Thursday, March 13, 2014

Dentistry Can Be Funistry.

A few weeks ago, I had to get Oral Surgery Extreme for the first time. It was a procedure I never even knew existed. It was so unheard of I had to go to the special dental God of teeth in the far off land of Glendale, California. I mean, I have had some pretty bad experiences at the dentist prior to this. When I was a kid, I had to get 4 teeth pulled to make room for awesome braces. It didn't feel oh-so spectacular yanking them out all at once and I might've been a little theatrical with my reaction. So much so the overweight assistant thought a soothing approach to this would be to sit on me. In which case, she went and sat on me. So serene. Later in my teens, my stepmom found a great dentist in the nostalgic neighborhood of Forest Hills that I grew up in who accepted her plan. On the day of my appointment, we walked into an apparent 1960's nuclear fallout shelter: Mint green walls, ceilings and floors, dental instruments that have been dental instruments during the Kennedy administration and a man about 8,070 years old with round, black rimmed glasses thicker than his own head. Needless to say, I grew a bouffant. No, needless to say, I freaked out and never went back to that guy. These days I'm usually not that miffed by the idea of going to the dentist and try to go once every other month as a precautionary measure so that I never need a root canal again. Not because it's painful, but because it's expensive. Fear of the dentist should never be so crippling that you turn into someone walking around looking like a pirate on purpose. But when my new special super dentist looked at my x-ray and explained the reality of the situation in utmost detail, fear started to creep up on me and I slowly realized that this was not going to be fun:

Dentist: Yep, you have a serious infection in there. If you wait too long you're going to end up in the Emergency Room.
Candice's Brain: Real life stuff. Not Instagram. Not to-do list of going to Target and buying 4 bananas and a juice.
Dentist: You can either get the tooth pulled and then get an implant or we can go and do gum surgery where we slice your gums, pull them back and scoop out the infection.
Candice's Brain: Wait, this is still real life stuff and not Twitter?
Dentist: Your insurance covers 80%. Come back in 4 hours and we'll do the surgery because it's your best option.

Oh no, I've entered the realms of real life. I've never heard of such a medical operation of sorts. What the hell was it? Where did this come from? What if my face caves in? What if I feel this scoopage he spoke of? What the hell am I going to do in Glendale for 4 hours? Who are you?

It was also an hour procedure. You can't panic in those situations because it serves absolutely no purpose to do so. You just have to tell yourself that in two hours you will be home on the internet stalking your ex and everything will be okay. I knew the part where they would scoop my huge infection out would be pretty grueling. So soon after the surgery began and I started to hear a bone located in my face make a noise, that's when I knew I had to focus on some other things. It's times like this when you really have to channel the goofy in you. As a person with a much active imagination, it's no wonder I've had anxiety since I was 8. Thankfully through the years I have come up with some tactics to calm my mind when it gets a little too frenzied.

Sometimes when I'm in the dentist chair I like to pay extra close attention to the music they are playing and start humming while also making "ow" noises. Like my own musical masterpiece theatre of pain. Which is definitely annoying to everyone in the vicinity of my face. My dentist in New York would put on Adam Ant and Depeche Mode the whole time in order to distract me. Which was great because it was like having a New Wave party in my mouth. Truth is no matter what dentist office you're at, you will hear a Phil Collins song 9 times. I can't listen to "In the Air Tonight" because it makes me think of the time I focused on it during a root canal and changed the words to "In my root tonight". So there goes that classic number.

Contrary to popular tooth belief, sitting around for an hour getting your face drilled can get dull. Sometimes when I get too bored I like to open my eyes and stare at the assistant. I'd imagine it would be super creepy so I make sure I do it. I mean, pretend you're her and lying before you is this stranger person with her mouth ajar and blood shooting out of her face just gazing blankly right into your eyes. Pretty creepy, right?
Definitely do it.

Have fun and a real good time and do what I do and text your dentist. Always voice your concerns.
When you're a neurotic, you should get real chill with your doctors. Be friendly because then you're not a patient anymore with a concern, you're a pal in need of advice. They usually provide an emergency contact number, so go ahead and use it because it's there. If I am experiencing something out of the ordinary, I must have a professional tell me, with all of his professional expertise, that I am nuts, professionally. Here's an example from EXPERIENCE:

See? All good.

You did your deed of not being able to swallow while choking on your own spit and having to listen to Another Day in Paradise repeatedly for an hour, you deserve a reward. Being that I live in sunny California and I like optimism, I feel as though a positive outcome can be always obtained through an experience of something less than pleasant. That's why while you still have novocaine in your face and can't feel it, you should go ahead pierce it. Especially because the 90's are cool again.
When I had a filling done at 14 years old, I couldn't feel my left nostril for hours. To make the best of the situation I shoved a safety pin into my nose and adorned it with a large Queens girl sized hoop earring. I gleefully galloped into the living room to show my dad thinking he'd be like "Ah cool Candice, you just saved $40 and a trip to St. Marks because you're so savvy. I'm so proud because you save me money, precious daughter." Instead I got "You fucking kidding me with that hoop?! It better be fake. You know really now Candice. Take that shit out of your nose or you can live with your mother." Ah, dads. So cute. I still have a nose ring 17 years later so pierce your face or do something productive like practice mixed martial arts with some strangers while you're all numb.

Now back to my epic procedure. See this idiot in the picture. That's what half my face looked like the day after.

If my Uncle Sal saw me he would've said "Ey, what's wrong with your face? You move to Hollywood to get plastic surgery like those women on that show with the faces and the lips with the head and the eyes? If you did, your doctor was cock-eyed." I was crookedly swollen for 5 days. My left eye looked as if it was being eaten alive by my ever growing cheek. My upper lip was finally as pouty as my bottom one leaving me looking as if I was Lana Del Rey having a stroke. Good look. But anything's better than looking like a pirate on purpose, I suppose.

I ended up getting 8 stitches which would've been pretty badass but it's in my mouth and no one cares. This will still not stop me from going to the dentist and also texting him because the reality is: I rather have 20 dental assistants all over 8,070 years old sit on me at one time than have to pay for a root canal.

