Little Di and I went to the liquor store last night to grab a few bottles of wine since we'd previously went to Ralphs, but had forgotten our IDs and therefore walked away empty handed. After we browsed the limited selection of cheaper wines at the store, we eventually made our choices and deposited the bottles on the counter. As Little Di searched in her wallet for cash, I let my eyes wander over the items on the counter: little alcohol bottles, candy bars, "take a dime, leave a dime" container, razors, lighters, energy drinks....hold up, razors? What the hell were razors doing on the counter of a liquor store? I just had to ask.
"You wouldn't believe it, but those sell like crazy," the Irish Clerk informs me. "Seriously?" I exclaim. Little Di, having finally caught on to what we were going on about, says she would never use a single open razor sitting in a metal cup bought from a liquor store. "We sell about four packs a week. That cup," the clerk points at the cut in half, a 3rd filled Progresso soup can containing about 8 razors, "was full this morning." We stare at the clerk in disbelief. The clerk is laughing now and says, "Yeah, when my brother told me to put out razors I didn't understand why, but hey, it works."
Little Di and I left the store pondering over who would buy a single razor from a liquor store and the only people we could think would, would be one night stand men trying to shave before work or a person who has an impromptu date and needs to shave quickly - this could be a man or woman. Do any of my lovely readers have opinions on this matter or have you/would you buy a single razor from a liquor store?
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
Hitting on Naivety
So I got invited to this great party the other night, one of those Hollywood shindigs that musicians and actors go to, the ones that everyone in Hollywood who is "in the know" goes to, so right, anyhow, I went to this party and it turned out to be anything but what I expected. This could be because it was a musically themed party with a bunch of chill, laid-back rockers from a couple of different generations or the fact that if you were old, young, thin, fat, tall, short, rich, or poor didn't matter; what mattered was that you had a good time and didn't go all paparazzi on anyone. People laughed and mingled liked they were all old friends and no one really cared who anyone else was. So, if I were to ever be rich and happy, I think I would throw a party like this one - free top shelf and happiness to spread with a live stream of good rock music to boot.
Ok, getting back on track... the point of this entry is not to brag about going to a cool Hollywood party, but to have you lot ponder with me the question of why certain men hit on certain women. Simple question, right? Not so much. In my experience (and I used this term lightly because my experience of being hit on is limited and faulted by way of my crazy person pheromone) I've found that what clothes you wear effects what type of man you get, but only to a certain degree. If I wore sexy club clothes, yes, I'm bound to get a dim-witted 30-something slandering over to ask if I would like a drink, but if I wore my more typical flair of punk, I'd attract less of a crowd, but normally someone in the mid to late 40's or above would wander my way.
Herein lies my confusion. Why is it that if I dress all nice (which inadvertently makes me look older - more my age), I happen to get men in the 20-30 year old range to buy me a drink, but if I dress in my black t-shirts and spiked cuffs, the "older" crowd finds me "cute". I shouldn't really be offended that I'm getting hit on in the first place, but it baffles my mind to think that the older I look, the younger the crowd that hits on me is and the younger I look, the older the suitors. There's a little paedophilia thing happening subtly and that frightens me. Yes, I'm older than 18, but just because I dress like a younger than 27-year-old woman, doesn't mean I want to date someone twice my age and someone who isn't even a sugar daddy (not that I'm saying I would ever date a sugar daddy - I find them disturbing).
What is it about the nonchalant, "I-can-kick-your-ass" look that appeals to these older gentlemen? Why do the younger men avoid the "punks"? Is it because the younger generation is scared of things that take work (hitting on someone that isn't going to fall for a corny one-liner) and they'd rather just score with little to no effort? Do the older men feel they've tried and lost with the older women and since they've been around longer, not much scares them, so they'll take their chances with a younger woman or do they feel that they've battled this many years of life, so what is one stubborn woman, but an amazing challenge?
I would really like to get anyone's opinions on this matter. It confuses me and I need answers. This lovely question stems from the fact that the only man brave enough to talk to me, let alone dance with me at the party was a man in his early fifties, who I thought at first was just being friendly, but after he tried to kissed me I realized 1) I'm naive, and 2) men are dip shits.
So comments/suggestions anyone....anyone...?
Ok, getting back on track... the point of this entry is not to brag about going to a cool Hollywood party, but to have you lot ponder with me the question of why certain men hit on certain women. Simple question, right? Not so much. In my experience (and I used this term lightly because my experience of being hit on is limited and faulted by way of my crazy person pheromone) I've found that what clothes you wear effects what type of man you get, but only to a certain degree. If I wore sexy club clothes, yes, I'm bound to get a dim-witted 30-something slandering over to ask if I would like a drink, but if I wore my more typical flair of punk, I'd attract less of a crowd, but normally someone in the mid to late 40's or above would wander my way.
Herein lies my confusion. Why is it that if I dress all nice (which inadvertently makes me look older - more my age), I happen to get men in the 20-30 year old range to buy me a drink, but if I dress in my black t-shirts and spiked cuffs, the "older" crowd finds me "cute". I shouldn't really be offended that I'm getting hit on in the first place, but it baffles my mind to think that the older I look, the younger the crowd that hits on me is and the younger I look, the older the suitors. There's a little paedophilia thing happening subtly and that frightens me. Yes, I'm older than 18, but just because I dress like a younger than 27-year-old woman, doesn't mean I want to date someone twice my age and someone who isn't even a sugar daddy (not that I'm saying I would ever date a sugar daddy - I find them disturbing).
What is it about the nonchalant, "I-can-kick-your-ass" look that appeals to these older gentlemen? Why do the younger men avoid the "punks"? Is it because the younger generation is scared of things that take work (hitting on someone that isn't going to fall for a corny one-liner) and they'd rather just score with little to no effort? Do the older men feel they've tried and lost with the older women and since they've been around longer, not much scares them, so they'll take their chances with a younger woman or do they feel that they've battled this many years of life, so what is one stubborn woman, but an amazing challenge?
I would really like to get anyone's opinions on this matter. It confuses me and I need answers. This lovely question stems from the fact that the only man brave enough to talk to me, let alone dance with me at the party was a man in his early fifties, who I thought at first was just being friendly, but after he tried to kissed me I realized 1) I'm naive, and 2) men are dip shits.
So comments/suggestions anyone....anyone...?
Friday, April 23, 2010
A few bits about a lot of things
This past weekend I got to go up North to the Bay Area and visit friends and Family (I'm sorry to the people I didn't tell I was coming up because, you know, there are only so many hours to see people and it isn't possible to see everyone every time I come up...but next time you'll be on the "go see" list). The following are brief little epitaphs of what happened and the weird things I saw:
*After driving 6 hours by myself to Benicia, CA, my first stop was to see Nina, my ex-roommate, and my best friend Candice (aka Nicole to everyone but High School friends). I had Facebooked Candice to let her know I would see her the next day and she replied with, "why didn't you tell me you were going to be in the Bay Area, you brat?" This confused me a little because Nina had told me that she and Nicole were celebrating their birthday's that weekend and I had assumed they had talked to each other. It's probably my part for assuming, but here's where all the confusion sets in: Nina's current roommate's name is Nicole and Nina calls Candice, Candice, not Nicole (an exception to the non High School crowd). This answered my question on why Candice would celebrate her birthday 2 months early, she wouldn't, but the real Nicole would.
