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Showing posts with label Funny. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Funny. Show all posts
01 April 2011
28 March 2011
23 July 2010
When Workouts Don't Really Work Out For Ya
Yeah so this working out thing ain't so fun sometimes. And while it may not be fun, working out can sometimes be funny. Disagree? Allow me to tell you a little tale that involves myself (well, duh), Allison, and Chelsea. Allison and Chelsea work in my office. Allison was a professional personal trainer just a few months ago. Chelsea has youth on her side in a big way.
The setting: The Stairs In Santa Monica. As in, that's what people call them 'round these parts. (and also on the Travel Channel whenever some chirpy travel host comes to L.A. to film a segment on "Top Ten Places to See in L.A.!")
The time: Workout Wednesday. As in, that's what Allison and I call the one day of the week when we get together to workout. (usually this entails Allison exercising some mad athletic skill while I exercise my right to walk like a grandma at the mall.)
So we arrive at The Stairs In Santa Monica around 6:30--in the evening. I haven't completely lost my mind to go and climb these stairs in the morning. Here's an image, so you can visualize what I am referring to when I say The Stairs In Santa Monica
Yeah, so see how there are mountains? And a valley? Well, The Stairs In Santa Monica literally scale the side of a cliff. There are actually two sets of stairs--a wooden set of stairs and a concrete set of stairs. The wooden set of stairs has 189 steps (of torture). The concrete set of stairs probably have the same amount of steps with an added bonus, the concrete steps are steeper.
Most people climb the stairs a couple of times and then hang around at the top of the stairs, posing as though they are being photographed for the cover of Shape Magazine. It's actually quite ridiculous and pretentious. People do push-ups on the sidewalk. Trainers say things like, "Oh the shaking in your legs is good. If you feel like you're going to pass out, just sit in the grass and drink some water." Girls do yoga...in the grassy median...in the middle of 4th Street.
Allison, being a former trainer and all, can climb the stairs a half-dozen times without much problem. Oh, and she runs a half block after she climbs all 189 steps. Chelsea, thinking this was normal behavior perhaps, did as Allison did. I, on the other hand, climbed the stairs ONCE and then went for a walk.
I walked past the asphalt push-up competitions, beyond a clump of people huffing and puffing as they posed along the guard rail trying to look like they weren't about to die, and around a pair of yummy mummies yacking it up about a sale at Fred Segal. I walked to the only thing I'll really miss about L.A. when I leave again--the curve of the coastline from the Pacific Palisades to Malibu. I imagine what each of the lights dotting the hillside represents: a woman from East L.A. tidying up a kitchen the size of her studio apartment, plush leather couches, shiny Audis parked in a row, a family eating pasta around a giant wooden table bought from a fancy shop on Melrose, lazy dogs taking in million-dollar views on back porches. Sometimes I imagine I am far away from this city, maybe in the tiny village of Deia off the coast of Spain or soaking up Italy's Amalfi Coast.
I think this view is the reason I work out at all.
After my walk down Adelaide Drive, I see Chelsea emerge from the canyon red-faced and panting after 5 climbs up the stairs. Her legs are shaking like Jell-o, so she decides she needs to "walk it off." I take her back down Adelaide, towards the ocean. The view is so stunning you can't help but forget about the fear of your heart literally pounding its way out of your chest. Soon Allison joins us. She has climbed the stairs 6 times, she thinks. So the three of us walk around this make-shift outdoor gym on the edge of a canyon.
Now, this being L.A. and people being people, you are watching other people while they watch you. Women size other women up and men, well who knows who these men are sizing up. As Allison, Chelsea and I were walking back in the direction of our car, I watched the faces of three guys posing in workout positions. (I say posing because these guys weren't sweating a drop, hadn't climbed the stairs once, and looked like they would be more comfortable in front of an Excel spreadsheet than they would be in front of a stack of dumbbells).
First they saw Allison, the trainer in cute green shorts. Eyes boggle. Then they see Chelsea, the college student with youth on her side. Eyes boggle again. Then they see me--the chaperone in old yoga pants.
The line between The Palisades and Malibu
The setting: The Stairs In Santa Monica. As in, that's what people call them 'round these parts. (and also on the Travel Channel whenever some chirpy travel host comes to L.A. to film a segment on "Top Ten Places to See in L.A.!")
