There was this time…(pt. 4)

I met three Hollywood tough guys almost 20 years apart.

All three were the nicest people. Keep in mind that while two of these incidents were while I was working, only the first one was I wearing a name tag. I don’t normally wear a name tag but only because they fall into that vortex of lost possessions that forms in my purse.

The first was Alex Rocco from “The Godfather” and many other roles you’d recognize by his signature gravely voice. I was working at the Miramar Hotel in its dying day in Montecito in 1996. Trying to check him in but being extremely busy as it always was, I couldn’t get him into his room until we strong-armed the previous occupant out. He said, “No problem at all, Molly. I’ll be over here with my beautiful wife. Please let us know when it’s ready but only when you have the time.” I scrambled to get the strong-arming of the cleaning staff done to help someone this sweet.

The second tough guy I met was Paul Sorvino. He’s played every gangster in every movie where there were Italian gangsters…and a brief stint in Law & Order. In this case, I went to a bar to meet my former boyfriend and his tennis buddies, Rick Miani and Gregg Bigger, after a match.

Their new friend stood when I walked up to the table. He spoke lovingly about his daughter, Mira, and their father-daughter trip to Italy. He stood every time I did and listened to me like I mattered. He kissed my hand. I think. I don’t remember if that part is true but I’m going to keep it that way in my head.

More recently, the third tough guy was Dennis Franz. Though not normally cast as a gangster, he is the quintessential “cop”. You know. That guy.

Sipowicz took no guff from nobody.

Sipowicz might be tough but Dennis Franz is a sweetheart. Having since I’ve oddly gravitated back to supplemental hotel/resort work, for the past two years Dennis has come back to my place of work to check in with me in particular. He says it’s because of how well I take care of him and his family. No asking for special treatment, just gratitude. He remembered me by name and was so impressed that I knew who he was, too. He’s quite huggable.

Very nice gentlemen all. Real gentlemen all. Probably not surprising but nice to hear, isn’t it?


There was this time…(pt. 3)

The time I met a supermodel was the most un-supermodel-y moment I could’ve come up with.

We met each other, but we were never formally introduced.

One morning, I woke up to no water. That was particularly painful as I’d indulged in far too much fermented grape juice the night before. Apparently, the whole apartment complex was sans-eau and I sort of remembered the notices posted around the place for about a week prior.

So, the only option open to me was going next door to the Starbucks to their, now desperately-needed, restroom.

Shoving my hair into a hat but not finding sunglasses, wearing sweats and the same silk blouse from the night before, predictably-smeared mascara sideways off my face, I barreled through the Starbucks’ side door hoping to escape anyone’s notice.

Bad plan because I slammed full-body into Kathy Ireland.

Courtesy of Lane Report

She must’ve been in some kind of meeting because even supermodels don’t dress in business suits early morning on a Saturday to get coffee. Even models dressed in fabulous, clearly-not-a-drinker, form-fitting, business suits.

Now, I’m a tall 5’8″ but when I’m slouching in embarrassment and desperately needing to pee, I can lose an inch or two. At 5’10” plus 4” heels, Kath, as I like to call her now, make her stand out like, well, a supermodel.

And, of course, she is even more stunning in person.

She possesses such a confident presence that even someone body-slamming into her at 8am doesn’t seem to phase her.

She needlessly apologized to me. I gasped something inaudible.

Then, having to wait for the bathroom about 3 feet away from the aforementioned supermodel-body-slamming-incident-in-front-of-witnesses added to it becoming quite a bit more uncomfortable.

Yeah, it was like this. Warren Buffet, Kathy Ireland, and Bill Gates.

Except that it totally wasn’t and it was really uncomfortable.

No, wait? Not uncomfortable. Awkward is the word I’m looking for. Definitely awkward.

There was this time…(pt. 2)

The time I met Christopher Lloyd was epic and iconic. Sort of.

The movie was already 20 years old back then.

I happened to come across a friend who ran an auto-detailing shop in Santa Barbara who was waiting at the curb for a client to show up.

