PET PEEVES IN PROSE: PART I

Mapquest:

Aptly named, this online “service”

doth exist with one sole purpose

To confound, confuse and often condemn

Me to one way streets, dark alleys, dead ends.

A quest indeed, I’ve embarked upon

Twenty-one miles never seemed so long.

When mapping my route I chose the shortest journey.

But 10 minutes in and things look Other-Worldly.

From Winchells, Mc Donalds and a Marix Tex Mex,

Past Bowsers Castle, Hogwarts and a T-Rex.

What street have I turned on? It appears pretty gritty.

Is it me or does that Ralphs look like Goblin City?

Have I made the ‘slight right’ at the directions insistence?

This map makes no mention of Mordor in the distance.

A sharp left at Narnia and I’ve hit a dead end.

I’ll probably be late for that lunch with my friend.

This map is a hoax, I think I’m it’s pawn.

Nothing can save me, not even Aslan.

I’ve run over something. A brick with a flower?

There goes my windshield. Thanks, fire power.

Salvation may lay in the upcoming off ramp.

Unfortunately its also where the Orcs like to camp.

Deciphering these clues is a chore more or less.

And I’m still not quite sure how I saved the princess.

I’d assumed those red lights were the brakes from a Lexus

Upon closer inspection they seem the eyes of a Skeksis.

It’s dark and it’s cold. Blast this cars stupid heater!

I hope it’s just broken and not the breath of a death-eater.

The accompanying map should show me the route.

I wish it were zoomed in, instead of completely zoomed out.

The only advice from this map I can pin

Is the B to my A lay east of the ocean.

Culver City is where I had once hoped to land

The Southern Oracle is where I fear I now stand.

16 minutes claimed the map. It should not take more!

But I took the freeway, when I should’ve taken Falcor.

(oopsies! My young-adult fantasy novels are showing.)

Until the End of Time

Dear Love,

I love you so much that words cannot even express the depth of my feelings. The last three years we’ve spent together have been the very best years of my life. I love you forever and ever times infinity, or at least until the apocalypse happens; whichever comes first. Pumpkin, It’s not that I’ll stop loving you after the apocalypse, it’s just that I’ll need to go into survival mode, and that means finding someone who’s better equipped at taking care of me. Oh please don’t be so sad! Maybe you can come with us! I’ll ask, I just don’t want you to get your hopes up, I’m not sure how much extra room he’ll have in his space ship.

Sweetheart, you are my sun and my moon…until they both implode and you’re left on a dark and dying planet while I’m whisked off to a well-stocked space station in a faraway galaxy with a new sun and 3 moons.

My love, I think of no other but you and smile at the very thought of spending the rest of our lives together…like I said, prior to the apocalypse. I really don’t think your lungs are going to survive the blast and I only have one of these little protective suit thingy’s and it’s in a size small, otherwise I’d totally share it with you.

Honeybear, I am SO lucky to have you in my life. I’m just so lucky in general to know that my life span will far exceed yours thanks to my high ranking Back-up Plan. I will always be there for you whenever you need me, but you should know that I will be evacuated to a safe house no less than 20 minutes before the rage virus and mass hysteria strike. YOU complete me.

I Love you forever,

Your loving Lover

XOXO

Misty

Boys are Nothing but Trouble

Bonjour Blogosphere!

I've decided to post some incredibly old blogs I wrote. Why would I do this?

A) To help us get a little better acquainted

B) To finally be able to shut down that myspace account

C) To give me a little more time to remember how to form a proper sentence and to gather my thoughts.

All good answers, but lets not kid ourselves. The correct answer is C. A and B are just a bonus.

You see, it's been OH so long since I've written. But I'm back. I swear it.

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Boy are Nothing But Trouble

March 2007

Once upon a time I shared a love nest. Days weeks and months were spent filling this love nest with (besides love) all sorts of knick-knacks, tchotchskes, and unnecessary accoutrements. But Alas! Something was missing! The icing on the cake! Then one day fate stepped in and happiness was handed to us in the form of a tiny orange fur ball we deemed- Orange Brother..or if I was feeling Amish that day- Brother Orange. ( yes it is possible to feel Amish for a day.) Well, he had personality, spunk, joie-de-vivre, and the cutest pair of furry orange balls you've ever seen. They were so large he walked bowlegged, and I was incredibly proud of my little man-cub. When he sat still his disproportionately large head would teeter back and forth as if he were having a hard time keeping it upright- much like a bobble head doll. I know what you're thinking. A large head! Blue eyes! An abundance of personality!?.. Indeed, I fell in love.

