet), and not have to worry about whether it will fit, get frostbite, melt, and/or grow radioactive mold within minutes of placement in a mini mini-fridge, or Satan's Refrigerator. I was practically giddy with delight as I skipped around Ralph's, tossing all the dairy products I had missed so into the cart. Seriously, I got some weird stares. But I didn't care, and intestinal discomfort be damned! Hopefully this will be the last you ever have to hear about my fridge because I'll go back to taking it for granted. But for now, let me just say, if it's wrong to be sexually attracted to a kitchen appliance, then I don't want to be right!

Hutch the Apartment Hunter

A few weeks ago, I was all stoked because I had decided to finally leave my hovel in South Central. But then I ended up not going out to look at apartments because I had so many other things to do. Like watch Snakes on a Plane with my gay best friend, Eric. That was absolutely vital. Who else was going to drink 3 glasses of white wine and dance around his living room singing "So kiss me goodbyyyyyyeee, honey I'm gonna make it out alive, so kiss me goodbyyyyyye!!!!!!!!?" (I nominate that song for new best 'dance around singing like a jackass' anthem, now that 'Ain't No Mountain High Enough' should be graciously retired). So I lost momentum on the search, burrowing deeper still into my trenches and just gritting my teeth through the 25-50 minute commute. (Sure it could be worse, but commuting is commuting. And Stan is not long for this world. Every minute counts). I even told my landlady, "I like it here, I'm settled. Plus, moving is such a pain."

Singing into a spatula.

Because hairbrushes are so overdone.

But then someone egged my house. And when I say 'egged,' I mean singular. One egg. Some jackass (the obnoxious destructive kind, not the ridiculous dance around to catchy one-hit wonder kind) threw a single egg at the iron screen door of my apartment. This is why I hate living so close to the street in the ghetto. Hoodlums feel entitled to employ unhatched chicken offspring as a form of malicious vandalism. The thing that pissed me off more was that they did such a half-assed job of it. If you're going to egg someone's house, egg the damn house. You don't throw one roll of toilet paper on someone's tree and call it a day. Kids today. So fucking lazy. In any case, three day old, dried stuck-on egg is tricky to get off of a non-stick pan (which reminds me, I have to do the dishes). But how does one get it off of an iron door when one doesn't own a proper bucket or have access to a hose, I ask you?

Now this is a proper job. Take note, hoodlums.

Normally this kind of thing would amuse me. Haha, I live in the ghetto, isn't that funny? Like the sign on the Boost Mobile store that just opened on Crenshaw "Grang Opening!" And it's not like my house hasn't been vandalized before. There's some sort of tagging on the busted a/c unit outside the window. I don't think I'm a specific target, people are just bored so they want to draw on shit. But still, this was the last straw. As soon as I got in the house I started Craigslisting apartments within a 5 mile radius of my work. And yes, I just used 'Craigslisting' as a verb. And it sounds vaguely dirty for some reason. The other last straw, the epilogue straw if you will, was when I made a delicious chocolate cake last night. I had one piece and didn't cover it with foil right away. When I went to do so, I discovered a small cockroach crawling alllll over it. What a waste. Stupid cockroach. Stupid apartment.

Me, more or less. More more than less.

I found a few options, all more than I'd like to pay ideally, but I could probably swing at least 5 or 6 of them. So I'm going forth and going north today to check them out. And I can't back out like I did a few weeks ago. This is happening whether I like it or not. Because I just gave my thirty days notice a few days ago (about 5 minutes after discovering the egg on my door), and now the clock is ticking. Though most places you visit want you to move in right away and intimidate you by making up fake other interested parties which doesn't work out so well when you have to give 30 days notice. It's the catch-22 of apartment hunting. I wonder if there is an apartment website that has a search parameter "within walking distance of a kickass Irish pub." Now that would be sweet.

I'm excited to see my potential new home, but at the same time, the daunting task of driving all over Hollywood, North Hollywood, and Valley Village is intimidating. I don't even like going one place in a single day. This is one of the reasons I'm living where I am, because I was too lazy to look at several different options before jumping on the most convenient at the time. One shouldn't impulse shop when picking out an apartment. Especially when you don't know the area. It's just that my first three apartments were all in Irvine, ranked one of America's top 5 safest cities. Every apartment is gorgeous, new, perfectly maintained, and fully stocked with every appliance you would need. I took for granted that I would have my own washer and dryer, a full-sized fridge, a dishwasher. Then I moved to the ghetto and was in for a world of doing without. Which was fine, I dealt with it. I just think I could have gotten a lot more for the same amount of money if I had actually tried. And now that I actually work for a property management company and have become more worldly in the ways of Los Angeles, I think I'm much better equipped.

A typical leasing office in Irvine. It may have been a boring college town,

but it sure was purdy. And you'd have been arrested on the spot for egging someone's house.

