There was this time…(pt.13)

Geoff, the Santa Barbara boyfriend of 10 years, the chick-wrangler or “Sport-fuck” as his friends used to call him in my presence, was not one to keep his pants on when he should. Seeing as it’s been more than 15 years later, he and I are good friends and I don’t begrudge him the, um, multitude of indiscretions in which he may or may not have indulged.

The indiscretions so plentiful that it was reported in the local newspaper. 

You could wonder why I would put up with something like that and I don’t blame anyone for wondering that. The answer is simple: I didn’t know at the time and how could he not? In a town with a population of only around 30,000 permanent residents, 90% of whom are female, it’d be almost rude of a man this beautiful to not indulge. 

And it has been over 15 years. I really couldn’t care less now. We’re past it, so should you be. I appreciate your righteous anger, though, dear reader. If anything, I’m impressed that anyone could have that much energy or time in their day.

I only report that previous detail because, goddamn, it was in the fucking newspaper!

But I digress. This is just a story about a time.


There was this time when we went to a movie.

One normal night, we went to go see Golden Eye, Pierce Brosnan’s debut as James Bond. 

As we’re walking through the doors of the Arlington Theatre, I excuse myself to make a bee-line to the ladies room. Geoff meanders towards the outside patio; doing the agreeable nod that we’d meet out there.

I find him holding a martini and grabbing stuffed mushrooms off a passed plate. It looked great, albeit odd for a random movie night, but I graciously accepted a martini off a tray held by a smartly-dressed waiter. 

We wordlessly enjoy our good luck for whatever conceivable reason this was happening; not wanting to say anything lest saying it makes it stop. I look up and notice that everyone mingling in this little quaint outside patio was far better dressed than we. We were no slouches but we weren’t dressed in tuxedos and evening gowns. I also notice that Pierce Brosnan was about 5 feet away from us. 

“Oh shit.”


“Look!” I point with my pinky finger towards the doorman checking off names but otherwise turning away many people not on his coveted clipboard list. The doorman who let us through because our dismissive, belonging attitude–due to the fact we didn’t know we weren’t supposed to be there in the first place–gave us unquestioned credibility.

“We just walked into a movie premiere.”

Giggling at our stealth and trying to find ways to shove martinis and steaming hot mushrooms into my purse, we followed the elite crowd into the theater to watch the best James Bond ever portrayed.

–Oh knock it off. This is my story and my opinion. Get off your Connery.–

Two hours later, we stumbled out of the theater; stunned by our luck, and dazed by the many martinis…and also having hatched a plan. 

Lightbulb lit, for the next few months, there wasn’t an event we couldn’t get into. We arrogantly strutted our way into gallery openings, elite polo gatherings, exclusive Montecito galas, and one hilariously successful entrance into the world-famous Sky Bar at the Mondrian hotel in Los Angeles to meet Geoff’s “agent, Jaime Bemis” whom he had conjured out of the air. 

We had a great time. We really did. And, to this day, we both look back at it as a triumph.

It couldn’t last though. The problem with faking your way through life is that, unless you’re a psychopath, you can’t keep it up. Microexpressions, fatigue, and anxiety show through the facade.  It makes pulling this kind of thing off harder and harder. You just don’t have the energy to do it anymore anywhere.

And when you’re trying to pull this kind of thing off in a town of only 30,000 people, most of whom know one of you really well by now, eventually someone is going to write up your story in their local newspaper. 


Why This Is Eve’s Fault


Update: Read it again. Don’t question, just do.

I’m PMSing. Hard. Soooooo hard. My body hurts. Noise hurts. I want to cry and I hate everyone for not loving me enough. I feel like chasing the driver of that trash truck with a bat because I’m pretty sure he’s banging those trash cans harder and noisier than he needs to. I can see you, you asshole! I know he’s going especially slow in the alleyway because it’s louder there and he knows how much it’s bothering me.

