Tenth Musee

Last night, I met up with danielphillip and richardallen for our standing Monday night happy hour at Mo’s.  (I’ll have to do another whole post on what happened last night.) We usually roll in around 6:30 and we always sit in a center, tall table in the middle of the patio, closest to the bar.  We like to be in the middle of things, to meet new people, to mingle — because we’re fabulous like that — but still be able to sit down and get table service from Marisol, the best server on planet Earth.

Anyway, last week someone was at our table. We don’t officially reserve it, it’s just kinda of understood that’s “our” table. You can’t sit there unless you’re ordering food, so the usual happy hour crowd usually mills around it. And Marisol and the host always kind of keep an eye out, knowing we would be in.  But there was a new hostess and Marisol was busy, so someone was seated there.  Whatever. It was a bummer, but we rolled with it and sat in another area, where we could observe the patio action, if not actually in it.

There were three women at “our” table, all dressed in that special way that says, “This is my first time in the States.”  One, who I’ll call Helga, was wearing a Body Glove wetsuit-style t-shirt circa 1990 with a mini skirt and Teva sandals. The other, who I’ll call Gunda, wore a black hoodie covered in hot pink metallic lip prints. (The third I couldn’t see because she was in my usual seat, behind a pillar/bush.)

This was amusing in itself, but then it got more interesting. A fourth woman joined them, this one wearing a neck to floor prairie-style dress (in 80 degree weather) with a frumpy shawl. It didn’t look like religious wear, it just looked… frau-ish. They were drinking big pitchers of Stella Artois (as told to me by Marisol) and complained about the price — saying they’re only 3 euros in Germany and why are they so expensive here?  Ladies, 3 euros in American dollars is like $4.  That’s just not happening here — not for steins the size of your thigh — come on!

Then they pulled out a few paperbacks and proceeded to have a book club meeting — in the middle of a loud, hoppin’, gay patio happy hour.  That’s fine, I guess — unorthodox, but then so is that hoodie.

I’m not sure why the next thing happened and I don’t entirely understand HOW I missed the opportunity to take a photo of it, but Gunda reached into her bag and pulled out a huge 32 oz tub of yogurt and set it on the table.  Then she rummaged around again and brought out a mammoth, chef-style, Julia Child, no-fucking-around block of butter. Big. Huge. Enormous butter.  She set it on top of her yogurt and they continued talking.

What book were these women reading?  Who brings their own dairy to a bar? Vegans, maybe, but this wasn’t even vegan dairy. This was dairy dairy. Lactose dairy. Full-fat dairy. This dairy was probably milked by Helga in her Tevas. How did I not get a picture of the B.Y.O. Yogurt?!

But I did get a picture of this guy, who the week prior chased me down in the adjacent alley asking me for mints (I tossed some Tic Tacs at him and clutched my purse like an old lady).  This time he spotted me in the open door of Mo’s and proceeded to do a little dance for me to the super diva house music that’s always coming from there.  I was blessed with not only the Cabbage Patch and the Running Man, but his own “humpty dance” rendition, some air smooches and a little tongue wagging.  My heart be still.

This is what a night out with me is like, people. Any takers?

(Please forgive my crappy German. You can thank Babelfish for that.)

My funny friend, Allison, asked her friend, who actually speaks German, and this is what he said:

ihren eigenen?! thats grammatically incorrect
If you said ” Bring deinen eigenen Jogurt mit” that would mean you’re asking people to bring yogurt that they’ve physically made themselves.
It doesnt make sense. It also sounds weird and rude. The people would be like “what?!? I have to make my own yogurt??!?”
“Bring Jogurt mit” works the best in this context.

And now, kind readers, you know how to rudely and non-rudely tell people to B.Y.O.Y.

Now with photos and embarrassing video! Alright, so it’s not as exciting as all that, but we did have a really good time.

I left San Diego Wednesday at noon on Jet Blue, who despite the bird-flipping, slide-exiting, job-quitting flight attendant’s recent escapades, is a pretty awesome airline. The seats were roomy, I could stretch out my legs completely in front of me, there was free DirecTV (so I timed my entire trip by how many 30 minute Food Network shows I watched) and the snacks were tasty items like Terra Chips instead of crappy peanuts. And the pilot got us there almost 40 minutes before he said he would, so that was nice.

I took a cab into Manhattan from the airport and proceeded to spastically tweet about how to tip the cabbie. I’m an overtipper and standard tipping here is 20% for like, everything, it seems like, so with a $50 cab ride, I was concerned about giving too much. Of course, despite the encouraging 10% recommendations from Twitter, I still overtipped.