I don’t remember the car the client was driving but I do remember how tall and how his long legs made him seem more wobbly than he probably was.

Watching Doc Brown get out of his car, shaking himself off was exactly what you’d hope it’d look like; fumbly, like he just got out of a tumbling dryer.

He walked over to us. While shaking my hand, for a second, I felt like what I think Michael J. Fox probably felt around him, a little off-kilter. Especially, being looked at from that great height with those big, focused eyes.

Well, only if Marty McFly had a huge rack, too.

Courtesy of Wingclips

There was this time…(pt. 1)

Once Melinda and I came out of a restaurant in the Upper Village of Montecito after a long lunch and got into her car to go home.

Long after I went through the CDs and wondered when she became a Art Garfunkel/John Oats fan…

Long after she fully adjusted the driver’s seat, rearview mirror, shoulder belt height, and side mirror…

…did we realize we got into someone else’s car.

Trying to be nonchalant while escaping one green Saab to slither into the only other green Saab in all of Southern California while not laughing is something I’ll always be proud of.

All Your Thoughts Are Belong to Us

Great website. I found it through a guide I was drawn to about logical fallacies, seeing as it’d been a continuous battle I’ve had to fight until recently. Trying to find logic in illogical arguments will make your head spin until you give up and follow. I’m trying to learn to not argue this way and, more importantly, not fall for them.

It’s tough, though, because of our strong emotional biases this website so clearly delineates. This causes a lil mind-fuckery for enquiring minds like the one in my giant noggin.

So, now, I’m totally confused and have no idea what is logical and what is bias and who deserves to receive my frustration the next time someone doesn’t argue the way I want.

I’m trying to have a more discerning eye regarding emotional-tactical arguments. You know, those using the lowest common denominator to elicit a particular response based on fear, and those evil fuckers that use them; politicians, assholes, exes, middle managers, trolls, cops, lawyers, bullies, etc.

It reminds me that it’s sort of like advertising; something I actually have huge admiration for.

You weren’t expecting that turn, were you. Boom! Bait ‘n’ switch. Muahaha!

I have my reasons for my admiration. Well, one reason.


No, I’m not a Satanist. I’m just an admirer of…well, not an admirer…it’s just…okay, I’m saying a lot of things here. Anywho…

I think of advertising as an entity/profession that is truly evil to the point of awe. In that, I admire it. An entire industry bent on manipulating us to want something by any means necessary. It’s so…insidious. Like a little tempting gift from Satan every 30 seconds. It manipulates how we feel about everything. No matter how much we can try to see it as something outside of ourselves, we’re totally affected by it every day; how we feel about our bodies, our successes and failures, dreams, lifestyles, fears, relationships, everything. The result probably isn’t much different from any other society-controlling entity from history. Like religion or the aristocracy, advertising is just another method of controlling the masses. Our interpersonal dynamics, to families to cults to autocracies, how we’re told and what we’re told is ideal is usually based on some form of logical fallacy, then perpetuated by the herd. And it’s fascinating.

Our free will and independent thinking is negated because of how we’re raised in a certain culture containing core beliefs about what is ideal. Though it’s a chicken-or-egg-type of causation; if advertising causes our ideals, or if society already defines them and advertising reinforces that ideal, our bias is so heavy toward one belief or another based on what we’re shown, read, exposed to, then constantly reinforced. And back and forth, again.

Yet, just to fuck with us, we’re still told we all have choice.

We don’t, but you are free, -wink-, to believe what you want to believe.

I’m no conspiracy-theorist but it doesn’t mean they’re not controlling us.

Sorry, I forgot where I was going with this. My favorite Progressive Insurance commercial was on.

Now I totally forget my point. I’m giggling and nostalgic about the uncomfortably hilarious Health class videos we were forced to watch and not at all thinking about things. Forget I said anything about Satan. Forget that I’m only trying to appease our Lizard Overlords.