The time: Workout Wednesday. As in, that's what Allison and I call the one day of the week when we get together to workout. (usually this entails Allison exercising some mad athletic skill while I exercise my right to walk like a grandma at the mall.)
So we arrive at The Stairs In Santa Monica around 6:30--in the evening. I haven't completely lost my mind to go and climb these stairs in the morning. Here's an image, so you can visualize what I am referring to when I say The Stairs In Santa Monica
Yeah, so see how there are mountains? And a valley? Well, The Stairs In Santa Monica literally scale the side of a cliff. There are actually two sets of stairs--a wooden set of stairs and a concrete set of stairs. The wooden set of stairs has 189 steps (of torture). The concrete set of stairs probably have the same amount of steps with an added bonus, the concrete steps are steeper.
Most people climb the stairs a couple of times and then hang around at the top of the stairs, posing as though they are being photographed for the cover of Shape Magazine. It's actually quite ridiculous and pretentious. People do push-ups on the sidewalk. Trainers say things like, "Oh the shaking in your legs is good. If you feel like you're going to pass out, just sit in the grass and drink some water." Girls do yoga...in the grassy median...in the middle of 4th Street.
Allison, being a former trainer and all, can climb the stairs a half-dozen times without much problem. Oh, and she runs a half block after she climbs all 189 steps. Chelsea, thinking this was normal behavior perhaps, did as Allison did. I, on the other hand, climbed the stairs ONCE and then went for a walk.
I walked past the asphalt push-up competitions, beyond a clump of people huffing and puffing as they posed along the guard rail trying to look like they weren't about to die, and around a pair of yummy mummies yacking it up about a sale at Fred Segal. I walked to the only thing I'll really miss about L.A. when I leave again--the curve of the coastline from the Pacific Palisades to Malibu. I imagine what each of the lights dotting the hillside represents: a woman from East L.A. tidying up a kitchen the size of her studio apartment, plush leather couches, shiny Audis parked in a row, a family eating pasta around a giant wooden table bought from a fancy shop on Melrose, lazy dogs taking in million-dollar views on back porches. Sometimes I imagine I am far away from this city, maybe in the tiny village of Deia off the coast of Spain or soaking up Italy's Amalfi Coast.
I think this view is the reason I work out at all.
After my walk down Adelaide Drive, I see Chelsea emerge from the canyon red-faced and panting after 5 climbs up the stairs. Her legs are shaking like Jell-o, so she decides she needs to "walk it off." I take her back down Adelaide, towards the ocean. The view is so stunning you can't help but forget about the fear of your heart literally pounding its way out of your chest. Soon Allison joins us. She has climbed the stairs 6 times, she thinks. So the three of us walk around this make-shift outdoor gym on the edge of a canyon.
Now, this being L.A. and people being people, you are watching other people while they watch you. Women size other women up and men, well who knows who these men are sizing up. As Allison, Chelsea and I were walking back in the direction of our car, I watched the faces of three guys posing in workout positions. (I say posing because these guys weren't sweating a drop, hadn't climbed the stairs once, and looked like they would be more comfortable in front of an Excel spreadsheet than they would be in front of a stack of dumbbells).
First they saw Allison, the trainer in cute green shorts. Eyes boggle. Then they see Chelsea, the college student with youth on her side. Eyes boggle again. Then they see me--the chaperone in old yoga pants.
The line between The Palisades and Malibu
11 January 2010
The S Matters
It's funny how some people automatically assign nicknames to the people they meet. As in, during the first introduction. For me this usually looks like this:
Me: "Hello, it's nice to meet you. I'm Elisabeth."
Them: "Hi, Liz. It's nice to meet you, too."
What tha? Liz? First--the obvious fact that I have an S in my name and not a Z, but no one ever seems to notice that, so we will just move on from that point. Second--who told you that Liz was OK? What if I prefer Beth or Libby or Betty? We just met. Nicknames are terms of endearment and seeing that I just said we've just met, how are you that close to me to assign me a nickname?
And why do I care so much?
Well, I'm not the only one who cares about the spelling of my name or what I am called (nothing profane, please. my mom's reading this). I have several friends with names that are beautifully spelled-out in a way that isn't likely to be found on a plastic keychain at the mall. They, too, have issues with the whole I've-known-you-since-middle-school-so-why-are-you-still-spelling-my-name-wrong thing. They also struggle with the whole I-have-to-spell-out-my-name-every-time-someone-else-writes-out-a-name-tag-on-my-behalf thing.
