Saying that you like country music in Los Angeles is like saying you like to piss in holy water at the Vatican. As soon as those two words are mentioned people start to form a whole new opinion about you. Things like: You lived on a farm, you’ve tipped a cow, you rode a tractor to school, your favorite beer is Natural Ice and you dated your cousin. None of these apply to me at all, or else I doubt I would be living in Los Angeles people (although I have drank Natty Ice numerous times and my Dad’s family farms).
What is it that is so offensive about this type of music? Is it so strange that I can listen to She & Him and also listen to Miranda Lambert? You know what IS offensive? The lack of country bars in this town! Where does one need to go in order to do a little line dancing ya’ll? Apparently an hour away. On the ride there, you and your friends will be talking about all the cowboys you will meet and dance with to some George Straight like it was fucking Hope Floats. But you know what the reality is? You will end up getting smashed off of Bud Light, sitting all night because only people who KNOW how to line dance are allowed on the floor, making out with someone missing a few teeth and then start crying at Denny’s about how hopeless your life is. Or at least that’s what I’m told happens…
This post is specifically to show that some people just do not think before they speak, or maybe they do and are just a bunch of bitches. Three years ago I was chillin’ with friends at the Red Lion in Silverlake, drinking some beers and eating some fish and chips. A girl walks up to our table and asks that question that everyone loves:
Hipster girl – “Do you know who you look like?”
Attention! This is a loaded question. You don’t want to be that asshole who answers this question, but you don’t want to have to fake a thank you when you have already heard their answer before. I played dumb.
Me – “Who?”
Hipster Girl – “Barbra Streisand!”
Now…I have been told I look like many people, but never in my life has that person been Barbra Streisand. Really? Barbra fucking Streisand? I couldn’t even get a YOUNG Barbra, not even a Barbra in Funny Girl? Nothing makes you feel better than being told you look like a 68 year old who has a huge nose which in turn gave me complex about my nose…one that I never had! Who the hell says that anyway? I don’t know, maybe it’s a hipster thing to tell people their doppelganger is someone they would least expect ever.
I have learned a few things from this experience. First, if this question arises be prepared for a retaliation doppelganger. Some good ones include Tim Curry, Liza Minneli, Aretha Franklin and Steve Buscemi to name a few. Second, I need to track this bitch down and give her all my therapist bills to pay…she caused this complex! Third, this needs to be included in my online dating profile. Just think of all the interesting men I would get to go on dates with?
Yes, this is an actual GoogleMaps screen shot of my old Upper East Side apartment in New York City. Circled in red, you can see my apartment “balcony” (in NYC, we consider fire escape platforms to be our balconies) and circled in yellow, you will see the drop that “N” had to make after getting trapped INSIDE my apartment building. It’s at least a 10 foot drop.
N and I had a little flirtation going and after a night out with a big group of us, he did the gentlemanly thing and walked me home. We got into the foyer and I figured he’d go in for a kiss…he didn’t. (As a side note, after a few more “dates,” N turned out to be a serious bitch.) N hugged me and walked out. REALLY? I had already begun walking up the stairs when I heard “uhhh, JSssb? Can you come down here?” I walked down to see N pushing into the door to my building. “Did you break it?” I asked him. “Uh, no. It just…won’t open. Does this happen a lot?” NO, you asshole. Doors usually open.
We attempted going outside to the “back patio” to find a 25 foot wall that there’s no way in hell he was about to scale. “What about your fire escape?” he asked. Seriously? I told N that he could stay over on my couch but N worked as a trader for the now defunct Bear Stearns (ha!) and had to be at work, in a FULL SUIT, at 7:30am every morning. It was already 3am at this point. “I’m just gonna go down the fire escape…no big deal.”
I couldn’t stop laughing as I watched his ginger head climb farther and farther down the fire escape ladder…it’s like he couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He got to the bottom rung which, like I said, was at least 10 feet off the ground, and kind of hung there for a minute. “N, are you gonna make the jump?!” I yelled down. “yeah, I’m good,” he quipped back quickly and quietly. Now, if you’ve ever seen a New York City fire escape, you know that they make them so that they DON’T hit the ground because, duh, then people could climb UP THEM and break into your apartment. This is why they are for EMERGENCIES ONLY. You won’t care if you sprain your ankle if your apartment is ON FIRE!
A few seconds later he fell into a dirt flower bed, kind of sat there for a minute, got up, and began limping down 95th street towards 3rd avenue.
I got to work at 9am and, as I told my co-workers the story, couldn’t believe what a man would do to avoid being trapped in a building with me.