We decided to escape the hub-bub of Blogher, we’d stay elsewhere… so we booked ourselves at Empire Hotel. We found out after we made our reservations that it’s Chuck Bass’ hotel in Gossip Girl, which was pretty funny. While the staff and management at Empire were really lovely, the place was a total Monet. It’s much better on TV.  It looks beautiful from a distance, but when you get up close, it’s much shabbier than the marketing implies. We knew it was a vintage building that had been renovated, but how long ago? There was water damage on the walls, the chairs were pretty worn, our rooms had cobwebs in the corners and the beds… oh my god, the beds. It was like sleeping in a mausoleum — hard, hard mattresses.  HARD.  We both were in pain by the end of the trip.

Oh, also? Apparently, the rooftop deck bar is the hot place to be on a Thursday night. There were lines of short skirts around the block to get upstairs.  If they offer you the 11th floor, despite the spectacular views of Lincoln Center, don’t take it. You’ll hear remixes of Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam and hooker heels on your ceiling until 3:30am (and heat rises, so the hallways were constantly like, Africa Hot, while our rooms were Meat Locker Cold).  Given that we had to be up at 8am for the conference, we sweetly called down to management — I swear! I even made him laugh — and they moved our luggage to the old people’s floor for us the next day and knocked $75 off our bill for two nights. Like I said, great management, mediocre rooms, granite mattresses.  It does have a lovely lobby bar, though.  We called it our Brokedown Palace. With lube.

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So, I have this neighbor –  he’s an older man, probably in his late 60′s, maybe even 70′s.  I sometimes run into him on the stairwell or in the parking lot, bringing in our groceries or whatever.

He’s always been super friendly. My front door is right at the top of the stairwell, so I often see him walk by through my ‘ice cube glass’ windows near my desk.  When I moved in, he complimented me on the happiness my yellow hibiscus brought him when it bloomed.  And I thought how nice it was that someone even noticed besides me.  He looked like a nice old man, what I envision a “grandpa” to be.

Cut to a week or so later, when I’m tempted into downloading a Sex Offender Locator app for my iPhone. You can see where this is going.  Grandpa indeed.

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Last May, I moved into a new apartment complex.  It’s kinda schmancy and overall, I have very little to complain about except perhaps the rent price and the dude downstairs who has a penchant for action movies and a deep, personal relationship with his surround sound.  And maybe the Tacky Water People.  And the Friendly Pedophile.  But I digress.

When I moved in, I was given one covered parking space on the end, very close to my stairs. Score! To my right is parked a white Miata, circa 1992 or so. It’s in 1992 condition… not bad, but certainly not cherry.

The day after I moved in, while I was unloading things from my (2009) Matrix, a man in a pith helmet with the mullet flaps on the back sidles up to me with this hands clasped behind his back, like he was ice skating in a Rockwell painting.

“So you just moved in, huh?” he says.

“Yes, just yesterday,” I replied.

And then, with a weird knowing grin and the tone of someone hosting a children’s storytime, he said, “Ok, well, don’t you go dinging my car now.”  (wink) “I keep a close eye on my baby,” gesturing to the Miata.

I laughed politely and ribbed him a bit back, assuming he was just trying to be cute. “It’s a deal. Wouldn’t want to mar such a classic!”  Then I wished him a good day and off I went up the stairs.

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Happy New Year to anyone still reading this thing.  *poke* Are you still there?

Like many other non-practicing bloggers, I figured I’d blow the dust off and see if I can post more often this year. I live such an exciting life of bunny-petting and pajama-wearing that I’ve not felt I had anything post-worthy for a while that wasn’t work-related, but there are enough changes coming in 2010 that I might as well bring back the blog.  Twitter is awesome, but viva blogging!

I do like this design, but I could do with a new look around here… it’s time.  Something a little cheerier, don’t you agree?  I’m taking the Muse back to Expression Engine, as well. It turns out WordPress was just a fling for me — thrilling at first, but ultimately mediocre.  So thanks for the interminable upgrades and incompatible plugins, WordPress, but you never forget your first love.

I was reading through my archives over the holiday break. It’s bizarre how different I sound 7 years ago when I first started this blog.  I don’t even know what I was complaining about most of the time.  In hindsight the majority of it is so… cranky.  Funny, sure… but certainly, a collection of unwarranted gripery in the grand scheme of things.

I lost about a year or so of posts during one of my many domain name changes. I’m not sure what possessed me to change my domain name not once, but twice over the last 7 years — boredom I suspect, a desire to reignite the blog spark — but I don’t recommend it. I still have the database those posts live in, I’m just not sure how to get the content out… maybe someday I’ll figure it out.

But of the posts I do have, my favorites are the ones about the various encounters with people I’ve had.  I meet weird people — I can’t help it. I’m one of those people who weirdos gravitate to and I somehow can’t help but engage them myself.  It’s just part of who I am… and I’ve accepted it because it makes excellent blog fodder.