Why does it matter? Because your name is unlike any characteristic you have. Your name is your identity in a crowd of complete strangers. Your name is like music on a radio station only your ear can tune into. Your name is the very essence of you.
Indulge me in a brief bunny trail, and I'll bring things back to this point. This morning I spoke in front of my church about the community group I am in. The thought of public speaking with a microphone makes my knees tingle even now as I think on the very act. I am not a professional speaker; I am not an actress (though everyone else in this town sure seems to be one); I did not ask to speak in front of two seas of blank faces staring right back at me (and occasionally yawning). But the topic was important to me, so I did it.
My community group was sort of an accident. I'm really not sure why I signed up to be in one. I guess I signed up because I was looking to make more friends at my church, to make more friends who share my faith, and probably to meet a guy who shares my faith. I feel like a complete oddball in this town, and I guess I was looking for a place where I wouldn't feel quite so odd. Whatever the combination of reasons, I am very happy I signed up. The friends I have made in this group have been such a treat. We haven't really met as a group for that long, but we have bonded in a sweet way rather quickly. It's like having a second-cousin in town. They aren't quite at the sibling ranking, but there is a comfortable level of familiarity that prevents me from feeling completely alone out here in this scattered city.
It's a lot of work to create and maintain community. It's a lot of work to show that you care for other people and to be their community. This is something that I am trying to be better at. Mind you, this goal isn't related to a New Year's resolution because I'm not doing those this year. It's more of a life goal, a trait I want to develop and groom for the rest of my life. I forget birthdays, I forget to email, I am selfish and talk about myself first when I meet a friend for coffee. But I try very hard to not misspell a name of a dear friend or in a professional setting. It happens, no doubt, and when it does I sternly remind myself of the correct spelling and vow to try harder next time. When it happens to me I feel an immediate unfamiliarity, as though I am in a relationship where I love him more than he loves me. It's not the end of the world though, so I just get over it.
Back to this morning. A good friend of mine sat next to me before I was to give my little talk the first go-round. She opened her bulletin as I fumbled for gum or a mint or whatever it was I fumbling for. She nudged my arm, pointing the bulletin. And there it was: Elizabeth
I thought: "Well, if I royally mess up I can just blame it on that girl, 'Liz.'"
23 November 2009
Tales From the World Wide Web
Dear Internet,
I've neglected you for far too long. I am very sorry. A new post to come shortly. Until, please enjoy these things that have made me laugh or just plain ol' happy.
From the blog My Parents Were Awesome
The amazing book and blog 1,001 Rules For My Unborn Son
The New Moon Sountrack
Particularly these songs:
I've neglected you for far too long. I am very sorry. A new post to come shortly. Until, please enjoy these things that have made me laugh or just plain ol' happy.
From the blog My Parents Were Awesome
The amazing book and blog 1,001 Rules For My Unborn Son
The New Moon Sountrack
Particularly these songs:
02 September 2009
Casualty of Photography
This made me laugh out loud.
(This image comes to you from The Sartorialist. If you haven't seen the site or the book, I highly encourage it.)
(This image comes to you from The Sartorialist. If you haven't seen the site or the book, I highly encourage it.)
26 August 2009
A Little Rock N' Roll With Your Move?
So after the whole break-in incident at my apartment, I got outta my lease. Mind you, I've just condensed a bunch of days and calls and angst into one sentence. My former landlord gave me just over a week to completely move out of the crime scene--just in time for some poor unsuspecting university student to move in.
In that short amount of time, I hustled to find places to store my things. Boxes of pots and pans went to my friend Meghan's apartment along with my KitchenAid stand mixer (shout out for the best appliance EVAH!). Clothes and such went to my friend Karen's. This left a mattress, desk, bookshelf, a couple of lamps, and boxes of books without a home. I stressed. I worried. I called Public Storage.
When the time (2 weeks to be exact) came for me to move into my new apartment (complete with a roommate I don't know), I decided I'd had enough of lifting and sweating. So, at the suggestion of the aforementioned Karen, I called a company called The Real Rock N Roll Movers. I kid you not. I was promised two rock n rollers, a truck, and a trailer for my tiny move.