Sadly, years later, my love nest was dismantled. Twigs were dispersed and feathers divided. Orange Brother went to live with his father. Two bachelors free to leave their wet towels on the floor, and decorate the entire house in shades of brown, beige, and more brown. It was during this moldy brown period that the OB's became a man.

We kept in touch, and when his father went on vacation I was called upon to watch the orange one. Why of course! I'd love to! Take two weeks if you need to! Maybe a month...

Oh how quickly I'd forgotten what it was like living with a man.


Day one- I wake up to the fluffy white carnage of what used to be a roll of toilet paper. Rest in peace Charmin.

Day two- I wake up in the middle of the night to a banging noise. He is standing on his back legs, paws stretched out- pulling on the blinds. The blinds swing each time with more momentum...until

there is finally enough room for him to jump up onto the window sill..where he stays for only a few minutes. An hour later the whole ordeal begins again.

Day three- I come home from work to find the litter box dismantled. Litter is all over the bathroom floor. The top is off, and inside there is a grotesquely large human sized turd just winking at me. It is fresh and glistening as if it had just been prepped for some sort of sickening cat-shit fetish photo shoot. He does not bury them. No. He is a man. All should cower at the size of his excrement.

Day four- I wake in the middle of the night to the most god-awful smell. I have a hard time falling back asleep. Did I mention he doesn't bury them?

Day five- an old boot I have neither seen nor worn in 2 years mysteriously makes its way to my bed.

Day six- he figures out how to open the doors under the bathroom sink. He knocks everything over, and streaks across the room as if the half used bottles of lotion and dried up nail polish had attacked him. Luckily he makes it out alive.

Days one through seven- I wake up to his cold wet nose on my cheek. He then proceeds to make biscuits in my hair. You know what biscuits are?- when cats knead and claw you like you are nothing more than flour and water. I wake up with a rats nest on the back of my head. It's a bitch to comb out but thank God there are biscuits.

End of day seven- His father comes for him. He hisses and hides in the closet. He is eventually lured out and whisked away. I love the little orange bastard but it was time for him to go back to his father's. There they can beat their chests, scratch their balls (or in his case, lick them), and marvel at the size and smell of their own poos. I'm done.


Day eight - It sure is quiet around here.

Day nine - ........golly i miss him....:(

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Confessions of a Serial Monogomist

April 2007

A few months ago my friend accused me of being a Serial Monogamist.

I think it sounds like a good premise for a Law &Order/CSI type show. Attractive, charming undercover officers can track down these serial monogamists using the latest technology, forensic science and glow-in-the-dark condoms. The agents, using a lethal combination of flattery, manipulation, sex appeal and alcohol, finally get the perp to consent to a sexual encounter. If they don't consent, well then I guess they'll just have to get a warrant won't they ma'am? The end of every show will have the agents high-fiving, and the 'reformed' monogamists looking satiated yet stunned. Case closed. 'Stay tuned next week when a mother of three with a fifteen year record of monogamy is taken down by Billy- the muscle bound bad-boy agent who plays by his own rules….but has a heart of gold'. of course.

It turns out, in away, he was right. I liked the comfort and security that a relationship brought. Less than a year ago I ended an 11year relationship because I thought I wanted to be single. Then why did I start up a new relationship before my boxes were even unpacked!? It was like putting a beloved family pet to sleep, and then running out and buying a puppy the very same day. Sure he was fun and exciting, but I kept expecting him to be the loyal companion I grew up with- and he wasn't even housebroken yet.

A few months later, the puppy dumped me. HE DUMPED ME! (I suspect he wanted to go and play with the other puppies) It was the first time I've ever been given the boot. My pride was almost as bruised as my heart. Why couldn't he have been an asshole so that I could've broken up with him!? A decent guy would've done that right?

I've decided that a breakup is like giving birth to a stillborn child. You go through all this pain, and at the end of the day you check out empty-handed and empty-hearted. All those months of planning and dreaming, and all you end up with is scar tissue and a gnawing pain in your belly.

So in the week after 'He-who-shall-not-be-named' frappee'd my heart, I was in a bit of a haze. Was that due to all the alcohol, or did I truly not know how to function without a man!? Well, one thing I DID discover during this time (besides the fact that vodka is the cure for everything), is that everyone loves an underdog, and I was the soaking wet runt of the litter.

Everywhere I went I told anyone who cared to listen about my breakup.

"He said he doesn't have strong enough feelings for me".

Friends, family, and strangers would have the same aghast response, "Bullshit! That's not possible! Wait. How old is he? Oh, that's why…"

"I know right? Well, you just can't make someone love you" I would declare bravely.

