Thursday, July 24, 2014

Me N' Alf.

I had my only Tinder fling. 
And it was with Alf.
Here's the story:






He understood me.



He was a great listener. 

I gave him my number. 
My outgoing texts were green so I assumed that he was either using Google Voice or an Android. Either way, not cool.


He took me for sushi, my favorite.

He won me Batman at the arcade. 


He was starting to get possessive. I secretly like that. 
Whoops, there goes that secret. 


We got dressed up and went dancing at the goth club. This is his look I call, "Alfin Gore". 
(He stole the spotlight. )


Then this shit happened:

Whelp, there goes that. 

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.

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:

-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. 



Friday, January 31, 2014