Category Archives: Uncategorized

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Drinking With Bartenders and Bunking With Felons

During the mid 90’s, between college and graduate school, I supported myself by waiting tables at mid-range family restaurants. Those were the fajita years, when it was chic for almost every restaurant except sushi bars to offer a platter of sizzling meat, onions and peppers on their menu. I don’t know exactly what goes into the fajita marinade, but I do know that the smell is nearly impossible to get out of clothing and hair. Serve one piping hot fajita and you smell like you should come with a side of tortillas for a week. I haven’t been able to eat that Tex Mex creation since. Even a Chili’s commercial is enough to make me cringe. This story really has nothing to do with fajitas but I felt it important that you know this about me in case we ever dine out together.

Anyway, at one point I worked at a fajita serving national chain with a rambunctious bar staff and a kitchen filled with ex-cons. Apparently the company received a tax break for hiring the recently incarcerated. You’ve got to respect the great mind that came up with that idea. “Let’s put parolees and college age girls in short skirts together in a stressful work environment.  What could go wrong?” There were a couple of guys who made me nervous, especially one who liked to offer me services best left in the penitentiary whenever I asked him for a clean salad plate, but I never ended up as anyone’s b!t@h and that’s what’s important.

Hey, did you know I can smuggle a ramekin and a pack of cigarettes in my butt? Want me to teach you how?

During this period of time I spent a good portion of my off-duty hours hanging out with my co-workers, sitting in bars drinking. When you’re tired and smell like fajitas and fries, drinking copious amounts of alcohol sounds like a good idea.  Let me just say for the record that drinking with bartenders isn’t for the faint of heart. I had a decent alcohol tolerance back in the day due to diligent training at the university pub, but even so, I always, always, always over-shot my abilities when I went out with bartenders.

Do not drink with bartenders and then attempt to travel. (image via dreamstime)

First of all, there is a brotherhood. Bartenders give other bartenders (and their friends) free drinks. It’s easy to lose track of how many drinks you’ve had when a new one automatically appears in front of you as if you’ve discovered the magical Fountain of Booze. Also, like an Italian mother, they always want to introduce you to any eligible new beverage arrivals. “This is Goldshlager. He’s new to the neighborhood. He’s cinnamon and contains real pieces of gold!” (For the record, gold loses its glamor when resting in the contents of your stomach.) Bartenders also enjoy inventing drinks and then sharing them with suckers friends. I can tell you from personal experience that if a drink is called A Weekend at Bernie’s, chances are you’re going to end the night toes up near the toilet bowl.

As any coroner could tell you, hanging out with a fresh corpse is almost as fun as hanging out with a really drunk waitress. (image via wikipedia)

One night I was out carousing with a group of bartenders and reformed kitchen staff and sometime around drunk-thirty, after receiving the full bartender treatment I realized that I was no longer capable of safely operating a car or even a shopping cart. I was barely capable of safely sitting in a chair. In fact, I may have maimed someone in an unfortunate game of darts. Luckily there was a Denny’s in stumbling distance so off I went on foot, two ex-cons in tow, to fortify myself with a greasy late night meal. Formerly incarcerated kitchen staff tend to follow drunk waitresses around because they typically need a ride and/or a place to crash until the bus service is up and running.

Luckily there were no pigeons in the bar that night, though this guy seems remarkably unfazed by his new head-gear. (image via AP)

I don’t remember what I ordered, but the orders of my co-workers are etched into my mind with a blow torch. Evidently Emily Post never made it down to the Big House to advise the inmates of proper table manners. It was a train wreck reenacted with breakfast foods. Watching one of my companions annihilate a Grand Slam in a manner that would have made farm pigs stand up and cheer was enough to push my alcohol burdened stomach over the edge. I made it as far as the front desk before projectile vomiting for the viewing pleasure of all the other drunks entering and exiting the restaurant. Check please.

