I am not an angry, short jew...or am I?

2009-11-12T20:00:00.000-08:00

I have nothing in my brain worth writing down. It's sad.

2009-07-28T20:50:00.000-07:00

How sad that I told myself I'd actually write on this silly blog, and then two weeks go by. Of course.

Last weekend was...interesting, to say the least. I went to Vegas to visit Kay. Unlike most folks in their 20's who visit Vegas, I did not drink, gamble, go clubbing OR sleep with a random dude. Rather, I went to Lucy's 1st birthday party! Lucy is my friend Megan's daughter (I met her through Kay, who met her during her time at Nordstrom). Now, everyone I know KNOWS I'm not a kid person. My nurturing instinct is minute (okay, so I've laughed at a kid or two after they've fallen down) and my lack of desire to have a child can equate to the joy a nurse has every time she has to clean up human bile (also, see above where I laugh at children falling down). It's just not in me. Holding a child freaks me out a little and the thought of a baby pooping on me makes me throw up in my mouth a little. Kay tries to reason with me that it's the same as taking care of dogs, but I just respond with, "I don't have to worry about a dog projectile vomiting on me."

And then there's the little fact that I know how I was as a child. God forbid my parents ever let me forget.

"You cried all the time," my dad would say. "If you weren't in perpetual movement, you were screaming your head off. Flying with you was a total nightmare. I had to stand the entire time, bouncing you in my arms for six hours. I dreaded the descent, when we had to sit back down. You screeched for the duration. I'm surprised nobody tried to kill us."

Kind words, father.

I also think about how I was as a teenager. I was a miiiserable human being. Total disregard for family. Always lying. Attitude to the max. Drunk half the time. Possible bi-polarism.

How nobody chooses to remember how THEY were when they were growing up before procreating astounds me. Maybe if they just rooted around in their memories for a bit, the world would be a whole lot less populated.

Now, all that being said, I cannot deny that Lucy did put a little fissure in my stone "no baby" wall. She is the happiest baby I've ever seen, so full of life and promise. Her eyes were so curious but she was always aware of everyone around her. She and I instantly became friends after I tickled her toes, and despite her drooley face, I let her give me a kiss. But the best part of the night came when she was given cake for the very first time. Watching her examine this frosty sugary conoction was quite interesting. I could never imagine not knowing what cake is, so it was fun to see her try to figure it out. And the moment her mom put a little bit in her mouth, you could see the wheels turning. She chewed, stopped, chewed some more. She paused and suddenly nodded her head fiercly. You could actually see the registration, "this is the best shit ever." And then it was over. Lucy ate her piece of cake by the fistfulls, spreading it around her high chair tray and then licking her fingers. She was having the time of her life. And we all enjoyed watching her. Witnessing a baby experience something for the very first time. It was something so small, but I couldn't help but get excited. For myself and for her.

Lucy remained a happy baby for the rest of the evening, and I was actually sad to say goodbye. Even Megan commented that she thinks Lucy is "converting" me. And maybe that was true, a little. Very, very little. But I informed Megan that unlike having my own baby, I can just give Lucy back. I get fun baby and she gets poopy baby (and you know sick cake poop was inevitable).

So perhaps Lucy did penetrate my strict "no baby" armor just a little, but really, who am I kidding? I'd prefer picking up dog poop over baby poop any day.

Who Says Pit Bulls are Dangerous?

2009-07-14T18:26:00.000-07:00

This past Saturday was not a good day. I had an overnight with two cats on Friday, and both did their best to keep me awake for the entire night. They chased each other, chased shadows, climbed all over the bed, climbed all over the cabinets, knocked items off said cabinets, meowed for no reason, even licked my eyelids when I dared to shut my eyes. I realize cats are nocturnal but can they be nocturnal somewhere else?

Anyway, I had a walk at 7:30a on Saturday, so with a good two hours of sleep, I headed over to my destination. The apartments are pretty funky in the sense that it's not like each building has it's own singular address and the units within are labeled by numbers or letters. No, that would be smart. Instead, each unit has it's own address entirely, so to find said units you'd have to walk into the courtyard and wander around like an idiot. And some units aren't even accessible from the street, you have to enter from the back. Oh, and did I mention that just because the address you're looking for is 2200, and you spot 2202, does not mean they are in the same complex at all? And why would that be, you ask? Because whomever built these buildings is the most retarded person on earth (or one of many).

So anyway, the instructions to get to the apartment were for me to go down the alley and down the walkway. Except there were four walkways. And did I mention it was 7:30 in the morning and I had only gotten two hours of sleep? Stupidly (or smartly, you decide) wandered around one building I was sure harbored the apartment I needed to be at. After all, I was looking for 2200 and there was 1998, 2202, 2204, 2206. But of course, no fucking 2200. After 20 minutes of searching for this hidden apartment, I call the office to let them know I couldn't find it, was annoyed and to send another sitter, only to be told they are not sending someone else and I should just take a breath and keep on looking. Oh, and that the girl who was there last night had no problem finding the apartment. Good for her. Actually, fuck her. Yeah.

I take a breath, and proceed down every single stupid walkway and just because it's my life, I finally find the apartment down the last walkway. I call the office to let them know I've found the place, and perhaps the instructions should be changed to, "go down alley and down FIRST walkway. It is a PINK building," only to be told that isn't it self explanatory when the instructions state to "go into alley and go down walkway"? I resist the urge to scream bloody murder.