**Nina and I got Candice to play hookie from school to hang out with us in Berkeley where we took pictures of the four roses that were bloomed in the Berkeley Rose Garden and met a lady celebrating her 70th birthday with her daughter and a friend. The daughter asked if we were in school, which I took to assume meant High School, but really probably meant College as we were next to one, so I said "No, but she (pointing at Candice) is a teacher." The daughter's face lit up as she found out Candice teaches at Pittsburgh High, in Pittsburgh, CA (not one of the nicest schools in the area) and she tells Candice, "I think that there is a special place in heaven for teachers. All the hard work you do with the children is magically (or she said something similar to magically)" I can just see the little halo appearing above Candice's head and the Devil on her shoulder poking it with his pitchfork.
the creepiest flower ever
Candice playing in the creek
***The whole reason I drove up north was because Robby had a forensics conference in Sacramento and she wanted to stay the weekend in the Bay Area, meaning she would need a ride home, hence...me. Anyhow, Robby and I drove Nina and Nicole into San Francisco for their birthday's (they were staying over night at a hotel and then doing a spa day the following morning), dropping them off at their hotel while we went to find a free parking spot - it's up to 3 dollars an hour at the meters and the lots are ridiculous. A half block away from the hotel, I of course see a spot, but pass it and drop the girls in front to unload their luggage before driving back to the spot that was no longer available. This leads me and Robby to circle a 9 block radius for 30 mins before we just park in the Tenderloin, next to the homeless shelter and crackheads. Since a cop had driven by when we exited the car, we figured our bags in the trunk would be safe for an hour or two.
Upon walking the 8 blocks to the hotel, we got one proposition for kabobs and head, and Robby ended up picking up a homeless man that latched on to her arm. The man followed us up the hill talking to Robby who repeatedly told him to "let go" to which he replied, "I'm not touching you," while moving in closer to her. Eventually Robby stops, looks the bum in the eyes, and say, "Let. Go." This gives the bum pause and time enough to find me. He slanders over, puts his hands on my shoulders and asks if Robby and I are lesbians. We says, "Yes," and hope he'll go away. Nope. We'd stopped in front of a pizzeria with an audience of one. The bum looks at me and ask, "How old are you?" I say, "older than you." The bum is at least in his mid forties, but when people ask me how old I am, it's usually because they think I'm younger than I look and my ingrained response is, "Older then I look." In this case, I just switched out the "I look" for "you". The bum got really confused, "but you're half my age." "I'm older than I look,' I said as I walked away, Robby following. The bum diverts his attention to our gawker and tells the man that I don't look older than him and that we were "fine" and our gawker should go after us. We turned the corner and heard no more.
****I wanted to show my blog to Robby and my friend, Christie, but when I typed the URL in, a Jesus website popped up. I exclaimed, "Jesus stole my website!" Most times when you enter in a wrong URL, you receive a generic web browser, but of course, if I mess up my URL, I find Jesus...of all the places. I'd forgot the "S" in blogspot and wrote "blogpot" instead.
*****Mustucheio PigBunny is Robby and my equivalent of "the Traveling Gnome". He's a small stuffed pig/bunny looking thing with a mustache. PigBunny likes to sneak up on people and take photos with them. Robby and I happened to be in SF during the Cherry Blossom Festival where our dad and brother joined us. PigBunny got to meet a lot of strange looking people, some of whom were dressed as weird Anime characters, while the rest of us enjoyed the parade and art booths.
Can you find PigBunny?
The Cat wanted to eat PigBunny.
Pikachu and PigBunny
Since the Sinick family is known for randomness, it isn't too farfetched to be un-shocked that out of a crowd of 200,000 festival goers and numerous blocks of street fair to wander through, we would bump into my Godmother. What are the odds? Susie, my Godmom, was extremely happy to see all of us (it was a rare occasion that the four of us were all together) and not at all curious why Robby and I were in the Bay Area instead of in SoCal. She just goes with the flow. So, all of us got to spend an accidentally afternoon together, which might never have happened if Robby and I hadn't changed the meet time for our father to an hour later and if we hadn't stopped to watch the parade for an hour or if dad hadn't wanted us to meet a friend who owned an art gallery in Japan town. It's a good version of the chaos theory.
******On the way home from the Bay Area, Robby and I decided to take Highway 1 for a little bit because we needed a scenic drive, as opposed to the boring drag of Highway 101 (which we drive every time we go up north). We ended up stopping in Cayucos, Ca - a small beach town 30 mins from San Luis Obispo. There was a pier that lead out into the ocean that Pig/Bunny just had to take a picture on.
PigBunny on the pier
Unfortunately PigBunny doesn't know he weighs next to nothing and as soon as a large gust of wind came, PigBunny figured out he isn't a very good swimmer. I got to have a panic attack while running down the pier and to the water thinking Robby would kill me if I didn't save PigBunny and that she would make me swim to get the toy as well. Luckily the tide pushed PigBunny to shore, but left him covered in black sand.
Before the gust of wind got a hold of PigBunny.
After a brief swim in the ocean, a 10 minute bath in the restroom sink, and 20 minutes under the bathroom hand dryer, PigBunny was almost back to his originally pink color and a little rough for wear, but relatively unscaved. Robby wasn't going to kill me just yet.
PigBunny is a little wet.
So that is the gist of my adventures up North. Of course more stuff happened, but it would take too long to write it all down and no one would read it anyhow. Until next time, have fun.
*After driving 6 hours by myself to Benicia, CA, my first stop was to see Nina, my ex-roommate, and my best friend Candice (aka Nicole to everyone but High School friends). I had Facebooked Candice to let her know I would see her the next day and she replied with, "why didn't you tell me you were going to be in the Bay Area, you brat?" This confused me a little because Nina had told me that she and Nicole were celebrating their birthday's that weekend and I had assumed they had talked to each other. It's probably my part for assuming, but here's where all the confusion sets in: Nina's current roommate's name is Nicole and Nina calls Candice, Candice, not Nicole (an exception to the non High School crowd). This answered my question on why Candice would celebrate her birthday 2 months early, she wouldn't, but the real Nicole would.
**Nina and I got Candice to play hookie from school to hang out with us in Berkeley where we took pictures of the four roses that were bloomed in the Berkeley Rose Garden and met a lady celebrating her 70th birthday with her daughter and a friend. The daughter asked if we were in school, which I took to assume meant High School, but really probably meant College as we were next to one, so I said "No, but she (pointing at Candice) is a teacher." The daughter's face lit up as she found out Candice teaches at Pittsburgh High, in Pittsburgh, CA (not one of the nicest schools in the area) and she tells Candice, "I think that there is a special place in heaven for teachers. All the hard work you do with the children is magically (or she said something similar to magically)" I can just see the little halo appearing above Candice's head and the Devil on her shoulder poking it with his pitchfork.
the creepiest flower ever
Candice playing in the creek
***The whole reason I drove up north was because Robby had a forensics conference in Sacramento and she wanted to stay the weekend in the Bay Area, meaning she would need a ride home, hence...me. Anyhow, Robby and I drove Nina and Nicole into San Francisco for their birthday's (they were staying over night at a hotel and then doing a spa day the following morning), dropping them off at their hotel while we went to find a free parking spot - it's up to 3 dollars an hour at the meters and the lots are ridiculous. A half block away from the hotel, I of course see a spot, but pass it and drop the girls in front to unload their luggage before driving back to the spot that was no longer available. This leads me and Robby to circle a 9 block radius for 30 mins before we just park in the Tenderloin, next to the homeless shelter and crackheads. Since a cop had driven by when we exited the car, we figured our bags in the trunk would be safe for an hour or two.
Upon walking the 8 blocks to the hotel, we got one proposition for kabobs and head, and Robby ended up picking up a homeless man that latched on to her arm. The man followed us up the hill talking to Robby who repeatedly told him to "let go" to which he replied, "I'm not touching you," while moving in closer to her. Eventually Robby stops, looks the bum in the eyes, and say, "Let. Go." This gives the bum pause and time enough to find me. He slanders over, puts his hands on my shoulders and asks if Robby and I are lesbians. We says, "Yes," and hope he'll go away. Nope. We'd stopped in front of a pizzeria with an audience of one. The bum looks at me and ask, "How old are you?" I say, "older than you." The bum is at least in his mid forties, but when people ask me how old I am, it's usually because they think I'm younger than I look and my ingrained response is, "Older then I look." In this case, I just switched out the "I look" for "you". The bum got really confused, "but you're half my age." "I'm older than I look,' I said as I walked away, Robby following. The bum diverts his attention to our gawker and tells the man that I don't look older than him and that we were "fine" and our gawker should go after us. We turned the corner and heard no more.