Nicely done! Hey, that's not bacon, is it? (image via dreamstime)

The next morning I awoke in a nearby hotel room, my two egg-covered companions asleep in the other bed.  I spent some time lying there extremely still in a cloud of fajita cologne, so as not to disturb the other bed’s occupants or the speed metal band living in my skull while I reevaluated my extra curricular activities and life choices.  Sure I was fully clothed and hadn’t acquired any mysterious new tattoos but I wasn’t itching to pick up the phone and tell my Dad or anyone else about my evening either. In fact, climbing out the second story window seemed like a good alternative to walking by the front desk.

I decided that trying to keep pace with people whose partying experience far out-distanced my own was not good policy unless my life goal was to grace an episode of Cops. A lofty goal certainly, but not my own because watching the show isn’t as fun when you’re the sloppy, shirtless person being arrested on camera. But you know, sometimes you don’t realize that your life is a poorly aligned Toyota veering off track until the realization smacks you in the face like egg yolk on the goatee of a parolee. And sometimes that realization will make you hurl in a national food chain. Humiliating as that is, it’s a better alternative than not having the realization at all. Just ask any of the blurred faces in a Cops episode.

If only I had thrown up in a Denny's.

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Tacky Tuesday: House of Davids

If one replica of Michelangelo's David is good then 19 are even better! Throw in some Venus di Milos and gold lion heads for good measure, then frame it out with white wrought iron and you've got yourself a Los Angeles icon.

I used to drive by this house on a fairly regular basis before I got married. Admittedly, the first 20 times or so that I saw it in all of its excessive glory, its garishness seared my retinas. Repulsed yet fascinated, I imagined that inside Liberace played piano while Siegfried and Roy lounged out back by the pool petting their white tigers. I started to look forward to seeing the house, like a drunk friend who never acts right but always entertains. The sheer tasteless audacity of it wormed its way into my heart as a testament to all things gutsy enough to thumb their noses at good taste and let it all hang out.

Thus when I packed my kids into the car to take them on a field trip to witness this piece of true unabashed LA tackiness and we found it stripped down and looking like a normal house, I was a little heart-broken.  I’m sure the neighbors are relieved. The neighborhood is certainly more dignified. But sometimes dignified is a little boring.

And so on this Tuesday, I’d like to send a shout out to the House of Davids and all things that over shoot good taste. You might be tawdry, but you also make the world a more interesting place. Thank you.

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Welcome To Poo Corner

Warning: bodily functions will be discussed in this post. It’s about to get real, y’all.

My daughter had to pee in the tub today. Her younger brother had gotten to our sole toilet first and was monopolizing it like a one-person Occupy LA protest (the joys of a constipated preschooler) and rather than have my sweet girl wet her pants in the hallway, I had her utilize our bathtub, after which she was served breakfast in a nice warm bath for her trouble.  While in the tub she asked me if grown ups ever wet their pants. I told her that yes, even with years of urinating experience, accidents did sometimes happen to grown ups too. I further informed her that grown ups on rare occasions have even been known to poop their pants, at which point her eyes grew wide and her head exploded in disbelief.

My son learning how to monopolize a commode in the great tradition of Redican men. One day he'll add reading material.

Ah, the naiveté of youth.  Once upon a time I too didn’t believe in the intestinal fallibility of adults.  I, who refused even to relieve my bowels in a public restroom, who questioned natural childbirth not for the pain but for the possibility of also giving birth to something other than a baby in a semi-public forum, who had been known to make fantastical deals with God in exchange for helping me make it to my own private facility.

Dear God, if you help me not crap my pants I promise I'll join Up With People and tour the world, singing impossibly perky songs and spreading the word of Jesus. (image via Dreamstime)

I’d heard stories from those who had lost the battle of the bowel, to which I listened in wide-eyed wonder, laughing in sympathy. I never thought it would happen to me. Foolishly I thought I was immune.  I thought that my pants would never be sullied by the lowly contests of my intestinal tract. I was truly delusional, you see, because I’ve had an irritable bowel for as long as I can remember and when your colon has an anger management problem it’s only a matter of time before you become a statistic.  I was a ticking poo time bomb just waiting to happen.