I enter the apartment and am immediately greeted by a gorgeous Pit Bull named Savvy. He's smashing his butt into my legs and licking the air in hopes he'll magically reach my face. I try to laugh but all of my built up frustration boils over and I start to cry. Like a little bitch. Savvy takes one look at me and immediately calms down. He gets as close as he can to me and rests his head against my legs. How is it I've only just met this dog and he can sense how I feel (aside from the tears streaming down my face)? I do the only thing that I know will make me feel better: I bend down and give him a huge hug. I hug him for several moments, and Savvy simply sits there letting me. I release my grip, look him straight in the eye and tell him thanks, and he gives me a giant lick straight on the mouth. I took that as a "you're welcome."

And then he returns to his psychotic wiggle-butt self and we take a very therapeutic walk.

The next time someone mentions how vicious Pit Bulls are, I'm going to tell them this story, and then them to kindly fuck off.

Please Do Not Throw Your Trash Away In This Community Trash Bin

2009-07-12T12:04:00.000-07:00

Last week, I was walking the ever adorable Cooper, a year-old Labradoodle. He has a gorgeous chocolate coat and the most expressive green eyes. His modelesque legs supercede his fairly small body. Cooper is possibly the happiest pup in the world and literally, has a bounce in his step.

Anyway, we're bouncing right along and he stops to do his biz. I pick it up with a blue baggie and we continue on our way. We approach an apartment building that has trash bins next to their parking and I, wanting to get rid of poopie contents, head over there to throw it away. An older woman appears out of nowhere and this is the conversation that proceeded:

OL (Old Lady): Excuse me, take that with you. Do not throw your trash in there.

Me: Sorry? Is this not a trash bin? Isn't that what they are for?

OL: Take it with you.

Me: You realize this trash bin lives outside. It doesn't live in your house, so it's fine.

OL: No, take it with you. Trash day isn't until next week.

Me: Let me get this straight. You don't want me to throw this sealed bag into a trash bin the county of Los Angeles gave you for free because trash day isn't until next week?

OL: Yes, thank you. Please leave.

Me: You are the most ridiculous person I have ever met.

That last bit is actually false. A few weeks earlier, I was walking another dog and after cleaning up his biz, threw the bag away in one of the bins lining the street. Mind you, everyone's bins were on the street because the following morning was trash pick up. The second after I threw the bag away, I hear a banging and I turn around to see an old lady banging on her window mouthing, "Don't do that!" over and over. So what do I do? I give her a big thumbs up!

I tell my girlfriend, Kay, about both incidents and I revel in the utter ridiculousness of these women when she goes deadpan and says, "That is so going to be you when you're old, except you'll chase after them with your cane."

And then I realize, she's totally right.

Dish Soap Fairy, Anyone?

2009-07-06T20:28:00.001-07:00

I've been pet sitting for the past two weeks, having only gone home so TimeWarner can make my internet work again. When I left, I did my dishes, and as far as I could remember, there was a good amount of dish soap left in the bottle. When I return, there are dishes in the sink (as if I should expect anything less of my roommate) and she is nowhere to be seen. I think she's discovered my hatred of dirty dishes lying in the sink for days(!!) because she continues to leave them there and I continue to do them. I'm like a free maid (yippee!). This day is no exception, so I grab the sponge (which is seriously disgusting by the way. Why is it so hard to toss out the dirty sponge, reach down under the sink and grab a new one? Bueller? Bueller?), give it a good rinse and grab the dish soap. But wait a second, the bottle is...empty. Like, completely empty. Why is it that I've been gone for two weeks, my roommate has been here every day, and yet there is absolutely no dish soap? I will tell you why: it is apparently much too complicated for her to go to Walgreens (located .2mi from our house), purchase a brand spankin' new $4 bottle of dish soap for, toss out the empty bottle and place the full bottle on the sink's counter, that's why! I mean, really? So my passive aggressive self is not buying soap either. I'm alright just using hand soap, they're practically the same thing. And besides, I don't leave my dishes out for days(!!) without even rinsing them so the food gets all crusted on them and no matter how many times they get washed, they are riddled with permanent food particles.

And, breathe.

UPDATE: Someone made a Target run and miraculously failed to purchase any soap whatsoever. Lovely, just lovely.

To Be Thin, Or Not To Be Thin

2009-06-30T21:29:00.000-07:00

I am currently a walking contradiction. I want to be thin, so I (and by I, I mean my boyfriend) spend ridiculous amounts of money on private pilates lessons, yet I counteract my hard work with copious (thanks dictionary.com!) amounts of junk food. I sweat my ass off doing exercises that work muscles in my body I didn't know existed, all while my sadist instructor reminds me to "push my tummy to the floor." I usually leave looking like I've just given birth (or how I assume a woman who has just given birth would walk).

And then on my way home, the little fat kid inside my head tells me that I deserve to eat something fried and yummy for all my hard work. The (former) skinny me makes her plea that my work-out will be lost if I eat fatty foods, and don't I want to be thin again? But the Fat Kid is waving a french fry at me! How can I resist french fries? And a cupcake too! And not just any cupcake, a Sprinkles cupcake (see: heaven in the form of frosting). I give in to my fat kid urges by settling on an apple pie from McDonalds (so, so delicious). I can't help but enjoy my 2 for $1 pastry goodness when Skinny Me delivers the fatal blow: the bitch pulls out a *gasp* two piece. Fuck...me.

Now I am at a crossroads. Do I trash the rest of my pie in favor of one day fitting into a two piece bathing suit again? Or do I finish the pie and promise to run the following day. The jew in me says to finish the pie, I paid for it! I sit there for a moment contemplating my next move. Must decide quickly, the apples are getting cold. I look at Skinny Me taunting me with the stupid bathing suit.Man, I want to fit into that damn thing. And then I look at the Fat Kid, who's so happy licking chocolate off his fingers.

And then I make my decision.

I swear I will run tomorrow.