****I wanted to show my blog to Robby and my friend, Christie, but when I typed the URL in, a Jesus website popped up. I exclaimed, "Jesus stole my website!" Most times when you enter in a wrong URL, you receive a generic web browser, but of course, if I mess up my URL, I find Jesus...of all the places. I'd forgot the "S" in blogspot and wrote "blogpot" instead.
*****Mustucheio PigBunny is Robby and my equivalent of "the Traveling Gnome". He's a small stuffed pig/bunny looking thing with a mustache. PigBunny likes to sneak up on people and take photos with them. Robby and I happened to be in SF during the Cherry Blossom Festival where our dad and brother joined us. PigBunny got to meet a lot of strange looking people, some of whom were dressed as weird Anime characters, while the rest of us enjoyed the parade and art booths.
Can you find PigBunny?
The Cat wanted to eat PigBunny.
Pikachu and PigBunny
Since the Sinick family is known for randomness, it isn't too farfetched to be un-shocked that out of a crowd of 200,000 festival goers and numerous blocks of street fair to wander through, we would bump into my Godmother. What are the odds? Susie, my Godmom, was extremely happy to see all of us (it was a rare occasion that the four of us were all together) and not at all curious why Robby and I were in the Bay Area instead of in SoCal. She just goes with the flow. So, all of us got to spend an accidentally afternoon together, which might never have happened if Robby and I hadn't changed the meet time for our father to an hour later and if we hadn't stopped to watch the parade for an hour or if dad hadn't wanted us to meet a friend who owned an art gallery in Japan town. It's a good version of the chaos theory.
******On the way home from the Bay Area, Robby and I decided to take Highway 1 for a little bit because we needed a scenic drive, as opposed to the boring drag of Highway 101 (which we drive every time we go up north). We ended up stopping in Cayucos, Ca - a small beach town 30 mins from San Luis Obispo. There was a pier that lead out into the ocean that Pig/Bunny just had to take a picture on.
PigBunny on the pier
Unfortunately PigBunny doesn't know he weighs next to nothing and as soon as a large gust of wind came, PigBunny figured out he isn't a very good swimmer. I got to have a panic attack while running down the pier and to the water thinking Robby would kill me if I didn't save PigBunny and that she would make me swim to get the toy as well. Luckily the tide pushed PigBunny to shore, but left him covered in black sand.
Before the gust of wind got a hold of PigBunny.
After a brief swim in the ocean, a 10 minute bath in the restroom sink, and 20 minutes under the bathroom hand dryer, PigBunny was almost back to his originally pink color and a little rough for wear, but relatively unscaved. Robby wasn't going to kill me just yet.
PigBunny is a little wet.
So that is the gist of my adventures up North. Of course more stuff happened, but it would take too long to write it all down and no one would read it anyhow. Until next time, have fun.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Drunkenly Good Time
Mustacheio, the PigBunny, is our traveling mascot and comes with us almost everywhere. Here, he's preparing for his Mexican debut...he's trying to get the ladies.
So, I just finished a mini 3-day cruise to Ensenada, Mexico where the people that came with me (Robby - she went for a forensic conference on the boat and Jon and Michelle - two of Robby and my friend's from Santa Barbara) and the activities on the boat were more interesting than the city we visited. It's always nice to have good company that's willing to make fools of themselves with you instead of laughing at you. Example: we'd had about 2.5 bottles of wine between the four of us and we needed some excitement, so we donned our ship bathrobes, poured the last bottle of White Zin into our room's water glasses and head up deck to the mini golf arena. We were going for the prestigious/posh/above-it-all look, plus it was windy and cold on the top balcony.
We had tried to play mini golf the previous day, but with a moving ship and a badly designed golf course, most of the balls went straight into the "sand trap" and my ball was kind enough to find it's way to every part of the deck (under tables, in a dirt hole, down the running track, etc.), but where the course was. All I did was tap the ball and it launched itself right off the green. I might as well have started with -1 on every course. Anyhow, the point being that the course kind of sucked and we weren't the best golfers, so Day 2, drunken golfing - a much better idea.
The lovely "Drunken Golf Carnival Cruise Team".
The new rules for the golf match were as follows:
1.) There is no point keeping.
2.) Everyone gets their first try to get the ball on the course unobstructed.
3.) Once everyone has hit their ball and it is on the course, it is a free for all on sinking your shot into the hole. This means that you can use any means necessary to get your ball in the hole while deterring the others from achieving the goal. I bump-butted Robby out of the way while I used my putter to guide the ball into the hole, Michelle and Robby got their putters crossed and used their feet to kick their balls, John tried to stay clear of the swinging putters and sink his ball, on one hole I think I bowled the ball onto the green, etc. It turned into a drunken, "hungry, hungry hippos" game. So much more fun then the rocking boat, mature game we played the day before. Even better that we were wearing our spiffy bathrobes and holding glasses of wine. Thank God it was too cold to for children to come play on the deck and witness grown-ups acting worse then them.
I think by far, that game of golf was the best one I've ever played and I think everyone should try it once just to see how it feels to abandon rules and act uncivilized for a few minutes. Another of the cool things about the cruise was the interesting people that you meet. There was this one woman that I kept seeing on the boat and she stood out to me because she had bright red hair, at least 8 gold earrings per ear, a nose ring, and a lip ring - she was a mid 40-year-old Black woman. I saw her dancing/grinding with random people on the sun deck, walking the halls with her friend, generally looking like she was having a blast and I said to myself, "I have to meet her." So as I'm telling Jon and Michelle about this woman, we exit the elevator and there she is. I tell her that I enjoy taking pictures of fascinating people that I see and meet and would she be in one? She gets all excited, introduces herself as "Red" and poses for my lens. So sweet. There should be more individuals in the world that are free spirited enough to express themselves how they want and live life having fun.
"Red" - such an amazing spirit this woman had. She has bright red hair, you just can't see it in this picture. Bad lighting in the hallways.
Stupid quotes from our vacation:
Robby looking at a photo one of the Ship's photographers took of us - "Hey Emmy, look, they took a picture of you and Michelle..." Em, after looking at the picture for a second, "That's you, you moron."
Jumping photos continued. Robby took this one and we all think it's awesome.
"Who's farting cotton candy?" -Em, commenting on the obnoxious smell frequently wafting through the Ship's dance show.
Jon and Michelle being goofy on the deck.
"It's a combination of Jazz and Funk...It's Junk" -Robin Williams character commenting about a musician in "Robots" - playing over and over again on the Ship's movie channel.
Michelle, Robby and I are all dancing on the dance floor when this drunk moron starts dancing with Michelle - "Hey, how are you doing?" Michelle says, "I'm married," and shows him her ring. "Yea, me too," Drunk says and dances away.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
The Short of It!
I just want to say "Hi" and "thank you" to everyone that's been reading my blog so far. I know I have about 6 followers and about 5-10 people that may occasionally browse this website when they are absolutely bored and have nothing better to do then read a really long, and "texty" diatribe by yours truly, but it's appreciated. I will try and write smaller updates some of the time so as not to overwhelm the most of you and to add pictures. I know pictures are worth a 1000 words and therefore less of shit you need to read. :) So this is my short post and a farewell to me because I'm going on a mini cruise to Ensenada, Mexico with Robby for a forensic conference - what better way to talk about fingerprint processing then on a Carnival cruise ship, especially if your friends and family get to come with you? So until then you should all answer my random "Would you rather" quiz:
1.) Die peacefully in your sleep?
2.) Die a tragic and painful hero's death?
3.) Die by freak accident?
Explain why?
Adios!!!
1.) Die peacefully in your sleep?
2.) Die a tragic and painful hero's death?
3.) Die by freak accident?
Explain why?
Adios!!!
Monday, April 5, 2010
Dance Party U.S. of Mexico
Ok, this post if for Little Di (aka Diana. [I have two friends named Diana, so I had to give them nicknames, hence Little Di and Big Di. But the names relate to height and nothing else.]) I was invited to the birthday party of Little Di's best friend, Omar. It was to be drinking, dancing, and hanging out all night with a bunch of Spanish speakers. Good thing I really suck at speaking Spanish (speaking EM-ish doesn't really help me much with other languages) and I understand about every 3 words, making my comprehension of a Spanish spoken sentence about a mile off target. Oh yea, it was going to be a fun, but interesting night. Maybe there would be Charades?