Thursday, February 13, 2014

How To Somewhat Enjoy Valentine's Day.

Hey guys, guess what? Valentine’s Day is tomorrow. Yes, time to make like you actually do like your "loved" one. Buy heart shaped things with heart shaped designs on them that are found inside of other heart shaped things. And probably a card too. But it also means that you should be on your best behavior and refrain from having any outbursts or unnecessary tantrums for an entire day. Here’s some greatly overlooked typical Valentine's Day issues that should be avoided: 

-Don't be The Buzzkill Guy. There's always that one waste of a human life who mutters something like  “Valentine’s Day is a corporate marketing scheme created in order to bring money into the blah blah blah I have no penis attached to my body blah blah"  If you go on these anti-romantic conspiracy theories, you should also say you've seen the Big Foot a bunch of times and that sometimes you are also a unicorn. Don’t be a dud. Just bite the bullet and venture off to the Rite Aid and spot the aisle that's filled with a bunch of confused dudes. Then buy the largest stuffed animal holding a velvet heart with feathers coming out of it for $14.99 and some flowers/candy/cards.  

-When you take your bed partner out on Valentine’s Day, don’t go to the place where everyone is also taking their bed partner out on Valentine’s Day. No one wants to spend 45 minutes outside on a sidewalk while staring at happier couples with more in common inside eating food. People get really irritable when they’re hungry and you will hear “We should’ve gone to the other place” and “Remember when we were happy like THAT?!" You will then be a huge disappointment and also will not be having intercourse later. What you should do to avoid this is take your partner to someplace no one wants to go on Valentine's Day like a falafel truck outside of the DMV in Pacoima.  Or you can tell your woman “We are staying in." That way you will be laying down the law and also be having sex instead of driving around the same two blocks in circles trying to find parking while not having sex.

-Appreciate your girlfriend’s gift. You will receive something you never wanted in your life from your girlfriend. 99% guaranteed. You’ll be like “Whoa, this is a really cool, uh, thing with some stuff on it.” Don’t say that. Say it’s beautiful. I’ve been making my boyfriend gifts made out of paint and sometimes when I don’t have paint, nail polish. His house is starting to look as if an 18 year old School of Visual Arts’ freshman came in, sat down and then exploded. So when you receive your weird gift know that she spent so much of her analytical girl brain obsessing over how perfect it had to be. Gift giving means a whole lot to girls. At least the ones I know. And everyone loves to feel appreciated so definitely make a “HOLY SHIT WHOA THIS IS THE BEST” face as you try to decipher what it is you’re looking at.

-Don’t be the guy who gets roses from Ralph’s supermarket.  Ralph’s is a great place for things like cookies. Ralph’s is not a good place for romance. Basically, this is how you know where you can buy roses from. Check it: Can you have sex in your home while on the phone with 1-800-Flowers? Yea I guess, right? Ok now, would it be a great experience to do it in the back of a Ralph’s? You might think "Well yea, public places are cool." But the answer is NOPE. Because in real life if this were to happen, it would under bad Ralph's lighting in front of bad Ralph's employees and you will be stepping on a bunch of Pringle's Xtreme Screamin' Dill Pickle canisters and also mice. Therefore, don’t buy flowers from places you can’t have sex in.

- If you get chocolate for Valentine’s Day and you don’t like chocolate, don’t say “But I don’t like chocolate.” You like chocolate now, motherfucker. Pretend you’re in an episode of some God-awful series like Fear Factor and you’re going to win $10,000 and a Ford Focus if you eat the chocolate. Pipe down. At least you are alive. Some people aren’t. You whiny brat of an ingrate.

-Channel Billy Joel. That’s all you have to do because if anyone knows romance, it’s Billy Joel.  I have no idea how Billy Joel came out of Long Island because no one I dated from Long Island was that smooth. (Sorry guys, Burger King drive-thru is not smooth.) The lyrics to ‘Tell Her About It’ are a pretty good example. Be fearless and speak. Not enough people do and live their lives wrapped up like some sort of a collector’s item that will ultimately have no value because no one knew it even existed. If you can’t do this throughout your relationship because you are an odd and emotionally constipated type of a person, at least jot down your feelings in a card once a year. I sure as shit wouldn’t tolerate you but someone might. Tee hee.

All in all just try to have a nice Valentine's Day and don't complain too much. People make a big to-do when something doesn’t turn out “as planned”.  It’s far easier on your mind not to envision what could happen but just be grateful of all that has happened so far.  That you have this person in your life whom you can spend time with when a lot of people do not have anyone at all. It’s very hard to meet someone whom you can fall in love with, get along with and also not be skeeved out by their naked body. At least for me.  So don’t ruin Valentine’s Day, or actually your relationship on any day, by getting all bent out of shape when you didn’t get the exact stuffed animal from the Rite Aid with the shit velvet heart with feathers shooting out of it for no reason or you end up at a DMV in Pacoima.

(I should take my own advice sometimes.)

Thursday, February 6, 2014

How To Make Sure You Will Not Be Embarrassed After You Die.