I tried to sleep but it was no use. I’m achy and irritable and choking down occasional sobs. In a moment of rare charity, I got up so that my love could sleep. He works hard and deserves his rest and he is sleeping like a kitten. A soft, warm, cuddling kitten whose blissful contentment makes me want to punch him repeatedly. Hard. He’s just sleeping away even though I can’t get comfortable no matter what I do. So I got up and left the room…after standing over him for a few minutes trying to burn him with my eyes. Still, he’s just snoozing away, handsome and sweet. The fucking nerve of that guy.

I know I’m whining but I can’t, no—don’t want to—stop. I don’t want to go on and on and be all, “Whaaa, my PMS is worse than yours—even though it totally is— whaaaa…Feel sorry for me…This sucks…Men are somehow responsible for this…whaaaa.” I’ve been ruminating on it ever since I gave up trying to sleep and realized whose fault this really is.

It’s Eve’s. That stupid bitch.

I’m not a Christian, and even if I were, I wouldn’t and don’t believe, even on my most irrational days, that all of humanity came from one dude and his little magical-rib companion. But I’m going to pretend for now. And, in efforts to continue on this “charitable” trend, I won’t really voice my opinion on those that do believe that fairy-tale. However you believe is…


Let’s say it was true. Let’s play make-believe and assume that Adam and Eve are the parents of all us and their being cast out of the Garden of Eden was for Eve’s lack of restraint.

Let me explain.

Genesis tells of the birth of man and the Garden of Eden. How everything is blissful and equal and Adam and Eve don’t have to do anything but eat, play with their animal friends, and walk around naked like living in a hippie commune…as long as they don’t eat the fruit from the one tree. I don’t know why God would put that one tree right in the middle of their playground. It would be like putting an Iron Maiden in the middle of a kindergarten. “Now go have recess but whatever you do, don’t play in that giant, spiky, man-shaped toy!”

So this is what happens according to the Bible:

God tells Adam and Eve in no uncertain terms…

“But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die.” Genesis 2:17 ESV / 18

And eventually, this happens:

“Now the serpent was more crafty than any other beast of the field that the Lord God had made. He said to the woman, “Did God actually say, ‘You shall not eat of any tree in the garden’?” And the woman said to the serpent, “We may eat of the fruit of the trees in the garden, but God said, ‘You shall not eat of the fruit of the tree that is in the midst of the garden, neither shall you touch it, lest you die.’ But the serpent said to the woman, ‘You will not surely die. For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” Genesis 3:1-24 ESV / 5

I applaud her need to know; I’m a curious, some say obsessive, investigator myself. And no man, not even Old Testament Male GOD, can tell me to not do something just because he said so. But “DIE”? I mean, come on! Barring the fact that she probably didn’t know what “die” meant, she didn’t even think twice. Just cruised on up, took a bite, and shared it with her ribless mate with no backbone. All because some crafty serpent with a fast car tells her she’s missing out on something. That’s more than just intellectual curiosity, that’s recklessness. What’s worse is that the damn snake didn’t even have to buy her a drink first. She’s the worst kind of slut that gives the rest of us a bad name. Yeah, I know what I said.

So Eve didn’t die. Uh-huh. Right.

So this happens:

“Then the Lord God said, ‘Behold, the man has become like one of us in knowing good and evil. Now, lest he reach out his hand and take also of the tree of life and eat, and live forever—’ therefore the Lord God sent him out from the garden of Eden to work the ground from which he was taken. He drove out the man, and at the east of the garden of Eden he placed the cherubim and a flaming sword that turned every way to guard the way to the tree of life.” Genesis 3:22-24 ESV / 118

I didn’t have to leave in the whole cherubim part but I like the literary ring to it.