Sometimes I get emo at night. Add in a few glasses of wine and I often start roaming around the internet; I order clothing I can’t afford, furniture I don’t really need, a Rosetta Stone I never use, etc. However, the other night…I went to a new extreme: I took an online test to see if I’d be a good cop.
THIS TEST to be exact. Which, after taking another (100% sober) look, appears to really be a test to see if I should major in criminal justice, a la those amazingly awkward TV commercials. The results were good, guys…I mean apparently I would be a good police officer, which actually makes total sense. I like the law, right? I mean, I’ve never been arrested. Hell, I only got one ticket ever and it was for making an “improper left turn” when I was 18 years old. I speak English fluently, most of the time. I’m in fairly decent shape. I’m part Irish (oh wait, that may only be an NYPD thing). Imagine if I ended up marrying another cop and we had a little cop family? I might do it just for the pension…
HIRE ME NOW. I already own illegal pepper spray.
Here are my exact results (I got an 8, FYI):
Scores 7 – 12
You did quite well. What will you do next, perhaps a ride-along? If you have a college degree and a clean record you may qualify for a challenging new career. You may want to learn a little more about the wonderful world of law enforcement before you begin taking shooting lessons.
Quoting movies can be a good or bad thing depending on how knowledgeable the surrounding people are of said movie. I have a quote for basically anything here at work, no matter what someone says and it usually is from a Will Ferrell movie. You mention baby jesus? I give you a Talladega Nights quote. You mention Bed, Bath and Beyond? I give you a little Old School. Usually it’s funny to me, but hardly anyone knows what I’m talking about which means I have to explain it making it NOT funny.
This excessive quoting comes out even more when I am nervous so you can imagine what I act like on a date or in a setting with lots of attractive men. I embarrass the shit out of myself. One day at the office I was walking into the mailroom right when male coworker #1 asked male coworker #2 what was in the box. NOW, myself having no filter proceeds to reenact, in my best Brad Pitt, the ending scene from Seven. They did not get it. There’s nothing more embarrassing than yelling “What’s in the box??!” to two men who have no clue what you are talking about. At that point you either have to pretend you are on drugs or just turn and walk away like nothing happened.
But the question is, would I want to date someone who doesn’t know what I’m talking about? I’m not sure but if you can’t tell me that “Milk was a bad choice!” came from Anchorman….than I will have to say good day sir!
Photo 1: To start, let me first mention the fact that I live down a private hallway in my apartment building so this “Marcus” would’ve had to actually go OUT of his way to take off/lose his belt. Now that’s out of the way, let’s discuss whether or not we think this “black belt” is a real belt or like some kind of karate belt that he earned by chopping a piece of wood in half with his head. I just cannot. DHssb finds this photo hilarious but, spoken like the true sicko that I am, I can’t help but wonder…is Marcus hot?
Photo 2: It was a gorgeous Sunday morning (ok, afternoon) when I went down to my parking garage and found this business card on my car windshield. I was immediately filled with anger,because I’m me, so I called the 818 number right away- fucking valley! They WOULD. No answer, obviously. I left a voicemail. “Hey Greg, it’s JSssb, um…I think you left your business card with a note to go fuck myself on my windshield? Yeah…I was just wondering exactly WHY you’d like me to go fuck myself. Either way, YOU can go fuck YOURSELF. Have a LOVELY DAY!”
By now I’m sure you have come to realize that I am basically the female version of BIG. Ever since I was young, my brother and I have always been obsessed with dinosaurs and have yet to grow out of it. It’s really hard to explain to someone at the office why you have glow-in-the-dark T-Rex’s in your cubicle, especially once they find out that you DON’T have any children. It gets a little awkward at that point.
I have to admit that 2 years ago my birthday theme at the bar was Jurassic Park. Now, you may be thinking “Wow, D you had a Jurassic Park themed party AT the bar IN LOS ANGELES?” Hell yes I did and everyone who came had an amazing time. My one friend even dressed up as a raptor for christ’s sake and the bartender played the theme song on his iPod. If a J.P. party doesn’t get you laid, I don’t know what will at this point. 2 weeks later I met a guy in town from NYC at the bar and we were talking about his upcoming birthday plans. I am NOT shitting you, he was having a Jurassic Park party. What. The. Eff. I met my soulmate and then I let him slip away into the night. No number, no nothing. I should have google stalked HIM and shown up to his party dressed as a sex-i-saurus so we could start our weird fetish life together! Maybe one day I will find the Ross to my Rachel.