Anyone who knows me is aware of the fact that I think about death quite a bit. Sometimes it gets to the point where I won't leave the house for an entire day for I will think to myself  "Hey Candice, you know if you go out today, there's a possibility that you may die." I understand it's a little much but fact of the matter is, it's true. Yes of course I could croak in my apartment by perhaps choking on a baby carrot or somehow accidentally eating hair dye, but walking around Los Angeles is certainly more likely. On an average day I come close to being hit by a car at least twice because as I believe the case to be, LA drivers have this superhuman power where they can actually see through pedestrians. Either that or if they do see our kind, their brains don't quite register right away what this object is moving before them since it is not in the shape of a vehicle. Leisurely strolls are something to be found in dreams as I am always to be on a high alert while walking. I'm aware of the obvious fact that my death will occur at some point and there's nothing I can do about it. What perturbs the control freak of a woman I am is that I don't know when this event will take place. And there are many little things that could be overlooked; Loose ends that you don't tend to which may leave you with a bit of a strange reputation if they are to be noticed without explanation. I would prefer to have things in place before I were to leave this world in order to facilitate my need to maintain a good name. Let's say I were to be expecting company, my home would be tidy without the usual hot pink bra on the couch or all the glitter in the kitchen sink from making my boyfriend gifts coated in 8 layers of sparkle madness (poor guy). The house would smell like a giant Citrus Tango Yankee candle as opposed to it's recent putrid microwaved bacon aroma that my roommate is ever-so keen on. I would like it if there were a way to take the same approach when it comes to how my body were to be found once it decides it's going to expire. For all I know, I could die in my sleep wearing a Jem and the Holograms shirt and bicycle shorts with a massive poof for hair on my head. I have no idea and it will forever weigh on my mind. Hence why if I am to leave the house, there's no way I would do so wearing a pair of sneakers and sweat pants with vainglorious claims such as "#1 Princess of the World" printed on them.  The day I do that is the day a Prius mistakes me for a car lane and runs me down. Understandably. Nevertheless, with that being said, here are some pointers on how to NOT be embarrassed after you have dropped dead:

-If you are going to leave the house to pick up some stuff, make sure you're not only picking up one thing. I do this thing where I leave the house to buy a banana. Everyday. I know I could realistically go out one day and buy something like 16 bananas but for some reason I don't. If I went out to do this daily routine and got ran over by a bus on my way, word would get out and that would be it. I would ultimately be “The Girl Who Got Ran Over By a Bus On Her Way To Buy 1 Banana” for eternity. Have it so that before you leave the house you have a sufficient amount of errands to run. Getting killed on the way to work is one thing, but getting killed on the way back from picking up your fluff and fold laundry from the fluff and fold laundry place is not a heroic feat. And then everyone will know you were a schmuck who never learned how to wash your own clothes.

-Try to not have anything too bizarre hidden in your home. When things are kept locked up or buried that are seemingly zany, it is apparent that you would feel quite abashed if someone were to discover these possessions. This is why they are kept in a sock, in a box, with a lock, in a drawer, down a tunnel, underground and not on a bookshelf. If foul play were to be found in my case, I suspect a proper inspection of my apartment were to be necessary. Which is to my dismay because as an extremely private person, knowing that some forensics dude will be rummaging through my belongings way back in the depths of my closet irks me to no end. There you will find a blow up doll still blown up wearing a White Castle tee shirt, a yellow space suit, an eye patch, packets of lube I've collected from 3 years worth of Santa Monica Blvd parades and my JOURNAL where all my mushy sappiness is revealed without limits. Horrifying. We all have strange objects in our home. Sometimes they happen to be strange objects that also function as a sex toy. I don't have sex toys for a reason. Reason being if I were to have one, it would have to be the stupidest toy on the market. And I would go ahead and leave it out on the coffee table to give the apartment a flair of sexy oomph. Yet, no one does this in real life so if you are feeling a cold come on, quickly grab your dumbest vibrator that is in the shape of something like a hippo (they make those) and throw it down an incinerator pronto. 

-Your social media photos should be bangin' because that's what's going to be on the 5 o'clock news. Back in the 90's when someone died, an immediate relative or significant other provided a polaroid of THEIR choice to the media. When I was a teenager, I used to worry that my mother would be the one with this responsibility. Which would surely be a photo that she took with her disposable Walgreens camera under fluorescent lighting, with the flash on, where I am doing something unflattering like blowing out birthday candles or speaking. The most unpleasant photographs are those taken in mid-sentence where someone is saying "Don't take a picture of me!" My mother has albums filled with images like this. Why? Because she doesn't give proper advisory that she is about to take a photo. The woman is constantly holding a camera. If you know anyone who has peculiar pictures of you in their possession, you should seek them out and have them destroyed. If this person puts up a fight by saying "You look nice there. What are you talking about?" Do what one of my brother's friends from Queens would do: Kick them in the shin, take a photo of them on the floor screaming while grabbing their now painful shin and say "Oh yea, you look nice there too. You and your douchebag camera." Then go to the 7-11 and eat a Taquito. Only because this is a very post battle victory Guy from Queens thing to do.

-Tell someone really close to you to monitor the mortuary beautician. I know, this is extremely vain and all but if I'm going to be laid out on a display in front of the very same people I spent all my life getting dressed up and perfecting my hair for, there's no way in hell I'm going to go out with bad rouge, mauve lipstick and a velvet dress. I don't know if this comes along with some burial package: Updo, airbrush foundation, ivory casket, velvet dress but I do not want this package. 

-Give someone you trust your Facebook password. You don't want to be dead and still be receiving shitty event invites. Death is a time for peace. Also be completely convinced that this person will be creepy on your behalf. If your trusted Facebook death confidant were to receive a notification of a comment left for you such as "You were a beautiful person, inside and out. You will be missed" they should respond with "Thanks for the comment. See you on the other side." Or "I'm watching you but you can't see me. BOO! Where am I?? LOLOL." They should also like your friend's status updates occasionally and post links to dreadful Buzzfeed articles from your account. That way you are annoying to the living who waste their life on Facebook yet also super eerie.

-Don't do anything too dumb in your life now that could be revealed after you die. You don't want to be dead and with absolutely no way to clarify your point of view. Just be careful. If you're into having sex with things you're not supposed to have sex with, don't have sex with things you're not supposed to have sex with because that’s weird. And when you're dead you'll be that dead weird guy so just be normal, k?

-Delete everything incriminating on your computer or phone. Your Apple products are the first things to be checked if your death is suspicious. You know how nervous you feel when you think your girlfriend or boyfriend might be looking through your text messages when you put your phone down for 4 whole minutes? Ok, reality is, that is going to happen if you drop dead within those 4 minutes. They will call an ambulance but probably after they went through your Google search history, emails, text messages, photos, Instagram likes and Facebook messages. As will with a team of detectives who will relay the messages you didn't want your girlfriend or boyfriend to see that they may have overlooked while kind of being upset over the fact that you're dead. So those super kinky texts you had with that one person a year ago that you still keep in your phone, delete them. DO NOT I repeat, DO NOT back them up to iTunes! iTunes is not a part of the afterlife. And thank God since that means we won't have to endure anymore horrific dance song remixed versions of a former yet even more horrific dance song hereafter.