To my surprise, they embraced me for it! Suddenly, I had more free drinks, dinners, dates, and party invites than one girl could handle.

So what was I bitching and moaning about? Haven't I always wanted to be single? If I'm not going to enjoy it now, guilt free, then when? Then and there I decided to put the nail in the coffin and embrace my new found freedom. Besides, I needed a distraction. Yep, it was time to don the uniform (short skirts and high heels), stock up on ammo (mascara and fire engine red lipstick) and join the ranks of the other Singletons. It was time to indulge in some good old-fashioned meaningless sex.

Turns out it's not very hard to find.

Lets look at that word monogamy again shall we? The strict definition is this- 'The practice or condition of having a single sexual partner during a period of time'

Well that doesn't sound so bad. There are no apparent stipulations as to how long the period of time has to be in order to qualify as a monogamous relationship. When I'm ready, probably unbeknownst to me, I'll find that someone that I'm willing to practice years and years of monogamy with. I'll feel that flutter of something special growing inside me, and all those old hopes and expectations will come flooding back. But until then, I think I'll give the day-long version a try. Maybe even a few times.

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My Bartender, My Therapist

August 2007

Los Angeles is a menagerie of stereotypes and clichés. The cute waiter at that trendy Weho eatery is always an aspiring actor. The trust fund baby has a new project or scheme he's allegedly working on because he can't admit to anyone that daddy still pays his rent at the age of 26. That socialite pretending to enjoy her vegan slop at the Urth Cafe was only hours before doing lines of coke in the women's restroom at Geisha House- while teetering along in knee high crocodile boots. Everyone is writing a screenplay. The sleazy guy yelling at you from his car is usually Hispanic or Persian (hey, I don't make the rules) and if a man owns a dog that weighs under 20 lbs that man is definitely gay. These are all truths that we have come to know and embrace.

This is why I delight in LA so much. I get an immense amount of satisfaction when something happens or someone behaves exactly as I expected. I'll admit it makes me feel superior. Sort of like when you figure out how a movie is going to end right as the opening credits start to roll. If it is a romantic comedy you know the 2 protagonists will have some sort of grandiose misunderstanding before they realize how much the other means to them. If it is a buddy cop drama, you know they will playfully argue with each other, wreck an entire city block, get pulled off the case, solve it on their own anyways, and get a slap on the hand before being promoted to detective. If it is a Spanish film you know it will always involve one or more of the following- infidelity, a drag queen, a death from aids, hookers, and/or a pregnant nun. (If one were to base their assumptions of a country on it's movies alone, Spain is just one big tribe of She-Males.)

Last night I saw another stereotype come to life. We've seen this person in movies and we've seen them in TV shows. It warms my heart to tell you he does exist. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you- The Advice Peddling Bartender! THE BARTENDER IS ALL KNOWING! When did this happen? Does the power to mix 1 part vodka with 2-3 parts tonic make you a master of human psychology? Does wisdom come with a perfect pour? Do all shaman possess the ability to maintain less than a half inch head of foam on my imported draft beer? There will be that naysayer that will tell me it's the 3 parts vodka I ingested that made the bartender seem so wise. I heartily disagree.

These guru's do not just man any bar. Like a social worker, they only work with the truly down and out. The divier the bar the better. Do not go to Mood and expect the bartender to care that your almost-boyfriend just broke your heart when you weren't even aware you'd given it to him in the first place. The bartender at The Tropicana doesn't want to hear about how you made the mistake of sleeping with a really good friend and Oh My God Do You Think This Is Going To Change Things!? (He's only working there in the hopes that he'll get 'discovered'; don't bother him unless you're a producer). And don't even think about baring your soul to the man behind the bar at the Abbey unless you are pretty boy jailbait wearing nothing but leather chaps.

My new therapist works at the Starlight Lounge in North Hollywood. I already forget his name. I think it's better this way. We need to maintain a professional relationship. All I remember is he has a ponytail full of wavy black hair, he makes a strong drink, he has unlimited access to the beer nuts, and he will not hesitate to call you a cab should you require one.

It started innocently enough one Wednesday night. Seated at the bar, I was dishing my conundrum to good friend. It was of course, about a boy. We went around in a circle and yet still we had no answers; for the brain of a man is far too simplistic for the complex female mind to grasp. It's like trying to explain creationism to a scientist. We need complicated explanations thousands of years in the making. My friend decided we needed the bartenders opinion. Flirting with one man usually gets my mind off my woes with another, so I went along. Boy did I get more than I bargained for. He took it very seriously. He asked uncomfortable questions; a sure sign of a good therapist. He furrowed his brow. He would walk away to help another customer/patient and to my surprise he would always return to dig deeper. We talked about that elusive L word. (Love not Lesbians) He asked about my past and present stance on love. I recited to him entire conversations I'd had with the boy in question. After 2 vodka sodas and a packet of beer nuts he gave it to me straight. Male perspective- neat with no chaser. He told me I had to break it off. "Nip it in the bud" he said.