Forget I said anything about advertising being evil. It’s only entertainment. It doesn’t control us. It’s alllll good, Flo.

I gotta go make a phone call. Anyone catch that number in the video?


At my side job today, I was pretending as much as I possibly could at the whole customer “service” thing. I wasn’t successful even a little.

I wasn’t outright calling people stupid but I came pretty close. Anyone who has worked in any customer service position knows what I’m talking about. Some days you can’t even fake it.

I’ve always held the belief that most people just want to be heard. Not even necessarily listened to, just heard. People need to speak their frustrations out loud and have someone say, “yes, that is frustrating. I understand.” Regardless of the fact that we don’t understand and most likely couldn’t care less. Most people feel better having said their piece. They can dispose of their frustrations by spewing it out there and leave for others to clean up.

Look, I said I believe in that philosophical idea. I didn’t say I practice it. After many too many hours of listening to bullshit, I couldn’t care less how heard anyone felt. By then, the tissue-thin facade I barely put on, in the guise of professionalism, falls off usually around hour 6 of an 8-hour shift.

Today, it was the middle-aged brats trying to get more of something they were already lucky to get considering how busy we were. They weren’t busy so it didn’t affect them. It didn’t affect them, so it didn’t exist. As usual.

Regretfully, because I’m a flawed human, I didn’t put them in their place where they would twist in guilt, reevaluate every action they’ve ever taken, atone for every interaction they were responsible for turning badly, and throw themselves on their knees to beg forgiveness. They just whined and demanded special treatment for the amount of money they paid that was exactly the same amount everyone else had paid.

They didn’t even thank me for using all my failing strength on not hurling myself over the counter and strangling, at least, the one smacking her gum, with the white foamy bits in the corners of her lips, and the record-scratching laugh. It was tempting as no jury would convict me. Nope, no thank you. Just a resentful, disappointed walk out the door to resume their stoic woe-is-me; that they’d have to bear this cruel burden on their own like the martyrs they are. You know, just like Jesus.

Bratty like Jesus.

I actually could’ve worked some really shifty magic to get them what they wanted but I didn’t. It was against policy, it could’ve gotten me in trouble, and I didn’t like them. So I went as far as to pretend to look at possibilities, while putting the red five on the black six and those two on the red seven, and told them it was impossible and shot glares at the foamy gum-smacking one.

They left and I didn’t strangle anyone. What I did do was take it out on the next jovial person unfortunate enough to come to me for “support”.

Said gentleman was chatting on and on as I was doing my thing, as quickly as I could just to get him out of my face, when he started in with the questions. Cutting me off to clarify answers I was in the middle of answering, talking about “Judy” and “Samson” or whoever-the-fuck was coming who needed this or that. I don’t know you, pal. At all. Much less who Judy and Samson are. Stop asking me if they’re already here because I don’t know who the fuck any of you are! I’m not even on that screen, I’m clearly trying to extract information from you that is necessary to get you away from me but you won’t stop talking about people I don’t know, and your happiness and excitement is clearly making me feel even shittier.

—Oh, here’s a little tip. If anyone ever starts with, “Quick question,…”, walk away. Don’t grab your things, just go. If you do stay, as they are rolling around to hour 2 in their “quick question”, grab some Alka Seltzer, take a calming walk (don’t worry, you’ll have time,) cancel your plans for the week, and say good bye to your loved ones because someone is going to wish they were dead by the time the “quick question” even rolls around to getting asked.—

Finally, the questioner took a pause long enough for me to understand that it was finally my turn. I just sighed and said, “Yeah, I don’t care.”

He looked at me, looked at my exhausted posture and unflinchingly unamused expression, and broke out in hilarious laughter.

He turned red with sweet, innocent embarrassment. He said, “I’m sorry. I know I can go on, thanks for being so patient. I bet you’re tired of all the chit-chat. What were you saying?”

I cracked a genuine smile for the first time all day, “I guess I am tired. Sorry about that. It’s been a long day. Do you have AAA? I can give you a 10% discount. You know what? Screw it, I’ll just give you an upgrade…on me.” So I did. Day made.