That's my list of stuff to do to in order to be remembered as a beautiful person and not a creepazoid. By writing this, I have had thought about death for the entire day. Now I must delete my search history that I’ve accumulated in order to prove to myself that there are indeed hippo shaped vibrators just in case I explode later today by lighting incense too close to my highly flammable hair product ridden head. Which is the likelihood of my demise from this life after all. 

Friday, January 31, 2014

Vines Galore.

(Shitty quality I know but I'm no Tim Burton.)

Monday, December 30, 2013

Another Post About My Relentless Faith in the Lost and Abandoned Underwater City Called "Love"

Bloop bloop.

People keep telling me to date, to have many options and just have a "blast". Not knowing how I may have succumbed to signing up for meat market sites and apps such as OkCupid and Tinder. I've tried both momentarily just to see what this could feel like. I felt nothing. I just couldn't get into it. I think I liked Tinder for a period of 30 minutes to take screenshots of the single man photos. I've learned that men in Los Angeles have some pretty unique things in common. One of which being posing with a tiger. Something on many an LA man's to-do list. Where one goes to acquire a photo session with an actual willing tiger I do not know. I'm going to have to assume that somewhere within 2 miles of Hollywood lies an underground big cat zoo dubbed Ford: Tiger Division. A place where tiger models wait with their portfolios and comp cards, wide-eyed and eager to be apart of your fashion world. Until Terry Richardson walks in and their lives are turned upside down as they are now sprawled along an unfurnished apartment's floor wearing nothing but American Apparel disco shorts and knee high socks in the aftermath of a four day cocaine binge. Maybe I'm wrong. Other popular Tinder photography includes far off in a distance mid-hiking shots. These are great because you get to learn right off the bat that the person you have stumbled upon thoroughly enjoys being one with nature. In which case, I thoroughly enjoy being one with noping the shit out of you. If you love the great outdoors, that's one thing. You're only entitled to five photos on Tinder and if you dedicate one of those slots to a picture a pal took of you from two mountains away where your posture is being severely impacted by your seventy pound assorted rock climbing shoe and flare gun filled backpack, then you make a whole lot of NO SENSE. Allow me to type as I'd text for one minute:
Cuz don't wanna have sex with National Geographic mag ya know haha.
Names are pretty screenshot worthy as well. Saw a guy named "Judson", an apparent hybrid of two shithead guy names Judd and Hudson. His parents must have asked the question "How can we make our child an immediate douchebag upon introduction?" In which case, they succeeded.
Please find enclosed absurd single human being in search of God knows what:

Red flag much?
Soon after this message, I deleted OKCupid for my iPhone has only so much memory and I needed that room to download Fat Booth and yet another iOS update. And the fact that I can not take anything seriously.
I must say in my Tinder half an hour lifespan, I learned that personalities need not apply. There's a small bio section that was created for the purpose on elaborating a bit about who you are. Instead people dedicate this to their Instagram link where you can go and see more photos. Very substantial. Obviously this is solely based upon sex. And this of course, perturbs me to no end. I would rather pick cat hair off a bunch of goth kids than have a one night stand. Allow me to type the way I text again:
Cuz gross 'N' stuff tho.
For me, finding someone attractive occurs about once every 5 years. Your insurance can cover more colonoscopies at 100% in 5 years than I can find love. Therefore, when I finally do find someone I am able to stand for more than an hour, I am faithful. It's actually natural to me and incredibly easy. Apparently I must be from the planet Nimphinompi or someplace people have only heard about like Cupertino for this is a rarity. I don't quite care about physique and muscle definition. At times, it actually sickens me. Male models and commercially attractive people are boring to me. I prefer "flawed" and interesting people that are unlike so many others I can see whenever I please in this city I live in encompassed by "beautiful people." The term beautiful should more so be used to describe the feeling delivered by someone you let that close to you, not a description based on mere physical appearance alone. If this aesthetically pleasing person were to come in the form of a dull human being lacking a warm heart and without the ability to make you feel anything less than amazing then it doesn't really matter, does it?
There was this one guy from high school, we'll call him "Splad." Splad was a handsome fellow with some sort of a muscle pattern going on along his stomach region. He was much more fond of this than that of shirts. As soon as he would exit the school doors, his shirt would come off like he was going to bust out into a full-on Chippendales performance in the middle of Queens in November. The ladies seemed to like this. I didn't know what was going on half the time because I had my walkman on but I saw brown lip lined mouths ajar and heavily eye-shadowed eyes oogling and knew he was making a shirtless impact. One day Splad sat down to chat with me, in which case I was annoyed because I had to stop listening to my walkman. With his chiseled cheekbones and sharp, angular jaw, he turned to me and muttered something so boring I forgot it as soon as he said it. It was that meaningless that I didn't even hear it. I can't recall anymore from the encounter asides from thinking "This guy has the potential if he just didn't open his mouth."
Another moment in life where I was supposed to be attracted to someone yet wasn't remotely even near that was when I worked the front desk at this hair salon in Italian-America, NY. In walks this especially height challenged man with shoulders that extended wide enough to make doorway entrance a feat in itself. Seemingly similar to Donkey Kong upon appearing at level 1, facing the front of the arcade screen on his stupid ladder in all his broad shouldered glory. The little Donkey Kong man came adorned in a white top with no sleeves, dark sunglasses and a hairdo that was comprised mostly of gel than of actual hair. He approached me asking for a back waxing. Being that he is of the ape family, this is to be expected. I led him to the back with the other girls, who already disliked me because I wasn't Italian enough and wore glitter to work. Upon the sight of him, they gagged and swooned as they fought over who would get to apply wax to his stumpy back. The alpha female with the most gold on her person won. When he left, the girls jumped up and down about how hot they found him to be. I think I might've said something along the lines of "Wha?" which resulted in looks of horror from everyone at the salon and probably outside and around the corner as well.
With this being said, finding love for me is never easy. Yet once found, I like to revel in how I can find this person to be pure, innocent and new. It gives me much hope and instills the same kind of faith a child has before their mind is capable of recalling nightmares and developing their individual fears. The enthusiasm I can feel is still strong and vital even after witnessing apathetic behavior and violent reactions from the ones I have loved so. Situations that could have permanently disabled my ability to give as wholeheartedly as I do. Yet, no matter what, I still maintain the desire and the perpetual ability to trust. It is a naive approach being that I eagerly seek someone to believe in and so readily do. I suppose it must be easier to trust someone that I could never love than to love someone that I could never trust. Nevertheless, I like to think that each person is his own and shouldn't be dismissed because of negative personal experiences. No one should ever get second rate treatment due to the fact that a former lover left you with their former lover's issues. It's somewhat of a domino effect: A contemptuous lover meets someone with an open and vulnerable heart and in time, that person's burdens roll over onto this pure and willing person who was only seeking companionship. These unresolved issues spread like an airborne disease in an aircraft cabin or HPV in a Long Island community college. Resulting in qualms and reservations embedded in the back of our minds which beckon us to become self preserved and inevitably obtaining the worst trait ever: Caution. Caution, being a result of fear, is the cock-blocker of love. All these quote on quote playboy types and the likes are merely pussies doused in cologne and dread who lack the introspection to see this. Or perhaps they know, but don't want to feel that unsurpassable amount of pain again. Can I blame them? Absolutely not. Some people don't have the means or the know-how to heal. Yet, I must say, I feel as though if you met your match all that anguish you've felt from your prior failed relationship is converted into a particle of nothingness and you can truly appreciate the one who can show you how you ought to feel. Which is why I, after all the unpleasantries, still have the utmost endurance to keep searching.
How can one be so fragile, yet so shatterproof at the same time? In New York, we would call my kind "schmuck." Which indeed, I sure am. Have True Romance be your favorite movie and Depeche Mode be your favorite band and see what lovely decision making ensues. I tend to give everyone the benefit of the doubt no matter how obvious the doubt is. So perhaps taking my search to OKCupid to find schmucks alike wasn't an awfully terrible idea. Maybe I should reconsider signing back in yet never, ever meeting any of them, for that will burst the bubble. Instead emulating my cologne ridden counterparts who have shut down that part of their brain that longs for intimacy. Only keeping men as a daydream of what they could be, for safety reasons. Like the way I would in my youth by idolizing performers such as David Bowie, Mr. Navarro and Tim Curry. Glancing over to their posters on my wall and envisioning how I hoped them to be. Creating a magical human being with majestical powers no short of flying who will do such fun activities with me like sit in a car and/or diner. For from what I gather, no one I could possibly share my love with can match the capacity in which I can love: Never partial, never diluted. I suppose I can always continue to screenshot the images of single LA men and come to more conclusions on where these:
Tigers r chillin' haha SRSLY tho.