So, here are some of my favorites for your reading enjoyment:

• Love Me Tender
• Fiddy Wouldn’t Front (I think this is Daniel‘s favorite)
• Debbie Diapers and the Amazing Technology Craptactular
• Burgess Fisherman and the Discount Diaper Cream
• Like They Do on the Discovery Channel

If you like those, you can find more under the Characters tag.

Happy 2010!

There’s a barista at the Starbucks I go to that is one of those people that you feel like you know from somewhere, but can’t put your finger on it and they always look at you knowingly, expectantly, like any minute you’ll remember who they are.  But I never do.

She’s… unusual, I guess, is the best way to say it. Very friendly, but definitely an odd duck.  She seems somewhat goofy when I talk to her, like I make her nervous. She seems to try really hard to be funny or clever and she often is a bit ‘familiar’ with me, which is why I always wonder if maybe I know her from somewhere.

For example, the first time I ordered from her went a little something like this…

Her: May I help you?

Me: Yes, I need a quad Venti extra hot soy cinnamon dolce latte, light whip, no foam, please.

Her: Do you need it or do you want it?

Me: *blink blink* I’m sorry, what? Oh… (insert courtesy laugh here) Sorry, I would like…

I laughed it off and dismissed it as an employee building rapport with their customer. Fine, fine. But then she did it two more times when I came in.  I finally started skipping the pretense altogether and just saying the drink order so I don’t have to do that dance again.

She makes me a little nervous, to be honest, because of these weird exchanges, so I just smile and laugh and try to be friendly.  She asked me point blank once, “Why are you laughing?”, while laughing herself then her eyes would look all around like a googly-eyed bobble head with a big grin.  Now she’s taken to calling me “Giggles”. Giggles. And the other baristas have started writing it on my cup.

It’s gotten to the point now that I groan a bit inside when walk in and see her at the register. It makes me feel bad because I’m sure she’s a perfectly nice girl and she’s just trying to be friendly, but it makes me… uncomfortable, I guess.  It doesn’t feel flirtatious, it feels insecure, like maybe she’s shy and overcompensating. You know in movies where the nerd talks to the cool kid and says completely dorky things that sound cool in their head, but come out like they ate paint chips as a kid?  That’s usually me. I was always the nerd (at least in my own head), but this time, it’s like I’m the cheerleader or the football jock or whatever and she’s about to ask me to homecoming.

I hope she doesn’t read this blog, though it’s entirely possible.  I ran into a girl I’d only seen on Flickr at Bath & Body Works once.  And a girl at the grocery store asked me if I was Tenth Muse a few years back. So, its totally possible and I really wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.

It’s so odd. I’d be flattered if it didn’t make me feel like she might boil my bunny.

Sunday morning I went to Target.  That’s my usual Sunday morning destination. I like to get in there before it gets busy, when it’s still quiet and the shelves are full.  It’s kind of like church, staring at rows upon rows of Glade CandleScents or fabric softener or whatever.  This Sunday it was shampoo that had me enraptured. I was trying to decide between color-protection and curl-care when I was approached by a very tall, imposing, but non-threatening, Pacific-Islander looking guy with a wiley quasi-fro and a newspaper open in front of him.

“Excuse me”, he said, “Have you found Jesus?”

I said, smiling, “I wasn’t aware he was missing. Did you check with customer service?”

He kind of furrowed his brow for a sec, then his face burst into this huge grin and he said, “You know, that’s the best ‘no’ I’ve heard all day. Hey, do you know what time the Eagles game starts?” He didn’t miss a beat.

“I’m not a sports fan, really” I said, as I started to inch down the aisle in that “yeah, great, it’s been real, best of luck to you” kind of way.

And he replies, “That’s what Sundays are made for!” and walked off.

I never did figure out why he had the newspaper open in front of him. I’m guessing it was the sports section, I just didn’t want to look.

Last night, my friend mikey came over to watch Project Runway with me and we ran out to grab some takeout before it started. We stopped at Rite Aid to pick up some beverages and Rocky Road before heading back to watch Heidi Klum walk around being gorgeous.

The line at this Rite Aid is always slow and for some reason, people always form one big line instead of lining up at each register (there are eight registers), then the next checker that is available takes the next customer.  Well, last night, there was an Asian dude in front of us holding two bottles of wine, a crotchety guy in a yellow shirt holding a box of Tucks or something, this Isaac Hayes (R.I.P.)-type guy (who we saw tip his hat at someone earlier — I love that), and then 3 registers with customers already being helped.

One cashier finished and called out, “I’ll take the next person!” and Crotchety Yellow Shirt and his hemorrhoid pads tried to dash out behind Isaac Hayes Guy, but Isaac Hayes Guy was no fool and he cut Crotchety off, taking his rightful place at the counter.  Crotchety grumbled and griped, but shuffled back into line, ahead of the Asian Wine Drinker.  While this was going on, a strapping middle-aged, tank-top wearing homosexual (not that his sexuality is relevant, but it paints a picture and I happened to be in the gayborhood) with a cart full of ammonia bottles and paper towels pulls up in line behind us.