The day of the move I met the rock n rollers at the storage unit. They were a few minutes late, but that's to be expected I guess because we are moving on rock n roll time here. The two gentleman (let's call them The Blonde and The Brunette) were both outfitted in skinny jeans and black T-Shirts emblazoned with the company name. The Blonde hopped out of the truck to greet me while The Brunette pulled the truck/trailer combo around back. I noticed that The Blonde's toes were sticking out of his black high-top canvas shoes.
The conversation went something like this:
"Hi, I'm Elisabeth."
"Hey, I'm The Blonde. How's it goin'?"
"So far so good."
"Yeah, yeah. You ever have one of those days when you wake up in a good mood? Well, I woke up in a good mood today and, like, I'm just hoping it lasts the whole day because it's the best feeling, man. You know what I mean?"
Conversation like this continued during the move. We talked about bands (duh), how downtown Los Angeles was becoming super trendy, some loft that was available for rent downtown, a music festival that had just taken place the day before. Oh, and I asked a TON of questions. My questions resulted in the following information:
1. The Brunette and The Blonde are indeed in a band together
2. Apparently moving is a good hangover cure
3. The guy who started the business is very organized. And he plays music
4. My move was one of the smallest they'd ever seen (score!)
5. People are rude--especially when they hire movers and haven't packed a bloomin' thing
My entire move lasted less than an hour, and I didn't even break a sweat. And at the end, The Blonde and The Brunette invited me to a gig. How many times have you moved and gotten an invite to a show?
Ah L.A., you are bizarre.
In that short amount of time, I hustled to find places to store my things. Boxes of pots and pans went to my friend Meghan's apartment along with my KitchenAid stand mixer (shout out for the best appliance EVAH!). Clothes and such went to my friend Karen's. This left a mattress, desk, bookshelf, a couple of lamps, and boxes of books without a home. I stressed. I worried. I called Public Storage.
When the time (2 weeks to be exact) came for me to move into my new apartment (complete with a roommate I don't know), I decided I'd had enough of lifting and sweating. So, at the suggestion of the aforementioned Karen, I called a company called The Real Rock N Roll Movers. I kid you not. I was promised two rock n rollers, a truck, and a trailer for my tiny move.
The day of the move I met the rock n rollers at the storage unit. They were a few minutes late, but that's to be expected I guess because we are moving on rock n roll time here. The two gentleman (let's call them The Blonde and The Brunette) were both outfitted in skinny jeans and black T-Shirts emblazoned with the company name. The Blonde hopped out of the truck to greet me while The Brunette pulled the truck/trailer combo around back. I noticed that The Blonde's toes were sticking out of his black high-top canvas shoes.
The conversation went something like this:
"Hi, I'm Elisabeth."
"Hey, I'm The Blonde. How's it goin'?"
"So far so good."
"Yeah, yeah. You ever have one of those days when you wake up in a good mood? Well, I woke up in a good mood today and, like, I'm just hoping it lasts the whole day because it's the best feeling, man. You know what I mean?"
Conversation like this continued during the move. We talked about bands (duh), how downtown Los Angeles was becoming super trendy, some loft that was available for rent downtown, a music festival that had just taken place the day before. Oh, and I asked a TON of questions. My questions resulted in the following information:
1. The Brunette and The Blonde are indeed in a band together
2. Apparently moving is a good hangover cure
3. The guy who started the business is very organized. And he plays music
4. My move was one of the smallest they'd ever seen (score!)
5. People are rude--especially when they hire movers and haven't packed a bloomin' thing
My entire move lasted less than an hour, and I didn't even break a sweat. And at the end, The Blonde and The Brunette invited me to a gig. How many times have you moved and gotten an invite to a show?
Ah L.A., you are bizarre.
17 August 2009
The Girl With Pineapple Juice In Her Purse
There are many good things about LA. For example, people seem awfully fond of this perpetual sunshine. There are also many bad things about LA. That perpetual sunshine can be redundant, and people can be a little on the superficial side.
So it isn't surprising when an Angeleno permanently latches onto the arm of a person who is true to their word. Especially if that person is wearing super cute red peep-toe pumps and strolls up to your bar two nights in a row.