Thursday, November 28, 2013

Tis The Season...?

I guess.

Being that I live in climate controlled Los Angeles, the only way I was made fully aware of this was upon purchasing a cup of Starbucks coffee, which was now red and featured a very happy, winking snowman in a top hat. I was perplexed at the time for I was also standing near a palm tree set amongst the backdrop of the bright, white sun while dripping a combination of sweat and SPF 45. The thought of Christmas fast approaching reactivated my once dormant anxiety. I imagined having to spend an inordinate amount of money as well as time asking people what they want, shopping for what they want, waiting in lines to buy what they want, wrapping what they want and then having to hang out with them to give them what they want.  I then have a silent panic attack and go on to drink more coffee.

I decided to take some time out of my busy schedule of staring at my phone and styling my hair to compose a list of tips based on personal experiences and YouTube videos that I feel may increase the holiday joy for those of you this year. Ok great. Enjoy.

TIP #1: For all you shoppers to be this season, you should know that kids do not care about fashion unless this piece of fashion has their favorite cartoon character or super hero embedded on it somewhere really big so they can see it. If you get them a "cute outfit marked down from $75 that's so practical, oh-so warm and 100% Wool" you basically just bought the kids' mom a present and this is not fair. So please do not do this.

When I was a kid all I wanted were stuffed animals, real animals and action figures in the shape of animals. That's it, nothing else. If it was Christmas and I counted on you to contribute to my action figurine supply and you showed up with a big, rectangular box that with the word MACY*S on it, I was very mad and threw fits before each and every car ride to dinner at your house thereafter and also dried my hands on your show towels.

TIP #2: Please be parental and wake up earlier than your kids on Christmas day like you are supposed to, Mom.

As a child my mom would wake up later then all of us and make my brothers and I wait to unwrap gifts while she had her morning coffee and performed a full on make-up application. This gave me a lot of time to stare at my presents while attempting to decipher what the contents were. I would pick them up and feel around and if I felt anything weird like earrings I instantly got mad. Earrings were not Ninja Turtles so this Christmas was already a disappointment. I would also notice the label on the presents that read "From Santa" was in my mother's handwriting. Needless to say,  I knew there was no Santa since age 7 so thanks Mom for taking 45 minutes to put on mascara.
TIP #3: When reusing other people's things or past gifts, make sure you have removed the price tags and all other indications that these are not directly from an online store or the Glendale Galleria. These can be hidden quite well so make sure you do this in a well lit area. If you have the belief that hand me downs are great because you are like a human thrift store then do so carefully.

As I got older and my mother got broker I noticed that the majority of my gifts would come from yard sales or were recycled/rejected gifts from Christmases of yesteryear. On several occasions I received my interesting items of sorts in a misshapen Happy Birthday bag that still had a tag that read "To Kathy Love, Wanda". This could have been avoided if proper inspection was performed. Another red flag was when I was given a body mist/shower gel gift set with a peculiar name like "Secret Sensual Endless Peony Garden Daydream" which can not be purchased in any store known to mankind but only somehow from a yard sale.