And so it did. Evidently God had grown tired of my empty promises and desperate pleas. He saw the caller I.D. and let me roll to voice mail.  I’ll save you the gory details but I lost a good pair of jeans that night. May they rest in peace.

They were good to me and I broke their little denim heart. (image via Dreamstime)

Since I’ve joined the rank and file of the rank and vile I am amazed that there is anyone who has not felt the shame of crapping themselves.  Maybe you are a member of this fortunate group. Maybe you avoided the alcohol-induced black-out poo in college and never ate a questionable hot dog at an all day music festival with an insufficient supply of porta-potties.  Maybe you never drank the water and then boarded a rural bus in a far off land or experimented with laxatives in order to lose a dress size.  Maybe you’ve never been forced to address your lactose intolerance on a culinary tour through the cheese farms of rural Wisconsin or partook in the dubious Chinese take out during a working lunch at your overcrowded office. If you are one of these people, I salute you.  You should wear your achievement as a badge of honor: the Bulletproof Bowel Brigade.

I bet one of these girls ate some bad alfalfa sprouts. I hope she packed an extra peasant skirt. (image via dreamstime)

However, you should also know that the odds are stacked against you. Forces beyond your control are conspiring against you: E. coli, salmonella, intestinal disease, the panda flu (or whatever infectious animal we’re blaming this cold season). Even if you make it all the way into your twilight years without incident, age is the great equalizer, and chances are that you’ll lose your badge of honor along with the ability to eat a meal without part of it dripping down your chin.  And when that happens, you’ll know that you’re not alone. Unless of course your memory is so shot that you don’t even remember the names of your children, in which case it really doesn’t matter, does it? You can crap yourself without any shame whatsoever.

"Grampa" Simpson

Meanwhile, for those of you who have already shared in this particular dirty little life experience, the pressure is off. You don’t have to fear the unknown. You’ve already fallen short of the ideal and gained access to the secret society. To you I send a subtle “S’up?” head nod and anonymous cyber shout out.  My peeps.

 

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Wrappers Delight

I have no talent for wrapping presents. I’m worse than bad. I’m embarrassing. If wrapping presents were a professional sport I wouldn’t even be in the game. I’d be that ridiculous drunk guy in the stands, inexplicably shirtless and painted the team colors in sub-zero temperatures. Sure he’s dedicated but you’ll notice that no one publicly claims him as family. My wrapping is that disgraceful.

Let's wrap some presents!

The truly sad thing is that I spent years working retail during the holiday season. I was taught proper wrapping technique by professionals who rivaled Martha Stewart in wrapping skills. It just didn’t take. I buy cheap supplies, I’m impatient and I ignore everything I’ve been taught. I can see what I’m doing wrong but I’m powerless to stop myself. It’s an affliction.

My husband, who will not wrap out of principle, leaves the Christmas and birthday wrapping to me. He claims to be worse than I am, but there’s no proof to substantiate his claims. I think he just enjoys watching me struggle while he drinks a beer. I’m entertaining. Like a dancing bear, but with scissors.

I'm going to wrap these presents and then eat your head.

And you know who is left to suffer? The children. Two Christmases ago we had to tell the kids that Santa hired disabled elves to get a tax credit. Terrible, I know, but I didn’t want them to think that Santa just didn’t care enough to do his job properly. It would break their little idealistic hearts.

This year, determined to better my skills and assuage my guilt, I marched out and purchased some extra fancy metallic paper. I pictured our tree surrounded by beautiful shiny packages. In my mind it was very classy.