Dear Internet, allow me to acquaint you with Carolyn. She is unlike any other person you've ever met. Sure, she has all of the obvious traits you want in a friend: funny (check); smart (check); cute shoes (see above). But in addition to all of that, Carolyn kicks butt and takes names in the kitchen. She needs only a tiny taste of your grandma's famous lasagna before she can divulge grandma's top secret ingredient (it's probably nutmeg, btw).
On Saturday night Carolyn, our mutual friend Karen, and I had plans to meet up for dinner, which would be followed by the movie "Julie and Julia." After the movie we'd go for a drink at the somewhat swanky bar and restaurant located below the theater.
By coincidence, Carolyn had been to this bar the night before with a few other friends and had sparked a debate so big the bar staff were STILL talking about it the next day. Basically it went down like this--a barman I shall call Duke insisted a Mai Tai was tastiest when made one particular way that omitted pineapple juice; Carolyn cried foul. Mai Tai without pineapple juice?!?! How could it be? Since the bar was sans pineapple juice, Carolyn vowed she would bring in her own juice so that she could introduce Duke to a most delish Mai Tai.
And that's how I ended up with two (or was it three?) cans of pineapple juice in my purse on Saturday night.
After the movie, which I thought was very good, we made our way to the bar. There on the bar, I set the tiny cans of pineapple juice I'd been hiding alongside the can or two Carolyn had smuggled in. We got some sly glances and odd looks from the people around us, but it was Duke's reaction that was funniest. He wasn't shocked that there were 4 tiny cans of pineapple juice on the bar. No, he was surprised that the girl from last night came back. What?! She actually did what she promised she'd do!
Carolyn made her special Mai Tai for Duke from the CUSTOMER'S side of the bar. Duke tasted and declared Carolyn's Mai Tai to be sweet.
Enter another barman I shall call Dick. As if working from stage directions, Duke went who-knows-where, and Dick planted himself firmly in front of the pineapple girls while loudly making drinks for other patrons. We girls sipped Mai Tais (made by Duke, not sweet at all) and tried to ignore Dick's constant racket as we talked about what girls usually talk about: what we're looking for in a guy, Christian Louboutin shoes, sexing up the wardrobe a la Color Me Badd, and what we're looking for in a guy.
I don't know how, but Dick ended up in conversation with us. Well, mainly Carolyn. The scene was so hilarious I couldn't do anything but watch and laugh. Dick is a fan of putting loads of bitters in drinks. He also likes to show off. He tried to flip a few bar items in the spirit of Tom Cruise in Cocktail, but ended up throwing things on the floor. Um Dick, we noticed. He debated drinks with Carolyn, and conceded that she knew her stuff.
He also hurled the most debilitating insult Carolyn's way. While discussing LA restaurants and chefs and other LA-isms, Dick suggested that Carolyn was from a town way east of LA called Rancho Cucamonga. She gasped and hid her face in her hands. A bar staffer restocking glasses laughed so hard I thought he'd drop those glasses. "WHAT!" Carolyn shrieked. "You think I am from Rancho Cucamonga?"
Seeing as Dick is from Minnesota, he recognized that by keeping her word Carolyn didn't exactly act like a LA native.
But for a girl from the 310, Rancho Cucamonga is akin to saying you are from East Deliverance, California.
So it isn't surprising when an Angeleno permanently latches onto the arm of a person who is true to their word. Especially if that person is wearing super cute red peep-toe pumps and strolls up to your bar two nights in a row.
Dear Internet, allow me to acquaint you with Carolyn. She is unlike any other person you've ever met. Sure, she has all of the obvious traits you want in a friend: funny (check); smart (check); cute shoes (see above). But in addition to all of that, Carolyn kicks butt and takes names in the kitchen. She needs only a tiny taste of your grandma's famous lasagna before she can divulge grandma's top secret ingredient (it's probably nutmeg, btw).
On Saturday night Carolyn, our mutual friend Karen, and I had plans to meet up for dinner, which would be followed by the movie "Julie and Julia." After the movie we'd go for a drink at the somewhat swanky bar and restaurant located below the theater.
By coincidence, Carolyn had been to this bar the night before with a few other friends and had sparked a debate so big the bar staff were STILL talking about it the next day. Basically it went down like this--a barman I shall call Duke insisted a Mai Tai was tastiest when made one particular way that omitted pineapple juice; Carolyn cried foul. Mai Tai without pineapple juice?!?! How could it be? Since the bar was sans pineapple juice, Carolyn vowed she would bring in her own juice so that she could introduce Duke to a most delish Mai Tai.