Let this be a lesson, dear readers. Customer service people aren’t automatons. We don’t live and die by your happiness. We don’t give a fuck about your happiness. We care about getting through the day, have our own aches and pains to wade through, and still have to listen to your shit and pretend to care.

We also have the ability to give, or withhold, a lot more than we ever let on. There’s no telling how far we’ll go for you when you remember how human all of us are.

He made my day, I made his, and together we plotted sinister revenge against the gum-smacker and her ilk.

But that part was just for fun.

Dismissed to Compete with a Gecko

I had reservations about saying anything at all because of the age-old adages about living well being the best revenge, taking the high road, and not screwing some kind of something, maybe a snake or wiggling cat or something, because whatever. I don’t care. It’s my blog and I have a readership of almost 8. They demand satisfaction. You can’t stop a runaway train, my friends, and I must bend to the will of the people.

The irony is this rant was inspired by some dude whose biggest fear was that I would blog unfavorable things about him. Try not being a dick and you wouldn’t have to worry about it, genius. Besides, nothing to worry about here. There’s nothing to worry about a dismissed, disrespected, angry woman with freakish investigative skills and her own blog.

Why. Would. You. Worry?

See? Adorable.

Yeah, I thought this could go in a really bad direction, too. It’s not, really. Again, this blog is about slipping on banana peels, not forcefully shoving them into someone’s tailpipe until they cry. That would be mean.

And no one has ever accused me of…okay, people accuse me of being mean all the time. Because I can be. I’m not going to justify it or excuse it because it’s a shitty thing to do.

So, I’m sorry for being mean.

I’m sorry to everyone who felt disrespected, insulted, ridiculed, and who clearly didn’t get the humor.

However, I’m really good at it and you probably deserved it.

My purpose right now isn’t to be mean. It’s to make light of a stupid situation. To remove the weight that it doesn’t deserve. If someone feels like I may hinder their competition with a talking cartoon gecko, so be it. I can’t compete with that lofty goal. All I can do is take responsibility for my part in a no-win situation and walk away shaking my head.

Yes, pretty much just my head. My enormous, oddly angular, head. I’m okay with that. My almost 8 readers will agree that’s enough.

Almost 8 readers will also agree that it was all your fault.

Asshole-Attitude Pervasiveness

The author

20+ years ago I was stabbed in the throat by some asshole stranger who just didn’t like women. My friend and I happened to walk by his path and received his wrath.

She and I are fine now, he’s dead. It’s another story.

Stemming from this instance…being stabbed in the throat combined with a host of existing issues due to the immensely important thing I’m going to explain…I went to a rehab center that promised to help with my PTSD and ensuing Depression. It didn’t. While I’m so grateful for the opportunity I was gifted, that place sucked balls.

Again, that place is another story. And not my direct point.

I’ll explain.

Something regarding the #MeToo movement I read tonight had me thinking. It got me thinking how pervasive misogynistic attitudes are about women in general. So much so that, even though we’re 51% of the population, our functional health issues are disregarded. So much so, even other women are convinced that they are bullshit.  When I think about it, I’m suddenly horrified by how acclimated I became with the status quo of shitty attitudes towards all things “female”.

To come around to my point, as I  was attending this awful place settled on top of a Sierra in Tucson, AZ, we were required to attend morning meeting with the rest of the ~75 patients and confess aloud what we suffered from. One day, I said, in a disrespectfully joking manner, “I’m a victim of a violent crime, have ADD, PTSD, and…PMS.”

Everyone laughed because I was trying to be funny. It was disrespectful of me to be making light where I should’ve respected others’ weight. I didn’t think much of it then, though. I should have.

Here’s the shit:

I wonder, now, why did everyone laugh? Why did I think that was funny? Why would a painful, disruptive, disabling condition like PMS be funny? Ever?

20 years after my little haha fucking comment, I finally find out that my biggest issue in life has been PMS, more correctly, PMDD.