Little Di drove because she wanted to see me drunk (which I feel sorry for her because I hardly ever get drunk - I turn into "Mommy Mode" and start making sure everyone has a sober ride home and isn't puking everywhere - before I let myself get too wasted. Plus, when I'm drunk, I think I get quieter then normal, but I can concentrate more intensely on one specific thing, so I play a mean game of pool). I actually wore a skirt and cute shirt since Di said I would be the most under dressed if I wore my original outfit of jeans and a cute shirt. I was already going to stand out because I didn't really know anyone and I didn't speak the language at the party, so I didn't need to be the worst dressed either. The dilemma came with my choice of shoes: my purple Converse or brown boots? The boots looked good with my outfit, but they had heels and we were supposed to be dancing. For most women (and occasionally some guys) heels are not comfortable unless you've been wearing them since birth and I'm not a huge fan of the heel slogan, "being fashionable is painful, suck it up", but they looked much better then the Chucks, although the Chucks were a good fit to last hours dancing and they matched my outfit. Hum, decisions, decisions...yes, it's sad that my life is reduced to "which is a better dancing/partying shoes?" rather than something more meaningful, but you just take life in stride. Heels won the argument with Converses stuffed in the trunk for after hours partying.
The first part of the night was spent at Omar's house, a cute wooden log type building that made me instantly feel like I was at summer camp. (I don't know who designed the apartment complex, but they never grew up). I ended up doing a few Tequila shots with a bunch of the others at the party because 1.)Tequila is awesome, and 2.)The only other options were Whiskey and Vodka - yuck and "taste like ethanol" yuck. Someone handed me a lime for the chaser, but I've never really seen the reasoning behind chasers. If you like shots, or rather the taste of a certain straight up alcohol, why do you need a chaser? It's also strange that most people who need chasers are men. When I was at my wrap party for Pros vs Joes, we had free top shelf liquor and every time I got a group of the guys to do a round of Patron shots, they'd chug a bear afterwards. Wimps. You're men, suck it up and reveal in the taste of a good, smooth drink.
Back to the party, I think I managed to be polite and say, "Hi" to all of Omar's friends and I was happy to discover that although I'm terrible at Spanish, most everyone at the party spoke passable to fluent English. This night wasn't going to suck as much as I had thought, although you could most likely drop me anywhere in the world and I'd find someway to communicate with the locals and have a good time. I was out to enjoy myself for the evening and a little thing like language wasn't going to effect me.
Once we all figured out who was driving (Di being one of the unfortunate ones to be DD), we piled into three cars and headed out to Pasadena for the dancing portion of the evening. It was time to suck it up and be a ditzy girl by not complaining about the heels killing my feet or the potential to spend a great deal of time outside, in the cold, without a jacket. Most clubs don't have a place to hang your coats and it isn't very comfortable to dance with a jacket strung across your arm, let alone break out the dance moves. You could throw your coat in a corner, if you don't mind it being pummeled to dead by stilettos and loafers or you should be ok with the thought that you'll never see it again once someone else finds a use for it - a napkin for barfing, a table cloth, a jacket for themselves, etc. It's just better to not have one in the first place. Dancing and alcohol usually envelope you in a layer of warmth anyhow.
The first club we went to was a bust. Omar had reserved a table, with bottle service, but they wouldn't let in one of Omar's friends because she didn't have her passport. She only had an expired work permit and no picture ID. The doorman was saying that no one was suppose to get through the door without an ID, driver's licenses being the number 1 choice, but even though they weren't suppose to accept Passports, they were the number two choice. They also preferred only California licenses. This seemed the strangest of all considering they are a bar/night club and to exclude people based on where they live seems like a stupid business strategy. Wouldn't you want out-of-towners to come to your business, love it and then promote it to their friends that would come and visit? Why would you say you're "not suppose to accept Passports" when the U.S. Government, let alone the rest of the world, deems them an appropriate form of identification? Dumb managing/promotional skills that club has. I wonder how long they will last.
We ended up in the bar for about 30 mins before leaving to join the 4 people that didn't get in, including the no ID girl, and moving to the dance club Omar and his friends go to most weekends. Aside from the strange ID process at the front door, the bar also refused to play a song Omar had requested for his birthday. Omar wasn't very happy with how his friends and he were being treated, especially because it was his birthday, and so he felt he should abandon ship, rather then stick it out. Plus, he wanted all his friends to be celebrating with him and since some were at the other club, that's where he was headed. I understand his reasoning, but I also understand the bar's take on the subject of the ID - she really didn't have a picture ID that was valid, so they shouldn't have let her in - and the song that Omar wanted played was a Mexican Ballad. Can you imagine all the people on the dance floor bumping and grinding to Lady Gaga one minute and then a slow Ballad comes on the next. I could just see everyone stop, stare, and wonder if they'd been transported back to their High School prom, pondering if they should hold hands with their dance partner and lightly sway left and right. Um, not gonna happen - yelling, possible object throwing, and a fired DJ seems more likely. Sorry, Omar, but Ballad’s are just not good for clubbing.
Back in the car, we drove past the new club slow enough for me to read the name illuminated over the door, "Giggles"... Seriously? There was already a line forming down the street, so Di let our passengers stand in it while we went to park the car. I came with her so I could revel in the warmth of her CR-V as long as possible. Apparently that meant 3 more minutes. The line actually moved fairly quickly and when it came to the dreadful cover charge, it helped that Omar talked the doorman into letting us get in at half price, being his birthday and all. Once inside I forgot about the cold, nothing like 100's of dancing bodies to heat up a room. It was also nice to have generous guys in our party who deem it appropriate to pay for a lady's drink.
Now, I'm not really too much of a dancer, one being that I have two left feet and, two, being that I'm hugely self-conscious when it comes to me being an idiot in front of others. But over the past few years, I think that's started to change. Little things at first - taking bad pictures on purpose because this way you'll know you look terrible and you don't have to freak that someone will say something mean since you'll probably be the one starting the jokes - to more adventurous embarrassment - standing in a large crowd of photographers and asking them to sign a release while they use you as their camera adjustment guinea pig, to eventually saying, "fuck it" and jumping onto the dance floor. Dancing is a great form of exercise and it can be quite fun with the right dance partner.
Boy Number One - I wanted to dance and so I just got out there and started using some of my five dance moves. As long as I attempted to stay on beat with the bass, I didn't look like a electrified chicken. This in turn captured Boy Number One's eyes and he became my dance partner for the next hour or so. At first it wasn't too bad, both of us in our own grooves, but occasionally dancing in tandem. It quickly went downhill as we moved further and further away from my safety net of "Diana" and into a dance corner by ourselves. The space between our bodies dwindled and I was left grinding in circles. This isn't such a bad thing once in a while, but if you have to move slowly in a circle while moving up and down on the person next to you for longer than a couple of minutes, one tends to get bored. Plus grinding doesn't work for every song the DJ plays, no matter how much you want it to.
I started to watch the people around me, occasionally laughing at their awkward dance moves or bad outfits while circling. Clearly my attention had wandered, but Boy one didn't notice. I can't help but feel like I should make my boredom more obvious sometimes, but is that truly a confidence killer to the man? I tried to break apart from Boy One to dance to my own beat, but he wasn't getting the hint. It was time to cut my loses and find the rest of the birthday party before Boy One asked to kiss me again for the third time. Sorry, dude, but just because a girl wants to dance with you, doesn't mean she likes you. Dancing is just that, dancing, not a move used to make out, unless both parties are aiming for that goal.