Behold the classiness of my imagination

In retrospect, the 99 Cent Store might not have been the best place for me to purchase class. Some things are 99 cents for a reason and it isn’t because they are too classy. More often than not the reason is that discerning shoppers wouldn’t pay full price for the product so they take it on over to the 99 Cent Store and wait for naive cheap skates like me to take it home. And along I came, fresh from reading my favorite design blogs(because lord knows I long to be stylish) and, filled with enthusiasm that I often mistake for skill, I loaded my cart with supplies that I truly believed in that moment I could use to make a beautiful Christmas. Sucker.

99 Cent Store supplies in skilled hands. Seriously check out http://www.almost40yearoldintern.com --she's the MacGyver of the design world.

When I took my supplies out on Christmas Eve to wrap the presents, I discovered that the under side of the 99 Cent Store paper was the color and texture of a heavy-duty paper bag–stiff and very hard for an unskilled wrapper like myself to work with. Moreover, the slick surface of the “metallic” side made scotch tape nearly useless. I used twice as much tape to make up for it. The finished product looked as though I’d taken the aluminum siding stripped off a trailer in a tornado and made a tomb for unwanted toys. Somewhere out there Martha Stewart threw up a little in her mouth. I stuck some bows on top in an effort to distract from the white trash effect and put the presents under the tree, hoping that in the excitement of Christmas morning it would all look better.

I say we unwrap ourselves tonight and beat her with the empty roll of wrapping paper.

Then in the middle of the night, despite being fastened with yards and yards of tape, the presents unwrapped themselves as if trying to flee the humiliation. Only instead of fleeing, they just lay there under the tree, wrapping paper flung open like tiny inanimate exotic dancers.

I'm working my way through college.

It was too late to fix the carnage. The kids had already seen the evidence of my dysfunction. I had to throw out some sort of explanation. So like generations of parents before me, when confronted with my own inability to uphold the magic and wonderment of a perfect childhood for my children, I reached back into my desperate brain and grabbed the first plausible excuse I could come up with.

The elves were drunk.

Woohoo! Get out the mistletoe!

Hey, I was tired and under a lot of pressure. Don’t judge me. By the way, if my kids come knocking on your door collecting money for the Elven Rehab, just go with it. I’ll put the money toward their therapy later.

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Can’t Keep a Good Bean Down

image via NBCLA. If you need caffeine this badly you shouldn't even dress yourself without heavy assistance.

A little over two weeks ago someone drove through the window of this Starbucks near my son’s preschool. Luckily no one was seriously injured. This is especially good news for me because one of my son’s preschool teachers was inside at the time and if anything happened to her I’d have to cut a beyotch. Don’t mess with my son’s education or his teachers’ caffeine consumption. (They need it to cope when he refuses to clean up, stages an impressive emotional meltdown and then pees on the rug–they love my boy, they do.)

By the time I had heard of the incident and had the wherewithal to snoop investigate, the store was as good as new, which is truly remarkable when you consider how long it takes just to have cable installed. How is this possible, you ask? I’ll tell you.

You see, Starbucks in its dark roasted wisdom, recognizes that caffeine greases the wheels of modern civilization. Without it, production and civility (and essential driving skills) grind to a halt. Starbucks cares too much to let this happen.  Now maybe they pumped a team of experts full of French Roast or maybe they used tweaker fairies–the details are fuzzy, but my point is that they did whatever was needed to patch up this here indoor parking lot in record time, so they could go back to doing what they do best: making the world a better place one Venti beverage at a time.

God bless you, Starbucks. I’ll take my green tea lightly sweetened on the hood of a Toyota Camry.