I'm still just as lazy though. And I still hate driving around to more than one place.

But enough apartment talk. Actually, enough talk period. I need to start getting ready to haggle and peruse.

Hold the phone! I forgot to mention that I finally got to drive the golf cart at work! It only took me two months and one failed attempt (during which the thing just beeped angrily at me and wouldn't budge.) To be honest, it was kind of a let down. It just beeped a lot, and didn't have any turn radius, and I kept running into curbs and guard rails. Plus, it was a bitch to drive in heels since you have to slam on the accelerator to get it to move. So, my inner child is severely disappointed. But still, VICTORY!!

And in other news, I found out that a one-hit wonder R&B group from when I was in high school used to live in my apartment complex. They threw an all-night eviction party the night before they were kicked out. Poor one-hit wonder R&B group who couldn't pay the rent. The high school version of me used to sing their song and attribute it to this totally dreamy guy we dubbed "the Sexy Beast" because he was on the basketball team and had a small part in real movie.

And that's all the news for now!

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.

Bathroom Issues...No, not those kind

I don't really have much to say today. Cheesecake Factory at the Grove was glorious (despite having to wait and being almost crushed by the hoards of tourists flocking to see the dancing fountain, trolley cars, and fine retail and dining everywhere you look). Pumpkin cheesecake is my new deity. Then Eric and I went to see the Social Network which was just outstanding. I was shocked at how funny it was. My favorite line was "I'm 6'5'', 220, and there's two of me." In the context, it's hilarious, I swear. But there's nothing really I can say about it that hasn't already been said more insightfully (?) or more succinctly by Entertainment Weekly.

So on to the topic of the day. My toilet. It's been running almost as long as I've lived here, which is over a year now. I know, waste of water, probably not good for the plumbing, blah blah blah. The reasons I never dealt with it are 1. I don't pay for my water bill (sorry landlady Piper who totally reminds me of Dr. Bailey on Grey's), so it's not costing me anything extra and 2. I'm a huuuuge procrastinator when it comes to getting things done that don't really need to get done right away. Exhibits B and C, my long broken A/C and heater. Did I mention that my landlady is Bailey? She's awesome but kind of intimidating. I don't really like bothering her for stuff even though it's kind of her job.

My toilet. Just so you know what we're dealing with here.

I'm somewhat mechanically-minded (hah!) so I attempted to fix the damn thing myself yesterday. This was a dumb idea for multiple reasons. I took off the tank lid, trying not to disturb the family of rubber duckies that live there. (Did I mention that I'm 23 now?) I took my floral-handled screwdriver and tried to tighten the screw on the thing. That seemed to make it angry. Now it's been basically continually flushing ever since. So I finally called Piper and was like "Oh, it's always run a little, but it just started going crazy. Yup. All on its own." So she called the plumber to come today.

My super-girlie but handy dandy flower hammer/screwdriver

It kind of made me uncomfortable to have a complete stranger in my house when I'm not there, but I was anxious to have my toilet fixed. (I'm resisting the urge to name it now, since I name most inanimate objects I encounter. But even I draw the line at naming something on which you...) But he ended up not coming, the churlish bastard (I'm assuming. And 'churlish' is my new favorite word). This made me even more uncomfortable because I actually did have a toilet explode in the hotel room my friends and I shared in Ashland, Oregon for the Shakespeare Festival. That one was not my fault. But seriously, it was like a beautiful toilet-shaped fountain. So now I keep envisioning that happening in my own bathroom while I'm not home and it floods my apartment, destroying in the most disgusting way possible, everything I own. I'm not paranoid at all...

My tiny TV which nonetheless is my new gateway to almost every movie and TV show EVER!

In the end, this story has no point. My toilet is still not fixed. But the good news is I am watching Season One of Buffy. On my Wii. HOLY CRAP!!! BEST THING EVER!!!

Why UPS is dumb: a Rant

Don't bother reading this, expecting some cute, carefully packaged anecdote, list, or review. I just need to complain and get it off my chest before I head off to work all toxified and irritated. It's already going to be a hell of a day (deadlines, what what). So it's my birthday tomorrow, yay me, and someone was kind enough to send me a package from Amazon. Or maybe I was sleep-online shopping and ordered something for myself and don't remember. In any case, I came home yesterday to find a UPS notice that they had tried to deliver it yesterday, but I wasn't home. I wasn't home because I have a job (temporary though it may be). Many people do, though not as much as need them these days. The point is, how am I supposed to be home at 10:30am on a Thursday to accept a package?