Asian Wine Drinker keeps looking around the store, turning around and looking past us, past Ammonia Mo, all over the place. But before I could ponder what he was looking for, Isaac Hayes Guy was finishing his transaction.

This is where I kind of lost my cool.

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When I pulled into the drive-thru Starbucks this morning, it looked like gridlock on the 405, so I parked next door and decided to walk in.  On my way past the front door, I was greeted by an extremely fragrant hobo and his hobo wife, Nadine. I only her name is Nadine because she put out her foot when I approached and said through the handful of rotten teef she had left (and I do mean teef), “I’m Nay-DEEN and nobody done passes Nay-DEEN without good mornins.” Her accent is probably charming… for the lead singer of a jug band, but I could barely understand her.

So, I went around her, but said good morning anyway. Eau du Hobo stood up as I reached for the door, staring me in the eye while rummaging in a bucket.  I got a little worried for a split second, but then he produced a half-eaten roll of Mentos that looked like it had been run over by a car a few times.

“Look at you!  You are a Golden Goddess of Venutia!” as he waved the Mentos around.  “You are a vision, a Venutia vision!  Look at her, NAY-deen!  She’s a Venutian and I’m just a big ugly alien!  Aren’t I, NAY-deen? From Maaaaarrrrrrrrs!”

Insert big stinky hobo grin here.  Then he offered me a Mentos.

I smiled… I couldn’t help it!  I declined, of course, but I smiled. I mean, come on!  An employee came outside on the tail end of that exchange to tell Smelly and Nadine to move it along because their cart was blocking the doorway and as I followed her back inside to get in line, she turned around and said, “Nothing like an ego boost first thing in the morning, huh?” with a wink.

By the time I got back outside, Stinkpot and Nadine were gone.  My coffee this morning was awful — they must have poured me the dregs of the pot, but the trip was worth it for the hobos alone. I just wish I’d given them my $2.25.

GFI and I have acquired a new regular at Casa Cocktail (that’s my building — I just decided it needed a name for reference purposes).  Well, we haven’t — Slick has.  He’s got a new girlfriend.  This while the seat on his old girlfriend’s bike that lives on the landing is still warm. But whatever, I’m not here to judge him on his relationship decisions.  I’m here to mock his new girlfriend. Duh.

Let me give you a basic schematic of our building.  If you’re looking at it from the front, I’m on the bottom right, GFI’s on top of me, Slick is to her left and downstairs from him, Nurse New York.  So, we share walls, specifically that one main wall and ceiling/floor where all of our apartments connect.  On our side of the wall, GFI and I have our bathrooms. On the other side?  Slick and NNY have their respective bedrooms.  You can see where this is going.  Oh yeah.

Now, we never hear a peep from NNY. Once in a while I’ll hear her on the phone in her room, but usually she’s off being busy and nursey. However, Slick and his new girlfriend get downright National Geographic up in here!  National. Geographic.  It’s insane.  GFI and I have dubbed her Project X because when she and Slick go at it, it sounds like caged chimps.  Forty caged chimps.

One night on the terrace, GFI tells me that she had to brush her teeth in the kitchen because the thought that a mere 2-foot wall and a medicine cabinet was all that separated her from Slick’s grunting body was just too much to bear.  Then, the next night, I could hear them going at it from the living room.  When I went into the bathroom, it was like they were humping at the Hollywood Bowl it was so loud. 

[insert chimp screams here]

I think last week, mikey came by and he came out of the bathroom saying, “Dude. You can hear your neighbor and his girlfriend going at it.” Oh yes, I’m aware.  They seem to have no concept of time, which is fine. It’s monkeys in the morning, monkeys in the night, monkeys in the afternoon.  (And yes, I know chimps aren’t monkeys.) Hey, I’m all for sex at any time of day. Spontaneity is fabulous… don’t get me wrong, but I try to keep in mind that perhaps the entire neighborhood doesn’t want to hear the result of “my O face”, as it were. And from what I understand, I also don’t sound like a B-grade Matthew Broderick movie.

It really doesn’t bother me all that much… I think it’s pretty funny, actually. Especially now that we have a good name for her. It makes it all that much more entertaining, but I know it’s bugging GFI. Their monkey love woke her from a dead sleep the other night… that’s no good.  So I think next time we’re all out on the terrace, I’m going to warmly rib him about this new girlfriend and suggest that he move his bed to the opposite wall.  Hint, hint. Nudge. Nudge.

Now, props to Slick. He’s either really good (which is just not something I wish to consider) or she’s been watching too much porn and needs to refine her faking technique, but either way, let a girl wash her face in peace, would ya?  Sheesh!