These experiences early on in my life inspired me to reply to "What do you want for Christmas?" with simply "Money".

TIP #4: Tell everyone you want money and look them in the eye and repeat yourself and do not blink.

People hate giving money. Because you will then know that they are cheap. It is now way obvious. People are good at making believe they spent a lot of money by buying you things you have never heard of. They will go to the edge of the earth in the Promenade of Santa Monica to buy something so unnecessary that it is obviously rare because no one wants to reproduce something so unnecessary. Just to make you wonder how much it is. You can't even find the words to Google Shop it because it is undefinable. Then the gift giver feels educated and mystical because you are baffled. They will also feel sly because they spent $6.99 cash meanwhile you gave them a gift card to Pier 1 Imports for $150. These are not your friends. If they also are the types that send you mass texts then they are definitely not your friends. You should evacuate them from your social circle.

TIP #5: Do not attempt to buy the XBox One console while on sale. You will most likely die.

Black Friday arrives as our bodies are still in digestion mode. Some people camp out over night while in digestion mode. They do not have sufficient sleep. They are very irritable. Therefore, Black Friday can be dangerous. When people hear the words "Prices Have Been Slashed" a sociopathic switch goes off in their minds in which they then enter the realms of Battle Zone: Christmas Spectacular. Shoppers in festive turtlenecks and snuggly reversible scarves emerge from their Nissan Pathfinders and congregate into the arena of war that is the Walmart parking lot, ready and eager for full-on tactical combat. If you decide to venture into the madness to buy your friends a Keurig (make sure you buy the pods because if you don't you are an asshole) maybe wear a helmet. I've seen aftermath footage on Fox News of Black Friday and it is quite frightening. It is very similar to the scene in Natural Born Killers where Tommy Lee Jones' ravished, dead head is being pranced around on a stick. You are basically waiting to be released from behind a barricade along with 40,000 of the type of people who do strange things like wake up at 5 am on a Sunday "Just because" who will literally eat your arm while stepping on your head if you are within reach of the much coveted Nikon COOLPIX.

So there you have it. I hope you enjoyed my list of tips for Holiday Season 2013. May you and everyone you know that you sort of maybe care about have a great holiday and get everything you desire that you will lose interest in after 15 minutes unless it's an iPhone. So definitely get an iPhone.

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Slut Cops: The Movie

Being Halloween and all, I have a slight feeling that later on today when I venture off to the West Hollywood Parade I will surely end up annoyed by the many walks of life that will be present. Some of which will include a girl with those humungous 8 foot wide feathered angel wings that take up an entire car lane, the idiot with the pointy and very unnecessary bullshit thing on his shoulder that is capable of stabbing me through the face, the drunken guy disguised as drunken foam hotdog guy, Cheech but with no Chong because he smoked the costume and of course, 8,000 Slut Cops. So many of them walking aimlessly back and forth like some sort of Slut Cop zombie nation along Santa Monica Boulevard eventually being splattered upon it's sidewalks in the throes of hysteric episodes because their boyfriend, Super Mario with felt mustache, made out with Slut Pumpkin. But being that I give everyone the benefit of the doubt, let's make believe that Slut Cops serve a purpose to the community asides from looking sexy on a budget and with limited creativity. That way when you inevitably bump into one today, you can look at them in less of a demeaning light. Regardless of whether you are a female who would typically take pleasure in viciously smearing the contents of a bottle of Nair onto their head or a male who just wants to bone them. So, here's Slut Cops: The Movie.

    Slut Cops is a romantic comedy about two former models (Banks, Fisher) who at 37 years old, have surpassed their peak yet have the difficulty of coming to terms with their diminishing career and accepting a life with an average, run of the mill 9-5 job. When their rent controlled apartment goes up in flames after Banks leaves her flat iron on her cat, they are forced to seek a new means of accumulating income other than receiving residual checks and selling their old boots on eBay. They answer an ad on Craigslist from the private investigation company "Sexy Surveillance", operated by surly ex-cop (Eric Stoltz), which seeks attractive women to become undercover agents aimed at catching cheating spouses. Together the girls lurk in seedy taverns and local dive bars enticing husbands in question in order to collect as much photographic documentation to prove acts of infidelity. Obliging to all sorts of zany proposals, Banks and Fisher have the time of their lives regaining the sex appeal they had long lost in 2002. That is until they bust top notch, sort of fat guy with a super shiny ponytail, mob boss (Val Kilmer.) His wife (Mercedes Ruehl) threatens to divorce him on the grounds of adultery, in which case she gets half of his assets as well as child support permitting her to live the rest of her life watching the Oxygen Network on an otherwise zero income of her own. Also stars Owen Wilson for no reason and Matthew McConaughey just to make it somewhat romantic. Directed by that one guy who directed that movie with the girl with the face and written by Who Gives a Shit Man who takes up two parking spots at the Universal Studios stages lot with his 2014 Volkswagen Who Gives a Shit About That Either hatchback. Craft services provided by Doug "The Fork" O'Rouke. 

Monday, October 28, 2013

Idealistic 90's Revival: The Telephone Conversation

The other night a friend of mine contacted me to tell me she wanted to hang out and talk about a recent turning point in her life that she was super excited about. I decided I needed a break from diagnosing myself with nervous system disorders on WebMD and left the house. We went out for a drive where she went into a story of how she had just met someone in LA who was different from those she dated in the past. Typical story thus far. Everyone comes off as pleasant and on their best behavior in the first few weeks. But here's the kicker: Right after she gave him her number, he did an astonishing thing: He called her. This was strange. "Wait, he called you??!" I responded, just in case I had misheard something.  She quickly assured me with a "Dude, right?!" In which case I was all "What?! You mean, with your VOICE THING?" (I didn't say that but it would've been kind of cool if I did.) She went on to say that they did cute little impersonations, told jokes and related on many levels during their 2 hour conversation. I'll admit it, I was jealous. I haven't done this Get-To-Know-a-Guy-Over-the-Phone thing since 1998. Shit, man. I never let myself have expectations and tend to tell dudes to take me to a dinky diner or a cafe for a date since it's a comfortable setting for me but a phone conversation? Wow, if I could that and then go to Canters I'd feel like a princess.