Boy Number Two - We found the rest of the crew and chatted for a bit before my hand was grabbed and I found myself back on the dance floor. This time though, I was still within sight range of Diana, my buffer, and Boy Two could dance. He also was willing to teach me, having patience to deal with my ''out-of-syncness" on the salsa songs. We danced round and round, literally because he liked to twirl me, for over 2 hours. It was refreshing because I could dance with someone who didn't want to constantly be "up on me" the whole time, I was learning dance moves six and seven, and he was good company. Little did I realize (yes, I'm ignorant) that if you're laughing and looking someone in the eye every now and then when you dance, they take that to mean you like them. Grrr.
I made up a fictitious boyfriend to hopefully deter Boy One and Two's ulterior motives, but I don't think that ever, truly worked. I think when a girl says she has a boyfriend, it spurs men on to try and prove they have something better for you then the person you're with. It shouldn't be that way, but it's true; Men, like the rest of the animal world, love the challenge of fighting for a woman's "heart", only they use dance moves and words instead of horns and heads. In the end someone still goes home with their tail between their legs, and usually both parties involved are a little less happy then when they started the evening.
Anyhow, Boy Two stuck with me for the remainder of the evening, even coming back to Omar's place after the dancing. Boy One had vanished shortly after I escaped him, I think, having headed home because he didn't want to stick around watching me dance with someone else. Seriously, dude, not to be too rude, but I only wanted to dance and I'm sorry if your feelings were hurt, but you could have sucked up your remaining pride and found someone else to dance with, no need to leave. But whatever...
Once back at Omar's place, everyone pretty much was drunk (not me, because I'd switched to DD after Di wanted to drink more. I didn't mind because I'm usually DD and drinking doesn't do much for me besides give me a tummy ache and a killer hangover) and chatting away. Omar put on his Mexican Ballad, turning the stereo up and singing in a circle with his friends. Quite a sight and funny if it wasn't 3 am and most of the people at the party being illegals. No need to encourage the cops to show up at the door. Once the song ended, Di and I got the stereo lowered to an acceptable volume and while I chatted with Boy Two and "Cute Older Guy" (as Di named him), Di put most of the drunks to bed in various chairs and couches in the living room. Even if she couldn't drive, she could still Mother.
We were all hungry, but most of Omar's food had to be cooked. The meat needed to be grilled and carrot sticks weren't cutting it. Someone found a tin of pasta and shrimp that could be baked, so Maria One (it seemed all the girl's at Omar's party had Maria in their name) and I tried to turn on the oven, but quickly discovered it was non-operational, or it just took a lot of time and some special handling to make it heat that we didn't know about. Omar was pretty much useless at this point and was promptly put to bed by Maria One and Di. That left myself, and a bunch of drunks to figure out the dilemma of cooking a pasta tin in the microwave. "Cute Old Guy" said to cook it on defrost, Boy Two said to put it on high for 15 minutes, and Boy Three said to just eat it.
I didn't want to get sick and I was worried that all the different heat settings the thing suffered through would be bad, but after 20 minutes of the pasta sitting in the microwave after being half defrosted and half cooked on one side (the container was too large to spin), I gave in to my hunger, pressed high cook button for 10 minutes and watched the cheese melt. At 4:15 in the morning, beggars can't be choosers and food is food. We'd worry about the food poisoning in the morning (well, later that morning).
Back to the group of boys Di and I were left with. Boy Two works for a company that sells random things to other companies - a legal form of hustling. Since I had complained for the last half of the night to him about how painful my feet were feeling, he said he had slippers in his truck and he'd get me and Di a pair. He walked out the door and came back a few minutes later with 2 sets of purple fuzzy slippers. He really did have them in his car. They matched my outfit, but looked like something out of "Purple People Eaters". I didn't care as long as they weren't the heels. Too bad they were a size too small and my heel met the floor every time I took a step. I really did like them, but slippers shouldn't be small.
Boy Two also confessed to me that he knew there was something special about me the minute he saw me walk through the front door of Omar's place earlier in the evening. I told him it was probably because I had the whole, "Token White Girl" thing going on, but he smirked and said that wasn't it. Maybe he caught a whiff of my "crazy-person pheromone", but other than that, I think I'm just normal, no special thing. A white girl in a pink skirt.
Boy Three, is just that, the third boy of the night to have a small crush on me. I don't actually set out to make guys like me, I rather take the opposite approach and try to deter them from wanting to go out with me, but somehow the wires get crossed and they develop crushes. Too bad this isn't High School and crushes can be innocent. Boy Three was beyond trashed and his girlfriend was sleeping it off in the corner. Some song came on the radio that he needed a dance partner for and so I was his first choice. We danced for a bit, but again, it was the circle thing, and I quickly left. He figured dancing didn't work, so he'd try chatting me up and asking if I wanted to go out with him. I asked why he was hitting on me with his girlfriend in the other room, and he pretended he didn't know what I was talking about. See, pretending to be ignorant of a fact is bad when the proof is next to you and if you're drunk... drunks suck at lying. I shot him own in plain English, without regards to his feelings. Obviously he doesn't care about other people's so why should I console him.
Boy Three was also friends with "Mean Drunk", one of the remaining guys who is not a nice person when he drinks. He didn't think he was as drunk as he was, so he wasn't too fond of all us semi sober people telling him to sleep it off. Little Di had the lovely task of trying to get him to rest for a bit on the couch, but it took a lot of handholding and patience. I would have probably just conked him over the head and laid him on the couch. That's probably why I wasn't in charge of getting the drunks to bed.
After Little Di escaped "Mean Drunk", she had fun entertaining/talking with "Cute Old Guy" who really wasn't that old (just older than us) and who had beautiful eyes. He happened to be the next best thing to sober in the room and was a good conversationalist. Di really wanted to ask him out, but she wasn't sure if he was flirting with her or just being polite. Especially since he brought up his girlfriend who he was having a going away party for (she was headed back to Chile for an indefinite period of time) the following weekend and would Little Di be interested in coming? A strange request, seeing as he has a girlfriend, but she's leaving, and he is inviting a girl he just met. He said he would tell Little Di the extenuating circumstances about him and his girlfriend, but only if she came to the party. Little Di said no. Maybe she'll find out another way.
By 5:15 am, we'd eaten, managed to clean most of the house, evict the people sober enough to drive, wash all the dishes, and put "Cute Old Guy" to bed on the newly vacated couch. He was sober, but didn't feel like driving the long distance to his house and figured he'd catch a few winks at Omar's. True, true, but "Cute Old Guy" had just met Omar a few times, so he didn't really know him. It must be a guy thing that allows them to feel comfortable enough to crash on a practically stranger's couch and not feel odd. I would feel so weird that I wouldn't be able to sleep and then I'd drive home even later then originally planned and feeling worse. It's just better to head out after everything's finished, then to stay, at least for a girl or maybe it's just me and my trust issues.
Little Di and I got home at 6:04am. The sky was beginning to lighten for the coming sun, casting everything in peaceful purple hues. The night turned out to be quite entertaining, getting me out of the house and trying new things. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday and the wee hours of Sunday. It was off to bed for three hours before getting up to spend Easter Brunch at Di's mom's house. But that's another story...
Little Di drove because she wanted to see me drunk (which I feel sorry for her because I hardly ever get drunk - I turn into "Mommy Mode" and start making sure everyone has a sober ride home and isn't puking everywhere - before I let myself get too wasted. Plus, when I'm drunk, I think I get quieter then normal, but I can concentrate more intensely on one specific thing, so I play a mean game of pool). I actually wore a skirt and cute shirt since Di said I would be the most under dressed if I wore my original outfit of jeans and a cute shirt. I was already going to stand out because I didn't really know anyone and I didn't speak the language at the party, so I didn't need to be the worst dressed either. The dilemma came with my choice of shoes: my purple Converse or brown boots? The boots looked good with my outfit, but they had heels and we were supposed to be dancing. For most women (and occasionally some guys) heels are not comfortable unless you've been wearing them since birth and I'm not a huge fan of the heel slogan, "being fashionable is painful, suck it up", but they looked much better then the Chucks, although the Chucks were a good fit to last hours dancing and they matched my outfit. Hum, decisions, decisions...yes, it's sad that my life is reduced to "which is a better dancing/partying shoes?" rather than something more meaningful, but you just take life in stride. Heels won the argument with Converses stuffed in the trunk for after hours partying.