And that's how I ended up with two (or was it three?) cans of pineapple juice in my purse on Saturday night.
After the movie, which I thought was very good, we made our way to the bar. There on the bar, I set the tiny cans of pineapple juice I'd been hiding alongside the can or two Carolyn had smuggled in. We got some sly glances and odd looks from the people around us, but it was Duke's reaction that was funniest. He wasn't shocked that there were 4 tiny cans of pineapple juice on the bar. No, he was surprised that the girl from last night came back. What?! She actually did what she promised she'd do!
Carolyn made her special Mai Tai for Duke from the CUSTOMER'S side of the bar. Duke tasted and declared Carolyn's Mai Tai to be sweet.
Enter another barman I shall call Dick. As if working from stage directions, Duke went who-knows-where, and Dick planted himself firmly in front of the pineapple girls while loudly making drinks for other patrons. We girls sipped Mai Tais (made by Duke, not sweet at all) and tried to ignore Dick's constant racket as we talked about what girls usually talk about: what we're looking for in a guy, Christian Louboutin shoes, sexing up the wardrobe a la Color Me Badd, and what we're looking for in a guy.
I don't know how, but Dick ended up in conversation with us. Well, mainly Carolyn. The scene was so hilarious I couldn't do anything but watch and laugh. Dick is a fan of putting loads of bitters in drinks. He also likes to show off. He tried to flip a few bar items in the spirit of Tom Cruise in Cocktail, but ended up throwing things on the floor. Um Dick, we noticed. He debated drinks with Carolyn, and conceded that she knew her stuff.
He also hurled the most debilitating insult Carolyn's way. While discussing LA restaurants and chefs and other LA-isms, Dick suggested that Carolyn was from a town way east of LA called Rancho Cucamonga. She gasped and hid her face in her hands. A bar staffer restocking glasses laughed so hard I thought he'd drop those glasses. "WHAT!" Carolyn shrieked. "You think I am from Rancho Cucamonga?"
Seeing as Dick is from Minnesota, he recognized that by keeping her word Carolyn didn't exactly act like a LA native.
But for a girl from the 310, Rancho Cucamonga is akin to saying you are from East Deliverance, California.
26 May 2009
Coronas, Basketball and Topless Women: A Terrible Way to Meet People
I'm just gonna cut to the chase. At 30, being single isn't so much fun.
I don't normally talk about dating (or the lack thereof) or my faith, but last night I experienced something so ridiculous it was both hilarious and incredibly depressing. What to do with a story like that? Tell it to the World Wide Web!
I begin my story 5 weeks ago on a Monday night. My church--well I'm not technically a member yet because that process is lengthy and so involved that I half expect the pastor to ask me for a DNA sample--held a series on Christians, dating and sex and blah blah blah. I stopped attending lectures on the subject of being single a while ago; I'm practically an expert on the matter. But I'm new at this church that I'm almost a member of, and I thought this would be a good way to meet people. It was a good series; I learned a lot, not just about the wild world of being single, but about myself. So that was indeed a good thing.
To wrap up the series, the church hosted what I can only describe as a mixer for those who had attended the series. And so begins my encounter with Coronas, basketball and an illustrated poster of a topless woman.
I only went to this mixer (that's what I'm calling it even though I imagine this label would make the church staff cringe) because I have always griped about how churches never do enough to encourage people to meet. "Suck it up," I thought. "Just go and have a good time. At least you'll meet new people." So I talked a friend who doesn't go to my church and didn't go to the seminar into going with me.
We arrived about an hour after this mixer began and promptly ordered 2 Coronas from a surly woman in a low-cut tank top. The Lakers were playing and every.single.tv.in.the.place was blaring the game. My friend and I were talking (yelling) at each other over the roar of the crowd when several kind people introduced themselves to us. I haven't a clue as to the readership of this wee blog, so I'm just gonna say there was interesting conversation, dull conversation, a new friendship forged over a mutual love of coffee, a person who talked so much you couldn't get a word in edgewise, and a person who spit in your face when they talked.