He may be right. That's really not the point. Right or wrong, I felt 10 pounds lighter, 5 years younger, and 50% drunker. I think now I understand why everyone in this town has a therapist. We are a city of egomaniacs, just looking for an audience…even if we have to pay for one. What I don't understand is why the hell people would pay such astronomical fees without getting so much as a glass of wine in return. I was cured, not to mention tipsy, and it only took 6 bucks plus tip. My bartender my therapist, the poor mans shrink.

Maybe I WILL follow his advice. I don't know, I can't think straight right now. I'm terribly parched. I think I'll head over to the Powerhouse to get a second opinion.

*the author in no way condones the use of alcohol as a form of self-medication, but cannot deny it's effectiveness in easing pain both physical and mental.

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QUE?

December 2008

The entire staff and clientele of the Women's Medical Clinic of Van Nuys is Hispanic. The staff answer the phones in Spanish, the ancient television mounted high in the corner plays only Spanish soap operas, and I swear; the uni-browed babies in the waiting room who try to put their sticky little hands into my purse, even cry in Spanish. The staff calls me Rose. They've unanimously decided that's what my name should be, and because of this they often file my paperwork wrong.

The other day I went in for the annual PAP, and I came out with high cholesterol. I'm pretty sure it has more to do with genetics than the language barrier, but at this point who knows?

I'm pretty healthy and young (ish) so mi doctora decides to take me off the Pill to see if it has anything to do with all those extra hormones that have been floating around in my body for the past 14 years. Apparently I'm alone in my belief that getting heart disease is favorable to getting pregnant.

She tells me to see my general practitioner, and hands me a small paper lunch sack. Anticipating a juice box and some cheerios, I am openly disappointed when all I find at the bottom of the bag are silvery coin shaped packages. They have instructions in both English and Spanish.

I need to get to the bottom of this, so I try to schedule an appointment with my new doctor; Dr. Jin Khoo. I am relieved to not have to trek to the goddamn Valley anymore. Dr. Khoo's office is answered by a man speaking what I can only assume is Chinese. Ignoring whatever the hell he just said, I proceed to make the appointment in English. Angrily he informs me they aren't seeing any new patients until 2009. I give him a hard time about it, but he doesn't budge, so I hang up.

I call back almost immediately. Same foreign greeting. Or it could be an entirely different greeting. How would I know?

I ask if they're open on weekends, because, you see- Albert, the payroll guy is Filipino. Now, I'm not insinuating that Albert's Filipino-ness is what is preventing me from scheduling an appointment on a weekday. No. It's more likely my inability to speak Tagalog is preventing me from understanding how many vacation hours I have left. It is my failure, I know.

They are open Saturdays, but once again, not until 2009.

Meanwhile I'm stuck with a paper sack full of useless silvery coin shaped packages, and Jesse is starting to have serious doubts about our relationship because after you've been dating someone for a year and a half, condoms are a "Deal breaker". I think he's joking.

I needn't have worried though. As luck would have it, I've found a very successful new form of birth control. Her name is Cindy Chun, and she is my Korean hairdresser. She's a great hairdresser and I've been using her for years, but sometimes…I think the language barrier gets the better of us.

What I said was,

"Just a trim, I really loved what you did last time."

Translated into Korean that means,

"That was just too darn hip. This time I was thinking more along the lines of an ultra-conservative Korean Mother-of-the-Bride.

So, yeah, I'm not feeling too sexy these days and it might have something to do with this inexplicable urge to wear pearls and eat kimchi.

I give up. I think it's time I learn a second language and join this new global world we live in. But where to start?

Hindi, so I can eavesdrop on my boss' conversations?

Spanish, so I can finally figure out what a Pupuseria is, and why they are on every street corner?

French, so I don't always have to turn down Liz's offer to hang out with her and her friends?

The Scottish brogue, so I can finally understand Trainspotting?

Italian, so I can actually read the articles in Vogue Italia instead of just looking at the soft core porn pictures parading as advertisements and fashion spreads?

Chinese, so I can plead with my new doctor to put me back on the Pill?

Tagalog, so I can finally take a vacation?

Or maybe just Korean, because a good haircut says it all?