The first part of the night was spent at Omar's house, a cute wooden log type building that made me instantly feel like I was at summer camp. (I don't know who designed the apartment complex, but they never grew up). I ended up doing a few Tequila shots with a bunch of the others at the party because 1.)Tequila is awesome, and 2.)The only other options were Whiskey and Vodka - yuck and "taste like ethanol" yuck. Someone handed me a lime for the chaser, but I've never really seen the reasoning behind chasers. If you like shots, or rather the taste of a certain straight up alcohol, why do you need a chaser? It's also strange that most people who need chasers are men. When I was at my wrap party for Pros vs Joes, we had free top shelf liquor and every time I got a group of the guys to do a round of Patron shots, they'd chug a bear afterwards. Wimps. You're men, suck it up and reveal in the taste of a good, smooth drink.
Back to the party, I think I managed to be polite and say, "Hi" to all of Omar's friends and I was happy to discover that although I'm terrible at Spanish, most everyone at the party spoke passable to fluent English. This night wasn't going to suck as much as I had thought, although you could most likely drop me anywhere in the world and I'd find someway to communicate with the locals and have a good time. I was out to enjoy myself for the evening and a little thing like language wasn't going to effect me.
Once we all figured out who was driving (Di being one of the unfortunate ones to be DD), we piled into three cars and headed out to Pasadena for the dancing portion of the evening. It was time to suck it up and be a ditzy girl by not complaining about the heels killing my feet or the potential to spend a great deal of time outside, in the cold, without a jacket. Most clubs don't have a place to hang your coats and it isn't very comfortable to dance with a jacket strung across your arm, let alone break out the dance moves. You could throw your coat in a corner, if you don't mind it being pummeled to dead by stilettos and loafers or you should be ok with the thought that you'll never see it again once someone else finds a use for it - a napkin for barfing, a table cloth, a jacket for themselves, etc. It's just better to not have one in the first place. Dancing and alcohol usually envelope you in a layer of warmth anyhow.
The first club we went to was a bust. Omar had reserved a table, with bottle service, but they wouldn't let in one of Omar's friends because she didn't have her passport. She only had an expired work permit and no picture ID. The doorman was saying that no one was suppose to get through the door without an ID, driver's licenses being the number 1 choice, but even though they weren't suppose to accept Passports, they were the number two choice. They also preferred only California licenses. This seemed the strangest of all considering they are a bar/night club and to exclude people based on where they live seems like a stupid business strategy. Wouldn't you want out-of-towners to come to your business, love it and then promote it to their friends that would come and visit? Why would you say you're "not suppose to accept Passports" when the U.S. Government, let alone the rest of the world, deems them an appropriate form of identification? Dumb managing/promotional skills that club has. I wonder how long they will last.
We ended up in the bar for about 30 mins before leaving to join the 4 people that didn't get in, including the no ID girl, and moving to the dance club Omar and his friends go to most weekends. Aside from the strange ID process at the front door, the bar also refused to play a song Omar had requested for his birthday. Omar wasn't very happy with how his friends and he were being treated, especially because it was his birthday, and so he felt he should abandon ship, rather then stick it out. Plus, he wanted all his friends to be celebrating with him and since some were at the other club, that's where he was headed. I understand his reasoning, but I also understand the bar's take on the subject of the ID - she really didn't have a picture ID that was valid, so they shouldn't have let her in - and the song that Omar wanted played was a Mexican Ballad. Can you imagine all the people on the dance floor bumping and grinding to Lady Gaga one minute and then a slow Ballad comes on the next. I could just see everyone stop, stare, and wonder if they'd been transported back to their High School prom, pondering if they should hold hands with their dance partner and lightly sway left and right. Um, not gonna happen - yelling, possible object throwing, and a fired DJ seems more likely. Sorry, Omar, but Ballad’s are just not good for clubbing.
Back in the car, we drove past the new club slow enough for me to read the name illuminated over the door, "Giggles"... Seriously? There was already a line forming down the street, so Di let our passengers stand in it while we went to park the car. I came with her so I could revel in the warmth of her CR-V as long as possible. Apparently that meant 3 more minutes. The line actually moved fairly quickly and when it came to the dreadful cover charge, it helped that Omar talked the doorman into letting us get in at half price, being his birthday and all. Once inside I forgot about the cold, nothing like 100's of dancing bodies to heat up a room. It was also nice to have generous guys in our party who deem it appropriate to pay for a lady's drink.
Now, I'm not really too much of a dancer, one being that I have two left feet and, two, being that I'm hugely self-conscious when it comes to me being an idiot in front of others. But over the past few years, I think that's started to change. Little things at first - taking bad pictures on purpose because this way you'll know you look terrible and you don't have to freak that someone will say something mean since you'll probably be the one starting the jokes - to more adventurous embarrassment - standing in a large crowd of photographers and asking them to sign a release while they use you as their camera adjustment guinea pig, to eventually saying, "fuck it" and jumping onto the dance floor. Dancing is a great form of exercise and it can be quite fun with the right dance partner.
Boy Number One - I wanted to dance and so I just got out there and started using some of my five dance moves. As long as I attempted to stay on beat with the bass, I didn't look like a electrified chicken. This in turn captured Boy Number One's eyes and he became my dance partner for the next hour or so. At first it wasn't too bad, both of us in our own grooves, but occasionally dancing in tandem. It quickly went downhill as we moved further and further away from my safety net of "Diana" and into a dance corner by ourselves. The space between our bodies dwindled and I was left grinding in circles. This isn't such a bad thing once in a while, but if you have to move slowly in a circle while moving up and down on the person next to you for longer than a couple of minutes, one tends to get bored. Plus grinding doesn't work for every song the DJ plays, no matter how much you want it to.
I started to watch the people around me, occasionally laughing at their awkward dance moves or bad outfits while circling. Clearly my attention had wandered, but Boy one didn't notice. I can't help but feel like I should make my boredom more obvious sometimes, but is that truly a confidence killer to the man? I tried to break apart from Boy One to dance to my own beat, but he wasn't getting the hint. It was time to cut my loses and find the rest of the birthday party before Boy One asked to kiss me again for the third time. Sorry, dude, but just because a girl wants to dance with you, doesn't mean she likes you. Dancing is just that, dancing, not a move used to make out, unless both parties are aiming for that goal.
Boy Number Two - We found the rest of the crew and chatted for a bit before my hand was grabbed and I found myself back on the dance floor. This time though, I was still within sight range of Diana, my buffer, and Boy Two could dance. He also was willing to teach me, having patience to deal with my ''out-of-syncness" on the salsa songs. We danced round and round, literally because he liked to twirl me, for over 2 hours. It was refreshing because I could dance with someone who didn't want to constantly be "up on me" the whole time, I was learning dance moves six and seven, and he was good company. Little did I realize (yes, I'm ignorant) that if you're laughing and looking someone in the eye every now and then when you dance, they take that to mean you like them. Grrr.
I made up a fictitious boyfriend to hopefully deter Boy One and Two's ulterior motives, but I don't think that ever, truly worked. I think when a girl says she has a boyfriend, it spurs men on to try and prove they have something better for you then the person you're with. It shouldn't be that way, but it's true; Men, like the rest of the animal world, love the challenge of fighting for a woman's "heart", only they use dance moves and words instead of horns and heads. In the end someone still goes home with their tail between their legs, and usually both parties involved are a little less happy then when they started the evening.
Anyhow, Boy Two stuck with me for the remainder of the evening, even coming back to Omar's place after the dancing. Boy One had vanished shortly after I escaped him, I think, having headed home because he didn't want to stick around watching me dance with someone else. Seriously, dude, not to be too rude, but I only wanted to dance and I'm sorry if your feelings were hurt, but you could have sucked up your remaining pride and found someone else to dance with, no need to leave. But whatever...