My friend and I spent the evening smashed between a wall, the bar, and a beer pong table. From our viewpoint we could see the entire crowd, and let me tell you, it wasn't pretty. There was the single woman in her late 30's I met once who had that I-am-here-to-find-my-husband-and-you-are-competition look in her eye. She couldn't be bothered to be polite to my friend and me because she had a single pastor from our church centered in her crosshairs. I thought the poor man would be trampled by her at one point. Then there were the guys who so badly wanted to know if you were The One that they asked embarrassingly intimate questions before you had the chance to tell them your name. When it was apparent that my friend and I were not The One, these boys wandered off mid sentence.
At one point, my friend and I were actually having a pretty funny conversation with a guy I shall call John Coltrane. I was on my 6th or 7th glass of water when I turned into a total klutz. I knocked my friend's cup of water all of the floor, caught my jacket on a nail, and, much to John Coltrane's amusement, my wildly flailing hand slapped the bare boob of a woman featured on an old Buzzcocks poster. Turns out this poster was directly above my head the entire night. That might explain why a lot of guys constantly looked in our direction.
It was then that I decided I was tired. Tired of talking, tired of being claustrophobic, tired of wading through nights like this.
I haven't a clue as to why that "roofie bar" was chosen as the place to host a mixer for people who just finished a lecture series on Christians and dating. It was as though the church said, "let's see how well you swim when we throw you in the deep end without swimming lessons!"
I left that circus feeling incredibly disappointed and discouraged. I can only relate it to a line from a book I read where the author said something to the gist of Christians who try to date and follow God trade with a currency the world doesn't use anymore. If I can't meet like-minded guys at my own church, where else am I to go? Does no one else value the same things I value? Granted, I only met a few people, but the scene was so similar to the pub I used to go to. Only at that pub I wasn't shouting, and I was surrounded by friends--not people putting the pressure on to quickly determine if you were their wife before moving onto the next woman at the bar.
My gut reaction to that dismal failure of an outing was to quit. Why bother putting yourself out there when all you ever get is disappointment? But then I emailed this story to a friend and laughed so hard as I pictured the ridiculousness that was last night.
So while I will more than likely never go to another gathering where everyone has a target on their back (a.k.a. mixers for people without significant others), I'm not going to give up on finding someone who still trades in my currency.
Either that or I'm going to start trading in credit.
I don't normally talk about dating (or the lack thereof) or my faith, but last night I experienced something so ridiculous it was both hilarious and incredibly depressing. What to do with a story like that? Tell it to the World Wide Web!
I begin my story 5 weeks ago on a Monday night. My church--well I'm not technically a member yet because that process is lengthy and so involved that I half expect the pastor to ask me for a DNA sample--held a series on Christians, dating and sex and blah blah blah. I stopped attending lectures on the subject of being single a while ago; I'm practically an expert on the matter. But I'm new at this church that I'm almost a member of, and I thought this would be a good way to meet people. It was a good series; I learned a lot, not just about the wild world of being single, but about myself. So that was indeed a good thing.
To wrap up the series, the church hosted what I can only describe as a mixer for those who had attended the series. And so begins my encounter with Coronas, basketball and an illustrated poster of a topless woman.
I only went to this mixer (that's what I'm calling it even though I imagine this label would make the church staff cringe) because I have always griped about how churches never do enough to encourage people to meet. "Suck it up," I thought. "Just go and have a good time. At least you'll meet new people." So I talked a friend who doesn't go to my church and didn't go to the seminar into going with me.
We arrived about an hour after this mixer began and promptly ordered 2 Coronas from a surly woman in a low-cut tank top. The Lakers were playing and every.single.tv.in.the.place was blaring the game. My friend and I were talking (yelling) at each other over the roar of the crowd when several kind people introduced themselves to us. I haven't a clue as to the readership of this wee blog, so I'm just gonna say there was interesting conversation, dull conversation, a new friendship forged over a mutual love of coffee, a person who talked so much you couldn't get a word in edgewise, and a person who spit in your face when they talked.
My friend and I spent the evening smashed between a wall, the bar, and a beer pong table. From our viewpoint we could see the entire crowd, and let me tell you, it wasn't pretty. There was the single woman in her late 30's I met once who had that I-am-here-to-find-my-husband-and-you-are-competition look in her eye. She couldn't be bothered to be polite to my friend and me because she had a single pastor from our church centered in her crosshairs. I thought the poor man would be trampled by her at one point. Then there were the guys who so badly wanted to know if you were The One that they asked embarrassingly intimate questions before you had the chance to tell them your name. When it was apparent that my friend and I were not The One, these boys wandered off mid sentence.