In normal neighborhoods where people have porches or at least doorsteps that aren't located 2 feet from a ghetto sidewalk where passersby can and probably will steal a scrumptious looking box from someone else's stoop, UPS will just leave the package and go on their merry way. (In those short brown shorts, I always envision them delivering things mid-musical number). But not in my 'hood. At first I wasn't bothered, since they always try 3 times before returning to sender. And I would definitely be home on Saturday to sign for it. But on the notice it said that they only deliver Monday through Friday. What crap is that? Are they more lazy than the US postal service who works six days a week, rain or shine (bullshit holidays like Columbus Day not included)?

So the solution to my dilemma is that I arranged for them to hold the package (tee hee) at the local UPS center. Unfortunately the closest one to my residence is Downtown. I HATE Downtown. With its nonstop horrible traffic, confusing one-way streets, scary homeless people, expensive lack of parking, it's just the worst. The center closes at 7pm too, which means I have to get from Westwood, where I work, all the way Downtown when I don't get off until 5:30. If you're not familiar with the area, that's a long-ass way WITHOUT Friday night rush hour traffic downtown. I don't even know if it's possible. And there will probably be a line of other people with day jobs who want to pick things up before the weekend, because the brilliant UPS center isn't open on Saturdays!!! What the hell, man??!?!?!?!

So to recap, on my birthday eve, which happens to fall on one of the few insane work days of the Market, I have to drive clear across down, in traffic, with a very small window of opportunity to pick up the package that I didn't know was coming so I couldn't arrange to have my landlady sign for it instead. Then I get to come home and change for Karaoke night at Gabe's, with my a cappella ladies. Actually, that will be kickass. I've never done real karaoke. Once when I was about 17, a few of my choir geek friends and I stood in the doorway of the bar area at Denny's at like 4AM and dorkily harmonized to "I Will Survive." (We were underaged, so we couldn't actually go in the bar). So that will be sweet. But if you know me, you know what a big deal it is to drag my ass out at night, and to do anything that isn't strictly necessary for survival. And I've already gone out several times (for me) this week.

ARGGHHH!!!! Maybe I'll just wait until next week and pick up my package (tee hee) when I'm not stressed about Karaoke. Though I won't get it in time for my birthday, sad. I do however have a large box to open from my parents that actually asked what to do about the delivery-non-grata in my area. They sent it to my office, instead. And I can't WAIT to open it, because I think I know what it is, and it will be the greatest. present. EVER!!!

I don't want to sound ungrateful to whomever sent me the Amazon package (tee hee). Especially if it was myself. Thank you soooo much for being considerate enough to give me a birthday present. Especially since I am the world's worst gift giver. If I buy a present at all, I'm cheap, it's not a good choice because I can never think of anything good. I'm just whining because that's how I'm wired.

Stay tuned for tomorrow's report on my first real Karaoke night!!!

Woo! I'm a paid blogger!

I'll have you know that I've officially earned $1.41 from my ads! So thank you to whomever clicked. I just hope it wasn't the one for Scientology. I can't believe they tried to advertise on my blog. I feel violated and baffled at their lack of context. Anyway, yay me!

On another note, I've been up since about 5:10am when I swear I heard 6 gunshots in a row nearby. This isn't the first time I've heard them, but they've never been followed up with police sirens. Does this mean the shots were in my head? Or people in South Central are just so desensitized that they don't even call the cops when they hear something? It could have been a car backfiring, but would it backfire 6 times in a row at uneven intervals? I'm not really freaked out or anything. But it would be nice to be able to fall back asleep after being so rudely awakened.

Love Awkwardness in an Elevator

First of all, let me just say that it smells like pot in my apartment. That's what you get for leaving your windows open in South Central. We're living in close quarters here, people. Try edibles instead. It would be sweet if it smelled like brownies...

Anyway, what I really want to discuss today is the fact that even though I'm about to turn 23, at heart I am still a 12 year old girl who blushes at the drop of a fedora. I thought I had gotten over my schoolgirl inability to even talk to boys, much less flirt with them. But apparently, where pretty man candies are concerned, I might as well be covered in acne, sporting holiday-themed braces, and wearing ratty sweatshirts with ill-fitting high-waters (essentially me in middle school).

The object of my (minor) obsession in question, I cannot actually name for professional reasons. So I shall give him a code name (also reminiscent of middle school. very useful if you want to gush about boys without others knowing who you're talking about). I shall dub said man candy, Rudy, short for Rudolph Valentino.

Today was the first day I rode the elevator with Rudy. Prior to this, I had only drooled from afar, casting furtive, lascivious glances on the rare occasions I caught a glimpse of the Greek god in business casual. The elevator was crowded and I stood merely inches from the back of his head. All I could think was how much I wanted to jump him, but restrained myself by saying "Easy, girl," under my breath.