Once back at Omar's place, everyone pretty much was drunk (not me, because I'd switched to DD after Di wanted to drink more. I didn't mind because I'm usually DD and drinking doesn't do much for me besides give me a tummy ache and a killer hangover) and chatting away. Omar put on his Mexican Ballad, turning the stereo up and singing in a circle with his friends. Quite a sight and funny if it wasn't 3 am and most of the people at the party being illegals. No need to encourage the cops to show up at the door. Once the song ended, Di and I got the stereo lowered to an acceptable volume and while I chatted with Boy Two and "Cute Older Guy" (as Di named him), Di put most of the drunks to bed in various chairs and couches in the living room. Even if she couldn't drive, she could still Mother.
We were all hungry, but most of Omar's food had to be cooked. The meat needed to be grilled and carrot sticks weren't cutting it. Someone found a tin of pasta and shrimp that could be baked, so Maria One (it seemed all the girl's at Omar's party had Maria in their name) and I tried to turn on the oven, but quickly discovered it was non-operational, or it just took a lot of time and some special handling to make it heat that we didn't know about. Omar was pretty much useless at this point and was promptly put to bed by Maria One and Di. That left myself, and a bunch of drunks to figure out the dilemma of cooking a pasta tin in the microwave. "Cute Old Guy" said to cook it on defrost, Boy Two said to put it on high for 15 minutes, and Boy Three said to just eat it.
I didn't want to get sick and I was worried that all the different heat settings the thing suffered through would be bad, but after 20 minutes of the pasta sitting in the microwave after being half defrosted and half cooked on one side (the container was too large to spin), I gave in to my hunger, pressed high cook button for 10 minutes and watched the cheese melt. At 4:15 in the morning, beggars can't be choosers and food is food. We'd worry about the food poisoning in the morning (well, later that morning).
Back to the group of boys Di and I were left with. Boy Two works for a company that sells random things to other companies - a legal form of hustling. Since I had complained for the last half of the night to him about how painful my feet were feeling, he said he had slippers in his truck and he'd get me and Di a pair. He walked out the door and came back a few minutes later with 2 sets of purple fuzzy slippers. He really did have them in his car. They matched my outfit, but looked like something out of "Purple People Eaters". I didn't care as long as they weren't the heels. Too bad they were a size too small and my heel met the floor every time I took a step. I really did like them, but slippers shouldn't be small.
Boy Two also confessed to me that he knew there was something special about me the minute he saw me walk through the front door of Omar's place earlier in the evening. I told him it was probably because I had the whole, "Token White Girl" thing going on, but he smirked and said that wasn't it. Maybe he caught a whiff of my "crazy-person pheromone", but other than that, I think I'm just normal, no special thing. A white girl in a pink skirt.
Boy Three, is just that, the third boy of the night to have a small crush on me. I don't actually set out to make guys like me, I rather take the opposite approach and try to deter them from wanting to go out with me, but somehow the wires get crossed and they develop crushes. Too bad this isn't High School and crushes can be innocent. Boy Three was beyond trashed and his girlfriend was sleeping it off in the corner. Some song came on the radio that he needed a dance partner for and so I was his first choice. We danced for a bit, but again, it was the circle thing, and I quickly left. He figured dancing didn't work, so he'd try chatting me up and asking if I wanted to go out with him. I asked why he was hitting on me with his girlfriend in the other room, and he pretended he didn't know what I was talking about. See, pretending to be ignorant of a fact is bad when the proof is next to you and if you're drunk... drunks suck at lying. I shot him own in plain English, without regards to his feelings. Obviously he doesn't care about other people's so why should I console him.
Boy Three was also friends with "Mean Drunk", one of the remaining guys who is not a nice person when he drinks. He didn't think he was as drunk as he was, so he wasn't too fond of all us semi sober people telling him to sleep it off. Little Di had the lovely task of trying to get him to rest for a bit on the couch, but it took a lot of handholding and patience. I would have probably just conked him over the head and laid him on the couch. That's probably why I wasn't in charge of getting the drunks to bed.
After Little Di escaped "Mean Drunk", she had fun entertaining/talking with "Cute Old Guy" who really wasn't that old (just older than us) and who had beautiful eyes. He happened to be the next best thing to sober in the room and was a good conversationalist. Di really wanted to ask him out, but she wasn't sure if he was flirting with her or just being polite. Especially since he brought up his girlfriend who he was having a going away party for (she was headed back to Chile for an indefinite period of time) the following weekend and would Little Di be interested in coming? A strange request, seeing as he has a girlfriend, but she's leaving, and he is inviting a girl he just met. He said he would tell Little Di the extenuating circumstances about him and his girlfriend, but only if she came to the party. Little Di said no. Maybe she'll find out another way.
By 5:15 am, we'd eaten, managed to clean most of the house, evict the people sober enough to drive, wash all the dishes, and put "Cute Old Guy" to bed on the newly vacated couch. He was sober, but didn't feel like driving the long distance to his house and figured he'd catch a few winks at Omar's. True, true, but "Cute Old Guy" had just met Omar a few times, so he didn't really know him. It must be a guy thing that allows them to feel comfortable enough to crash on a practically stranger's couch and not feel odd. I would feel so weird that I wouldn't be able to sleep and then I'd drive home even later then originally planned and feeling worse. It's just better to head out after everything's finished, then to stay, at least for a girl or maybe it's just me and my trust issues.
Little Di and I got home at 6:04am. The sky was beginning to lighten for the coming sun, casting everything in peaceful purple hues. The night turned out to be quite entertaining, getting me out of the house and trying new things. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday and the wee hours of Sunday. It was off to bed for three hours before getting up to spend Easter Brunch at Di's mom's house. But that's another story...
Friday, April 2, 2010
A "Fools" Job Hunt
You know me...forever looking for a new job, any job really. I've been sending out a mass amount of emails lately to random Internet job ads that I've stumbled across on Craigslist, Realitystaff, Hotjobs, Monster, etc. and so far I've gotten very few replies. It's like I'm being taunted with cool job offers, but when I click that little "send" button at the bottom of my computer screen and my resume is jet set into the Internet superhighway, I really feel like it's mingling with 1000's of other applicants and will most likely end up in someone's trashcan - electronic or otherwise.
How do you make your electronic resume/job email stand out among the 100's of other people sending in their resumes for that one choice position? Do you put a catchy phrase like, "Hire me, I'm the person you've been looking for" in your Subject line or does that make you seem young, eager and unprofessional. Do you put a professional phrase like, "Applying for 'so and so' position" in the Subject line or is that too bland and automatically dismissed by the hiring manager? There are so many options and no one to tell me (or any other person looking for a job) what the best bet is. It's equally frustrating and annoying.
This morning I was awoken by a text message from a number I didn't recognize that went as follows: "Hi, my name is Anna. I saw your resume online. Call me at 1877-xxx-xxxx if you are still seeking a job." At first, I didn't really think much because I was semi jolted awake from a shitty sleep- I had to take my friend to the airport at 3:30am and I was still attempting to catch up from the 1 hr interruption during the middle of the night, so my brain wasn't exactly thinking straight. I thought, "job, yes, finally, I should call them back right, now"....then, after actually taking a minute to breath and realize I was kind of half asleep and my mouth tasted like a dry mothball, I washed my face, brushed my teeth and gathered my loose thoughts.
The first thing I thought was, "It's a text message for a job, who the hell text messages a job?" Has society fallen so hard that not only do we not talk to people in person or on the phone anymore, but most job hiring takes place over emails, and now, apparently, texts? That's just sad and a little bit frightening.
My next thought was, "It's a 1-877 number. Is this a real number or some random 'steal your identity' bullshit number that you call and it downloads all your personal information?" This made me pause for a sec and consider not calling. I didn't know how they got my phone number in the first place because I don't readily hand it out (yes, I send my resume - with my phone number on it - to everyone and anyone over the Internet, but they're legit email addresses of hiring companies), so I was a little confused until i remembered the day before where I applied to be a flight attendant (yea, I know, but at least the job is steady, has benefits and travels, so I can pretend to be nice to morons for 8 hrs at a time if I have to) and the job site made me fill out this stupid questionnaire with all my personal information.