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Life Lessons from Legoland

What I learned from our latest family fun trip:

  • Do not feed your child and then let them watch a DVD in a hot car if you’re planning on driving like a New York cabbie in rush hour unless you enjoy stripping your child and the contents of your backseat on the streets of LA like a DEA agent with a van full of Colombian drug lords.
  • If you’re going to have someone vomit on you, regurgitated pretzels are the least offensive food item to wear around for a day. In fact, if you forget a sealed bag of clothing coated with regurgitated pretzels in your trunk for a week in the sun, it’s still going to smell mostly like wet pretzels.
  • Children today enjoy long car rides even less than we did when we were rugrats–a bi-product of higher expectations and lower parental fear. So if you lose the ability to lull them into a movie coma (maybe because your youngest keeps trying to coat the DVD player with his stomach contents), expect to spend at least 15 minutes of “no, we’re not there yet, but look at that interesting landmark/car/person/dead animal and tell me which profession/fairy/super hero/Monster high girl you would be” diversionary talk for every two minutes of adult conversation or quiet time, during which you will wax nostalgic about the old days when you could travel with cocktails and a tranquilizer gun.
  • If your child locks themselves in a bathroom stall with a floor to ceiling door, you’re going to spend some quality time in a public restroom, unless you have experience in hostage negotiation and lock picking. At the very least you should always travel with the tools needed to dismantle a bathroom stall and your own personal maintenance man.
  • Husbands and preschoolers need to be fed in 15 minute intervals to prevent grumpiness. Pack your pockets with cereal bars and pizzas. If you can fit a beer in there, even better. However, seven-year old girls require only chocolate and a cute outfit for optimal happiness.
  • If you take a competitive athlete on an amusement park ride with any sort of physical challenge, they may get overly excited, forget they’re in an amusement park and irritate less competitive participants (i.e. the portly, asthmatic gentleman and his sullen grandchild next to you.) However the look of unadulterated joy on your husband’s competitive athlete’s face will be worth it.
  • When using a human shield, one should select a human larger than half your size and not prone to hunching over in fits of giggles.  A shield crumpled at your knees will not prevent your cable-knit sweater from absorbing gallons of stagnant log-ride water.  On a related note, a wet cable-knit sweater will not help prevent hypothermia on a February evening in Carlsbad.
  • Fight the compulsion to finish your child’s dinner and neon-colored dessert unless you enjoy burping up the taste of artificial banana flavored hot dogs for the rest of the night. It is even less delicious than it sounds.
  • Driving through East LA on a Friday night is not a good idea unless you’ve lost the will to live. You will be the only sober driver in your own personal game of Frogger. If you’ve ever seen a two-year old play Grand Theft Auto, then you have a pretty good idea of what to expect from your fellow highway occupants.

[Personal Disclaimer: I don’t personally recommend letting a two-year old play Grand Theft Auto. My children are not permitted to steal cars until they are old enough to vote and do the appropriate jail time.]

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English: Feral cat showing fear, and lack of s...

Traveling with children is like trying to rescue a feral cat in the fast lane of a freeway filled with semi trucks–chances are there will be carnage. At the very least, your outfit is not coming out in one piece. On the other hand, if you survive the ordeal, you’ll laugh about it later over beer and pain reliever. You might even look back on the harrowing event with fondness.

Traveling with Children

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The Way of the Gun

My husband is a ball of personality with a badge and gun—-Mel Gibson circa Lethal Weapon with New England vernacular. To quote Spinal Tap, his amp goes to 11. If he were an accountant he would do taxes while strapped to a bungee cord over train tracks scattered with broken glass. That’s just how he rolls. Living with him is never boring. It does at times require a safety helmet, but it is never boring.

Lethal Weapon

My husband--minus the mullet and antisemitism

As an officer of the law and self proclaimed magnet of the fecal variety, my husband is never without his weapon in close proximity. It is our constant companion, accompanying us on errands and date nights, to the beach and the store, to the loo and to the dinner table (but not without washing its hands first). If I could teach it how to babysit I just might.

(Author’s Note: I wouldn’t actually leave my children under the care of a gun. That would be irresponsible. Without opposable thumbs, how would it ever open my son’s applesauce squeezer?)

The babysitter shot my applesauce.

One of my cherished family memories occurred at the beginning of my marriage when I was first discovering the wide world of manic crafting. During that period of time I terrorized our apartment with my own gun and though only filled with hot glue, my gun was no less menacing to the innocent surfaces within my home. I had more blisters on my fingers than a back alley basehead and if something didn’t possess enough innate self preservation to move out of my way, I feverishly coated it with molten adhesive.