I really do miss the initial intensity of the first phone conversation upon meeting someone new. When you can hear the jitters in a person's voice. The exchange of awkward laughter to the tone of nervousness. The quick bond you can establish about your past, present, likes, dislikes as well as going off into unedited tangents. Not typing "lol" like a 12 and a half year old but actually laughing and reacting to a person's wit and timing. All the while being genuine. Nowadays it's texting between two strangers trying to get to know one another and in the end, you uncover half of what you could have had you used your voice and not your thumbs.

Growing up in the 90's, things were more on an intimate and personal level. Not only with talking to another living human person on the phone, but even with music. We all had CDs with liner notes that had lyrics and artwork so you got to know the artist more. You could idolize them and you could show your admiration by collecting their musical contributions by displaying actual tangible items on your shelf. That was the utmost in appreciation. I loved my rotating CD case that was alphabetized by artist name and genre. Now everything is obscured and hidden. As are emotions. We use emojis and emoticons because we are all now Japanese school girls apparently. Even if you are a 42 year old guy named Joe eating an Okie dog in a truck, if you used emojis, Joe, you are too a Japanese school girl.


I mean, the fuck is this?

I've actually googled this just to make sure I could reply in a way that made sense to the sender and Google didn't have any idea either.

If I remember correctly, the primitive stages of texting consisted of "I miss you" and "See you soon". A mere step up from beeper codes like "411" and my personal favorite 8008517701210, which roughly translated into "BOOBSWORLD" and meant nothing. Overtime it became the only form of communication. Yet there should be a balance, not an extremity. Texting and an occasional phone conversation. I, for one, understand the beauty of not being bothered with constant interaction. I liked how prior to having a cell phone I was able to sit outside somewhere at night and not have anyone interrupt my alone time. Remember that scene in Reality Bites where Winona Ryder left the house and no one could get in touch with her? Wow. That was a really good part in the movie. Ben Stiller had to go to a payphone to call the diner that she was at. And she had this expression on her face like "How'd he know I was the diner? That's so cool that he went out of his way to think. This guy straight up knows romance." It's great to never have that obligation of responding based on being completely oblivious to the fact that you are being summoned.  My excuse for not answering the phone my whole life was always "I wasn't home." Now that's out the window. With my need to live life guilt-free, I have to face text messages head on as soon as I see them and reply. And when in the worst mood, this could just make me either sound disinterested, boring or unfunny and can make my relationships go downhill fast. Of course you could wait and respond when you please. But WHO ARE YOU AND HOW DO YOU DO THAT?? Surely you must be of that reptoid race David Icke wrote all those bullshit reptoid race books about and have no real human emotions and sleep at night as an iguana or whatever the hell that guy was talking about. Or you could just have patience and the rational mind of someone unlike myself, I suppose.

I'm pretty sure I've ruined a few friendships via getting involved in unnecessary miscommunication thanks to text messaging. If my repressive brain remembers correctly, my marriage was officially called off through a text message. My written words, not backed up by a jolly facial expression followed by a typical Candice giggle were taken as "My love for you is gone." (I think. I repressed it along with the time I had a serious mullet and briefly lived in Upstate New York and other unsatisfactory experiences.) Avoiding displaying your emotions? Cool, we got something for that. Not to sound like I'm in the middle of an Above Top Secret conspiracy theory forum but if we continue in this manner in 20 more years, everyone will have the inability to relate to other people and you know what that's called? Sociopathic behavior. SO COOL, GUYS! LET'S ALL GET THIS. We'll be near sociopaths who'll go to the Dunkin' Donuts to get a small Turbo iced coffee and have to hold up signs of round, yellow expressions of smiling cartooned heads to convey our appreciation while not being able to see jack shit because we're busy watching Batman Returns Again But Dark This Time From Rising From the Beginning Forever in the Dark Again Though on our Google glasses. And in that timeframe, emoticons are just going to get even more 3D-ier where little happy heads will become as realistic as possible like the characters in GTA 5 where they are virtual crazy happy heads as people slowly lose the ability to make facial expressions. It'll be fun.

Everything is just so simplified these days. You don't have to think, speak or leave your house if you don't want to. It's controllable if you can find a means to limit how much ease in life you actually need. Romance has dwindled down to half-ass fragments of what it could be. Instant gratification is needed. Everything is now, now, now or never. She isn't around, move onto the next one on POF or on Facebook somewhere. The beauty of pining and yearning for someone is slowly escaping us all simply by distracting oneself. Which is the utmost easiest thing you could possibly do. Has everyone become replaceable since millions of people exist within the palm of your hand? You liked your ex's ass? Hashtag #ass on Instagram and here's your new heart's desire.  Don't even give yourself a few days to mourn a break-up. Just go read someone's shitty tweets about how today is leg day at the gym and send them an @reply and then maybe boink.

Internet and text messaging is obviously a way of life and isn't going anywhere fast since were so accustomed to it. Just do yourself the favor and don't take away from letting yourself get to know someone to the fullest extent. Those first few weeks after meeting someone who sparks your interest and allowing yourself to revel in it is really the stuff that life is made for. Pick up the goddamn phone and try not to subdue it out of fear or laziness and make it less than what it could be. You shouldn't deny yourself a bit of bliss and a possible anxiety ridden adrenaline rush. Unless you're nuts then don't call anyone except Rite Aid pharmacy and get yourself un-nuts.

Saturday, October 12, 2013

How To Passive Aggressively Get Your Male Roommate To Move Out.