Back to my point. God punishes the serpent by making him slither and punishes Adam by making him have to cultivate his food and he punishes Eve by doing this:

“To the woman he said, ‘I will surely multiply your pain in childbearing; in pain you shall bring forth children. Your desire shall be for your husband, and he shall rule over you.” Genesis 3:16 ESV / 7

Now, I’m not gonna touch the whole “weakened by my lust for my man” thing and especially won’t touch the whole “men will rule over women” thing. I’m PMSing and I don’t have enough quality property insurance to open that can of serpents right now. BUT! the whole “multiplying pain in childbearing” thing is really pissing me off.

I’m of childbearing years. I have the body of a childbearing woman and all the imbalances, hormonal and otherwise, that it entails.

Because of Eve’s lack of restraint and her immediate bedazzlement by a slick-talking, bouncing snake, I feel like crying while I throw things and question your motives.

Because Eve was too selfish to think of the consequences of her actions, just chewing on any old dangling fruit, I’m stuck on the couch chain-smoking and eating ice cream at 8am.

So, yeah, I’m PMSing hard, I’m blaming it on Eve…
but I’m gonna take it out on you.

God speed.

Spam is mocking me

No spam

It wasn’t spam until this latest email. But, now it is, the bastard.

I think the son-of-a-bitch is mocking me. I’m not sure who TUT is but I think I must have dated him.

Look, buddy, high school was a long time ago, okay? And I’m sorry about making fun of DnD, but this is the weirdest practical joke ever.
(Click to enlarge, hit the back button to return.)

You’re welcome, Universe. It was good for me, too.


The Car Wash: A true horror story

I suppose I could use the excuse of having been born blonde though it’s not much of an excuse since I haven’t been a natural blonde for 20 years.

Since there is no excuse for the horror that took place, I’ll just have to admit that this story is where a new blog was born.

I innocently went to get gas one day.

I succumbed to the tantalizing offer of a carwash for a discounted $10. My car was even dirtier than usual and figured I’d give it a gift. Finished filling the spry little Toyota RAV4 with gas, I cruise along into the car-washing cubby.

I pull in carefully. I feel my tires move onto the…tire-holding…clamp-thingy. The light was still green so I think I must not be seated properly. It’s happened before. An improperly seated-seat can cause trouble you wish you hadn’t signed up for. So, I move up, just a little, to where I’m feeling comfortable.

The red light flashes and I brace for impact.

The car-washing Decepticon starts, its violent machinations octopussing its vinyl tentacles up to my car, spitting and grinding giant pipe cleaners towards the sides. I locked my doors because it still makes me nervous.

In the review mirror, I watch, it’s coming, inching up behind me, creeping, taunting me…and it’s…going back! It’s going all the way back. It’s washing the hell out of the air behind me. I sit there for a full five minutes, watching through my review mirrors, as the angry carwash robot vigorously washes the area where my car is supposed to be.     

It finally stops, little spurts of water dripping out of it spent. A light turns green, a violent siren blares, and the sign is telling me, quite unforgivingly, to move forward into the air dryer. Which I sheepishly do. Confused, I sit under the dryer for about 15 seconds before I realized how stupid it is to dry an already dry yet still dirty car.

Pulling out slowly, praying no one sees me do this, I notice there is a guy watching me. I can’t tell if he’s smiling or laughing or just concerned. He and I make eye contact until I panic, peeling out long seconds, violently speeding in the wrong direction, dying to get the Hell out of there.

After driving North for about 10 miles at about 85 mph (even though I was headed South), I’m wiping tears from my eyes from the laughter I can’t control, dust flying from my side panels. I resign myself to the fact that I’m going to have to move to a new city and establish a new identity. In time, my family would find a way to forgive me.

I know it’s been said that women are terrible drivers. I’ve always thought of myself as the exception, but after paying ten dollars to watch sprinklers wash the inside of a garage while I sat, dry and helpless, makes me think: I’m more of the rule.

Eventually, I did return home but kept my misstep to myself for about 20 minutes. It proved too much to keep inside.

20 minutes later, the No Toast Zone was born.

True, awkward, and truly awkward=The No Toast Zone.