We got up to the 8th floor (my office is on the 9th) when Rudy turned to me and said "Hi, how's it going?" Perfectly friendly, civil small talk. It seemed even more mundane coming from a face like that. I replied, "Good, how are you?" Only my voice resembled Britney from Alvin and the Chipmunks. Despite the innocuous nature of the exchange, my face bloomed like an heirloom tomato. Thank the lord for the somewhat masking powers of low-watt elevator lighting. Not very flattering, but at least it doesn't highlight your face's betrayal of your pattering heart. Hopefully it also hid the breakout on my chin, the frizz in my hair, and the burn on my forehead from a run-in with an In-Styler earlier that week. Not bloody likely.

For the next floor we stood in awkward silence. I willed myself to be the charming, alluring mademoiselle I know is in there somewhere. But the only words that popped into my head were along the lines of "Thank god it's Friday! Can I get an amen?" I refused to say something so tragically lame and was still debating with myself when the doors opened on the 9th floor. We went our separate ways, sigh. And now he'll never know how sometimes I'm desperately in love with him. (I say sometimes because I'm pretty much an 'outta sight, outta mind' girl.)

And even though it is lame, thank god it's Friday! Can I get an amen?

Several Things

1. I just 'monetized' this blog, meaning I allowed Google to decide whatever ads best fit the content of said blog in order to perhaps make some money off of it. I know that this will in all likelihood never happen, but it couldn't hurt, right? And even if it does, the payoff is probably pennies. I'm just curious to see what they choose to advertise. I hope it's pie.

2. I almost ran over no less than 3 Orthodox Jewish folks on my way to a cappella practice tonight. Not on purpose. Unlike the 3 people on bikes I usually almost run over every day on the way home from work. Now those people I probably would aim for. Ten points for the snooty yoga-mat toting girls, twenty for the pretentiously 'green' yuppies of either gender. Not that I have anything against bikes, the environment, good exercise, or saving money on gas/insurance/metal box on wheels. But you can't ride a bike on the mean streets of LA and expect to live very long.

3. Today as I mentioned earlier was payday. Sweet. Tomorrow is chicken sandwich day. Even sweeter.

4. Whilst spying on my neighbors this morning, I noticed two detectives visiting the home of my neighbors across the street. They had guns, handcuffs, the whole nine. The looked more like software engineers than detectives, but the hardware they were packing was pretty impressive. I don't know what that was about, but it was pretty exciting. Hopefully I'll hear something from my wonderfully gossipy landlady who is always in the know. If I don't, then I'm making something up. Because all kinds of crazy goes down in this joint. And it's my job to observe, report, and possibly exaggerate. Because I have no life of my own.

Celebrity Divorce

I was very saddened today to hear that Kate Winslet and her husband Sam Mendes are getting a divorce. It's certainly never a surprise when celebrity marriages break-up, but in this case, I really feel bad for them. Kate Winslet is one of my favorite actresses, so talented, beautiful, and classy. And Sam Mendes is one of my favorite directors, very astute and interesting. They've been together for seven years, which is a lifetime in Hollywood. Now they're going their separate ways. I know that it in no way affects me, nor is it important to anyone besides themselves. Still though, when you see a marriage fail that you really thought would succeed, it tends to make you believe in the whole institution even less.

Ok, enough stalling by pontificating about more interesting peoples' lives. I have to focus on reading these scripts, but finding it difficult with all the ghetto noise (loud neighbor's music, car alarms, police sirens, ice cream trucks, "Tamales Tamales" guy, helicopters, booming sub-woofers of passing cars playing Michael Jackson). It's a wonder I get anything done at all.

My Neighbors

I love my neighbors so much. Well, I love overhearing bits and pieces of their conversations as they walk by my window. There's Motown guy, who's always singing Temptations songs as he strolls down the sidewalk. Pretty decent voice actually. There's Loogie Man, who hocks the world's most impressively loud loogies at all hours of the day. He must have a condition or something. The Guy who lovingly washes his car every single day and listens to Mexican polka with the volume set to 11. The creepy security guard at Barato Dollar Family who basically just watches you shop for a living. The super nice lady whose name I forgot but who said I had a "cheery" face. The girl who talks in a chicken-like squawk and repeats everything she says thrice. At least six households have some kind of large jungle cat depiction or statue on or around their house. Like the lion mural on the garage door, a giant stuffed cheetah sitting in a tree that always terrifies me, tiger statues adorning the fences. It's a weird place, this Jefferson Park.

I catch the most random soundbites living in this apartment. One time I heard a man yell at his crying toddler to "Shut the fuck up!" That was upsetting. But just now I heard a middle age woman walking by saying, "Did you ever see the movie Forrest Gump? You know that part where Lieutenant Dan jumps into the water? That's how I feel right now." I have no idea what she was talking about, but it just made my day. I thought I would share. I think one day I'll just sit by my window and listen to the wacky things people while they cross in front of my perch. I realize this may seem creepy and stalkerish not unlike the Barato security guard, but I can't let these verbal gems go undocumented!