As I've stated in previous posts, my former husband and I broke up earlier this year. Surprisingly, we remain good friends and do favors for one another whenever we can. He moved out and in his caring Canadian way, told me that I could stay in this apartment without changing the lease. My options were that I could live here alone or rent out the bedroom or even the living room to someone else. Since I am accustomed to being uncomfortable, I took the living room and rented out the bedroom. I was never in there much to begin with and spent most of my time near the front door so that I could easily evacuate the apartment if my ex-husband were to start doing that thing where he'd talk about house music, Detroit house music, techno house music, techno techno music and how we don't have sex. As a person who doesn't know other people, I took my search for a roommate to Craigslist. A great website where you can meet some real all-stars in your area. My first potential co-occupant was a 24 year old ex-party girl who seemed to be going through a phase of enlightenment. So much so that her imagination was clear and vivid and it involved installing shelves in my home, refinishing the wood in an English oak hue, painting the bathroom and retiling the countertops. She was the type of person that expressed such an amount of overzealous joy without shutting the fuck up that your personality excuses itself because it just can't handle all that is exploding right in front of you and you're left standing there with only the mere ability to nod every once in a while. Regardless to say, I later sent her a text that simply read "Nope." I was already going through a huge change called No More Husband and didn't want to deal with energized, dominant female looking to play arts & crafts with my apartment like it was some sort of fun project to eventually sell on Etsy. I then continued my search and interviewed other prospective roommates. Some of which included a man with a tinge of I Can't Help But Rape In My Sleep look to his eyes, a girl who seemed as if she just took ADHD medication that she found in someone else's purse and a few typical Craigslist flakes. All hope was lost until this wonderful thing happened: A young guy in his 20's came over and said these words "Ok this place is nice. I don't have anything but a sleeping bag and some shaving cream and I keep to myself." I said "Cool, you're in!" He had a girlfriend that he couldn't stop talking about so I knew he wouldn't invade my bed in the middle of the night as I slept alone and vulnerable in zit cream. A completely harmless person whom I had a good feeling about. He still stays in his room for the most part and I think collectively I may have seen him 12 times during these last few months. So with that being said, I do feel as if I live alone in a studio apartment. But the fact is no matter how much I can make myself believe otherwise, I still have a roommate. And we all have moments where we just want to be alone. So I thought to myself: What could be the most passive aggressive tactics one can use to get their male roommates to leave their living quarters? This is what I came up with while I sat around on yet another eventful Friday night in face mask:

-Create the most high-pitched, obnoxious ringtone you can and make it your default tone. For this I would opt to use a sample of a 1960's Sci-Fi movie laser beam. Then go ahead and text everyone in your phone a very easy question. Something along the lines of "Do you eat food sometimes?" will do. Wait 30 seconds and leave your phone as close as you can to his bedroom door. Then put your headphones on, watch some YouTube and unwind.
-Paint the living room magenta. Do this and don't stop until you live in a giant megadome of pink. If you can splurge, go all out and get yourself some glitter. Nothing says "There's no one with a penis on these premises" quite like your new home which now resembles that of an iPhone case from a mall kiosk in South Jersey.
-Rescue Animals. But only Macaws from Ecuador. Adorn them in cute, little hats. Get Bamboo stalks from the Home Depot and strategically hang them across the kitchen cabinet where your male roommate keeps his large tub of chocolate whey powder. This will give your home a real tropical Rainforest feel without all that damp air and solar radiation from being neighbors with the equator.   Call your home "Sanctuary" and "Haven" whenever you have the opportunity. You will be a bird hero.
-Listen to the same song all day and start singing to it off-key. Make sure this song's artist has performed in at least 3 out of the 4 Lilith Fair tours. For this I choose Bonnie Raitt and her sensational hit "I Can't Make You Love Me", a song about a woman experiencing unrequited love from a man she is sleeping with. GUYS LOVE THIS. This song has a lot of up and down tempos going on, perfect for really getting into that off-key flow. If you need a change of pace, Adele's "Set Fire to the Rain" will work too but only "Set Fire to the Rain" because no one is sick of it yet and definitely try to sing like you have the vocal range of Adele.
-Break into prayer on the floor in mid-conversation. Or say Grace before you eat anything. If you desire a cookie and your roommate is present, say Grace prior to eating your delicious snack. Religion is a very comfortable thing. And everyone loves cookies.
-Set up a account and have gatherings at your place called "Let's Make Smoothies Until 3am Game Night." For this you are to acquire a $10 blender from Giant Dollar in Koreatown that is $10 because the motor is damaged and it emits the strong smell of burning electrical wires. You are to have your juice contain very solid foods like ginger and whole, entire apples and also ice and set blender's mode to puree for the first 3 minutes. It'll be a fun time.
-Take up a lot of time in the bathroom. If you run out of things to do in the bathroom, start crying in the bathroom. Perhaps go the extra mile and put on that Bonnie Raitt song. Sing along to it and cry all at once. Guys look forward to coming home to emotional women. Ask your dad.
-Start your own AA meeting in your home. Make it a Big Book study and read aloud a lot. Some people have a problem hearing so also get a microphone so that everyone can be involved.
-Incorporate NYC into your home. People love the feel of New York. Which is why every Sunday you should play a lot of La Mega 97.9 FM very early in the morning. Also, get a jack hammer and fix "potholes" that weren't ever there in front of the house. Maybe above all the noise, have a conversation with your neighbor two blocks away from one another about how they raised the price of 2% milk at the Stop N' Shop. Be infuriated. Then walk somewhere and come back and complain about at least 4 things that happened on your walk. They should probably be about "the drivers out here." That'll really deliver an authentic essence of the 5 Boroughs.

That should do the trick. Although these are some neat tips, I'm not sure if I'll ever reach the breaking point where I need to use them. Things change and the situation could've been worse. Like the way things were 10 years ago which I won't discuss because that's buzzkill as fuck. My lease runs up in March and I'll embark upon a whole new living situation that I will ultimately find a good reason or two to despise. As long as I don't end up doing that thing where I move into my brother's guest room in Levittown and start dating that one ex from 2004 again who too, lives in his brother's guest room and take a job as the office manager at the Jiffy Lube. Which is possibly the worst case scenario asides from living in the smoking section outside of Target on Santa Monica Blvd with the crazy headed people or inside of a bus. I am a person with much hope.