I did because I really wanted to apply for the job, but it basically took my information, let me upload a resume (and all I had was my production resume, nothing remotely similar to flying or airplanes listed on there) and then said, "thanks" without even letting me add a cover letter explaining the random resume and my reasoning behind the job inquiry. Then, me not realizing that I had finished applying for the job, I proceeded to start filling in the random other questions that popped up asking if I wanted to continue my education and would I please fill out my contact info for them to call or send me educational material. I filled out two of these surveys before realized I didn't need to and that there wasn't anything else to the job site.
You know how if you log in to Monster.com or any of the other professional job sites, you fill out a sign-in page with your name, email, and phone number, and then you get access to all the job information they have available on their website? Well, that's why I kept filling out the continuing education information, I didn't realize I'd completed the flight attendant application (basically my contact information and my resume) and I thought that if I kept filling out the forms, eventually I'd get to the page that let me browse jobs. I guess that site, the JobCooler.com, isn't like that. My advice, don't use the site. It's bullshit, and now I've had two people call me from schools to give me information on their continuing education program. I was basically sold out and I did it to myself.
Anyhow, I think these stupid forms might have given my phone number to the people that texted me. It was a good guess and the logical one after my first thought, being irrational and retarded - I thought it was an April Fools joke that someone was playing on me. Most of my friends know that I'm desperately seeking a job, and one of them might just be cruel enough to have me call a number, talk to a real person who would convince me to meet them for an interview, and when I showed up, no one would be there. I know it sounds vicious and I don't really know if any of my friends are that evil, but I did think it was April Fools and it was just so coincidental that I'd been posting my resume everywhere and when I finally got a reply for a job, it was a "text" on April Fools. I even called my sister, Robby, to ask her if she thought someone was messing with me, but she just said to call and if it was a fake number, at least I would know... So true.
Well...that was until the face washing, the 10 minutes of pondering the text, the 1-877-number debate, and the little bit of coffee I downed, managed to give my brain cylinders time to properly function fore me realized it wasn't even April 1st...it was the second and I was a huge moron. So, I now didn't have to worry too much that the "text" was a cruel joke by an evil friend, but more, some new, and stupid, way to contact people for jobs.
I dialed the number and listened to one ring before an automated woman informed me that I'd reach jobhub.com's phone services number and if I would like to stay on the line, someone would be along shortly to help register me with their company for future jobs. If I didn't want to wait around for an operator, I could visit their website at "anothershittyanduselessjobwebsite.com (I'm using my poetic license)". I hung up, typed in the URL the robot lady gave me and
discovered it was just what I'd feared: a job site trying to get more information out of me then they would give to me. I don't like the websites that say they'll help you and then they just sell all your contact information to marketing firms to make them money while you think you're being helped, but really your phone gets to ring all day and night with asshole telemarketers giving false promises. Evil, Evil bastards. They should all pay. Ahem, sorry, I'm starting to sound like a Postal Worker.
Anyhow, the moral of this story is that I'm an optimist, yet paranoid idiot; I should avoid sketchy Internet job sites; and I really should start looking at calendars more often.
How do you make your electronic resume/job email stand out among the 100's of other people sending in their resumes for that one choice position? Do you put a catchy phrase like, "Hire me, I'm the person you've been looking for" in your Subject line or does that make you seem young, eager and unprofessional. Do you put a professional phrase like, "Applying for 'so and so' position" in the Subject line or is that too bland and automatically dismissed by the hiring manager? There are so many options and no one to tell me (or any other person looking for a job) what the best bet is. It's equally frustrating and annoying.
This morning I was awoken by a text message from a number I didn't recognize that went as follows: "Hi, my name is Anna. I saw your resume online. Call me at 1877-xxx-xxxx if you are still seeking a job." At first, I didn't really think much because I was semi jolted awake from a shitty sleep- I had to take my friend to the airport at 3:30am and I was still attempting to catch up from the 1 hr interruption during the middle of the night, so my brain wasn't exactly thinking straight. I thought, "job, yes, finally, I should call them back right, now"....then, after actually taking a minute to breath and realize I was kind of half asleep and my mouth tasted like a dry mothball, I washed my face, brushed my teeth and gathered my loose thoughts.
The first thing I thought was, "It's a text message for a job, who the hell text messages a job?" Has society fallen so hard that not only do we not talk to people in person or on the phone anymore, but most job hiring takes place over emails, and now, apparently, texts? That's just sad and a little bit frightening.
My next thought was, "It's a 1-877 number. Is this a real number or some random 'steal your identity' bullshit number that you call and it downloads all your personal information?" This made me pause for a sec and consider not calling. I didn't know how they got my phone number in the first place because I don't readily hand it out (yes, I send my resume - with my phone number on it - to everyone and anyone over the Internet, but they're legit email addresses of hiring companies), so I was a little confused until i remembered the day before where I applied to be a flight attendant (yea, I know, but at least the job is steady, has benefits and travels, so I can pretend to be nice to morons for 8 hrs at a time if I have to) and the job site made me fill out this stupid questionnaire with all my personal information.
I did because I really wanted to apply for the job, but it basically took my information, let me upload a resume (and all I had was my production resume, nothing remotely similar to flying or airplanes listed on there) and then said, "thanks" without even letting me add a cover letter explaining the random resume and my reasoning behind the job inquiry. Then, me not realizing that I had finished applying for the job, I proceeded to start filling in the random other questions that popped up asking if I wanted to continue my education and would I please fill out my contact info for them to call or send me educational material. I filled out two of these surveys before realized I didn't need to and that there wasn't anything else to the job site.
You know how if you log in to Monster.com or any of the other professional job sites, you fill out a sign-in page with your name, email, and phone number, and then you get access to all the job information they have available on their website? Well, that's why I kept filling out the continuing education information, I didn't realize I'd completed the flight attendant application (basically my contact information and my resume) and I thought that if I kept filling out the forms, eventually I'd get to the page that let me browse jobs. I guess that site, the JobCooler.com, isn't like that. My advice, don't use the site. It's bullshit, and now I've had two people call me from schools to give me information on their continuing education program. I was basically sold out and I did it to myself.
Anyhow, I think these stupid forms might have given my phone number to the people that texted me. It was a good guess and the logical one after my first thought, being irrational and retarded - I thought it was an April Fools joke that someone was playing on me. Most of my friends know that I'm desperately seeking a job, and one of them might just be cruel enough to have me call a number, talk to a real person who would convince me to meet them for an interview, and when I showed up, no one would be there. I know it sounds vicious and I don't really know if any of my friends are that evil, but I did think it was April Fools and it was just so coincidental that I'd been posting my resume everywhere and when I finally got a reply for a job, it was a "text" on April Fools. I even called my sister, Robby, to ask her if she thought someone was messing with me, but she just said to call and if it was a fake number, at least I would know... So true.
Well...that was until the face washing, the 10 minutes of pondering the text, the 1-877-number debate, and the little bit of coffee I downed, managed to give my brain cylinders time to properly function fore me realized it wasn't even April 1st...it was the second and I was a huge moron. So, I now didn't have to worry too much that the "text" was a cruel joke by an evil friend, but more, some new, and stupid, way to contact people for jobs.
I dialed the number and listened to one ring before an automated woman informed me that I'd reach jobhub.com's phone services number and if I would like to stay on the line, someone would be along shortly to help register me with their company for future jobs. If I didn't want to wait around for an operator, I could visit their website at "anothershittyanduselessjobwebsite.com (I'm using my poetic license)". I hung up, typed in the URL the robot lady gave me and
discovered it was just what I'd feared: a job site trying to get more information out of me then they would give to me. I don't like the websites that say they'll help you and then they just sell all your contact information to marketing firms to make them money while you think you're being helped, but really your phone gets to ring all day and night with asshole telemarketers giving false promises. Evil, Evil bastards. They should all pay. Ahem, sorry, I'm starting to sound like a Postal Worker.
Anyhow, the moral of this story is that I'm an optimist, yet paranoid idiot; I should avoid sketchy Internet job sites; and I really should start looking at calendars more often.
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