At the height of my craze I glued some marbles to a picture frame—a rookie mistake. A marble is really too heavy and a picture frame too smooth for the two to stay together permanently with just hot glue, but what did I know? I was young and in love and armed with stickum.

One night while laying in bed with my new husband, just relaxing into sleep I heard one of those marbles release from the frame and bounce across our dining area floor.  I was just formulating the thought, ah there goes one of the marbles when my husband leapt nude, but armed with his service weapon, over my head.

I could have at that point shared the fact that the noise was only a wayward marble but I was stunned by the sheer speed and commitment of my husband’s response and also the horror of being nearly bludgeoned by his testicles.  And if we’re being really honest here, maybe I also kept the knowledge to myself because watching a naked man clear each room like a one man Play Girl SWAT team is amusing enough not to want to stop the show.  And he did clear each room just like they do on television, including outside the front door of our apartment (still nude, mind you), pivoting into each entrance with gun poised to fire at any immediate threat.  He did all this while I sat in our bed, weighing the merits of full disclosure versus personal amusement.

I was just accosted by a man with a gun and testicles!

Finally my watch dog husband returned to the bed, and presented the tiny round rabble-rouser for my inspection. I thanked him and took the perpetrating marble into custody with as much solemnity as I could muster.

Ten years later my husband still springs into action in the middle of the night, though now wearing sensible pajamas.  It’s not unusual for him to leap out of bed, peer out the blinds of our bedroom window, grab his gun and exit the room.  At this point, I don’t even bother asking what inspired his call to arms until his return and sometimes, if I’m especially tired I will let myself fall asleep and wait to be debriefed in the morning.

If there is a potential threat within several miles he will hear it.  If someone racks a round two towns over my husband and his gun will be ready.  If raccoons infiltrate our yard or the neighbor comes in at an odd hour, he is alert.

Raccoons at Snug Harbour, Georgian Bay, Ontari...

We've come for your women

One day this late night vigilance will pay off. Our daughter will eventually be a teenager and it is quite possible that my husband will have the opportunity to confront a horny teenage boy and make the poor kid wet his pants. And once again I will be there to diligently record it into my collection of treasured family memories.

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Big Noggin Bloggin

I have a large head.  I do.  Hats fear me.  Hairdressers shudder and check their schedules when I approach.  I require an excessive amount of shampoo.

My husband tells me it’s because I have a big brain, which I like to think is true. I like to imagine that if I put my mind to it and utilized the gray matter that is currently just taking up skull space, I could move objects and control minds.

You are powerless before my behemoth brain! Now quick, somebody go get me a beer.

My father, the third person to realize that I was cranially endowed (after my poor suffering mother and the doctor who delivered me), affectionately called me Fathead. He used this nickname often in times of irritation when it was kinder to use a somewhat derogatory term of endearment than say, “you clueless fruit of my loins, I’d really like to return you for a full refund.”  Perhaps it is his influence that inspired my fondness for unusual and less-than-sentimental nicknames like Agro and Knuckle-dragger. But of all these tender monikers, Fathead remains my favorite.

Fathead Baby

Fathead makes a friend. Note the superior neck strength required to lift that impressive dome.

A Clown.

As usual, the acceptance of truth is a double edged sword. It is at once liberating and a burden. With a sadness borne of unattainable dreams, I’ve finally given up finding the perfect pixie cut or headband. Furthermore I now live in fear that an ill-timed breeze will blow my bangs back and inspire astronauts to use my cranium for a lunar landing.

Astronaut Buzz Aldrin, lunar module pilot of t...

Uh Huston, we have a hair line back here.

On the upside, the promise of genius and super powers is exciting. I look forward to creating a cure for cancer and a painless bikini wax. And in the meantime, I’ll find comfort in my own untapped superior intellect while I try to crack open a beer with my mind.