It has crippled my life. And it’s certainly not funny.

So why do we think it’s funny? Because it has to do with menstruation and that’s icky? Probably. Is it because it’s a female problem and therefore “dainty” and ridiculous? Probably.

Because of how pervasive this ridiculous, asshole-ish, misogynistic attitude is, it’s been barely even researched. It’s always been acknowledged but only as a weak symptom of being unfortunate enough to be born a woman.

Last year, writer Frank Bures questioned if PMS was real in his book, The Geography of Madness. In the above linked excerpt from Slate, he cites research that suggests that PMS—and its more brutal relative, PMDD—are culturally constructed rather than founded in biology. However, he recognizes that even if (and that’s a big “if”) something is a social construct, that doesn’t mean it’s not a real experience. He throws in examples of research that found women who endorsed stereotypical gender roles experience more “menstrual distress” and sheds light on the cultural differences between how eastern and western women experience their time of the month before coming to the conclusion that PMS and PMDD could be “cultural syndromes.”

–I would love to show Frank Bures-asshat, whoever this ridiculous idiot is, the hole I put in the wall at work just because the door was closed when it shouldn’t have been. I’m not saying which door…–

PMS is real. PMDD even more so.

PMDD can be so misunderstood that the condition is frequently misdiagnosed as a mental illness like bipolar disorder. It leaves thousands of women in a dark place or suicidal for at least one quarter to half of every month.

It occured to me tonight that my comment 20 years ago was perpetuating the same cultural belief that this isn’t a problem to be concerned with because it’s a “woman” problem. I thought it’d be funny because no one takes it seriously. I thought it’d be funny because I was told that my rage, suicidal thoughts, and depression I’ve suffered once a month for 35 years that leaves me holding my knees and rocking, sobbing, and praying I can control myself, is just a weak, “woman” problem.

It’s like a revisiting evil demon who sits on your shoulder whispering reminders of your every regret. It makes you question your reason for existing, your reason for being on this earth. It removes your logic and ability to function. It reduces you to caricature.

So I ask again, why do we think that’s funny?

Chicks, amirite?


I’m Not a Bigger Person


Have you ever sat up nights dreaming of someone’s demise? Have you ever focused so hard on someone getting their just desserts only to be disappointed by their head not exploding? Have you ever envisioned that someone running so hard, running hard but slower than you, from a bear?

Or are you lame?


Don’t give me the “forgiveness” diatribe, either. Fuck forgiveness.

I read the best news today. I can’t wait for the rest and I hope it hurts. God, I hope it hurts someone responsible.

UCSD Investigated for Bullying

I’d explain more but I’m too busy celebrating these people who had the cajones and credibility to stand up to a system that has encouraged systematic abuse and unethical behavior. There’s more unearthing to go yet and I hope it gets muddy.

Keep on, heroes, for the countless number of us who never got our moment. We’re cheering for you every step.

A PSA for Our Public Servicers

I know that’s not a good way to say that but I’m keeping it. 


I happened to look over towards the sound of a freight truck sliding its back door shut and catch a glimpse of our new postal carrier. She’s attractive, fit, peaceful, pleasant, and seems quite content with her duties.

Being it such a beautiful day today, I thought how nice a walk would be and get paid with good benefits. I was admiring her for choosing a vocation that would be nice to have on a day like today .

I wonder if I could do that.

Sure! I could totally do that.

If I did NOT have to:

  • Get up at 4 am.
  • Walk in any kind of weather that:
    • is over or under 68 degrees
    • is too bright
    • is too windy
    • is raining
    • is snowing
    • looks like rain
    • somewhere where it snows
  • Walk in dangerous neighborhoods.
  • Walk when I had cramps.
  • Talk to people when I didn’t want to.
  • Talk to people.
  • Walk.

It occurred to me all the bullshit our postal workers have to deal with every day. It occurred to me how much our new postal carrier deserves this beautiful day to walk around in this safe, quiet neighborhood.

Good Lord, does she deserve it.