At one point, my friend and I were actually having a pretty funny conversation with a guy I shall call John Coltrane. I was on my 6th or 7th glass of water when I turned into a total klutz. I knocked my friend's cup of water all of the floor, caught my jacket on a nail, and, much to John Coltrane's amusement, my wildly flailing hand slapped the bare boob of a woman featured on an old Buzzcocks poster. Turns out this poster was directly above my head the entire night. That might explain why a lot of guys constantly looked in our direction.
It was then that I decided I was tired. Tired of talking, tired of being claustrophobic, tired of wading through nights like this.
I haven't a clue as to why that "roofie bar" was chosen as the place to host a mixer for people who just finished a lecture series on Christians and dating. It was as though the church said, "let's see how well you swim when we throw you in the deep end without swimming lessons!"
I left that circus feeling incredibly disappointed and discouraged. I can only relate it to a line from a book I read where the author said something to the gist of Christians who try to date and follow God trade with a currency the world doesn't use anymore. If I can't meet like-minded guys at my own church, where else am I to go? Does no one else value the same things I value? Granted, I only met a few people, but the scene was so similar to the pub I used to go to. Only at that pub I wasn't shouting, and I was surrounded by friends--not people putting the pressure on to quickly determine if you were their wife before moving onto the next woman at the bar.
My gut reaction to that dismal failure of an outing was to quit. Why bother putting yourself out there when all you ever get is disappointment? But then I emailed this story to a friend and laughed so hard as I pictured the ridiculousness that was last night.
So while I will more than likely never go to another gathering where everyone has a target on their back (a.k.a. mixers for people without significant others), I'm not going to give up on finding someone who still trades in my currency.
Either that or I'm going to start trading in credit.
29 November 2008
Turn That Frown Upside Down!
The New York Times is a constant source of delight for me. Well, Thursday thru Sunday, that is. Those other days can be a bit lean on the delight and heavy on the sad, sorrowful and cynical.
One example of a delightful find found in the NY times is an article entitled "No Frown Is Left Unturned" (13 Nov). Seems a Brooklyn-based store called Fred Flare has a knack for selling quirky knick-knacks guaranteed to, well, make you smile. Oh how I love their site and all of the random treasures neatly organized both by price and subject. If you are bored and surfing the net, please do take a moment to acquaint yourself with the various treats offered by Mr. Flare at fredflare.com.
You may stumble upon Nancy Drew's Guide to Life:
Or perhaps an Edgar Allen Poe action figure:
Or, if you are really lucky, this incredible tennis racket cover:
Hilarious Christmas gifts, anymore?
One example of a delightful find found in the NY times is an article entitled "No Frown Is Left Unturned" (13 Nov). Seems a Brooklyn-based store called Fred Flare has a knack for selling quirky knick-knacks guaranteed to, well, make you smile. Oh how I love their site and all of the random treasures neatly organized both by price and subject. If you are bored and surfing the net, please do take a moment to acquaint yourself with the various treats offered by Mr. Flare at fredflare.com.
You may stumble upon Nancy Drew's Guide to Life:
Or perhaps an Edgar Allen Poe action figure:
Or, if you are really lucky, this incredible tennis racket cover:
Hilarious Christmas gifts, anymore?
17 September 2008
Meghan, This One's For You
My pal Meghan could be a superstar part-time casting director. She has spotted up-and-coming talent on everything from extras appearing on WB shows (ah, remember that network?), music videos and all kinds of other random places. Me, well I'm not so gifted at the spotting talent game. Until Adrien Brody, that is.
Once I was eating at a restaurant in Silverlake and I spotted Mr. Brody and his mom having dinner. This was pre-Pianist. As a fan of The Thin Red Line, I wanted so badly to go up to the table for two that Mr. Brody occupied and tell him what a fantastic job he did in that film. But I didn't. And then he won an Oscar and kissed Halle Berry.
I won't make that mistake again.
If I ever see Robert Pattinson eating at a restaurant in Silverlake, I will be sure to tell him that I thought he did a great job in Vanity Fair and in Harry Potter. I will tell him all of this because I predict once his little film called Twilight hits theaters in November, he will be a really huge star. Like Jonas Brothers big. I mention the Jonas Brothers because my Robert Pattinson is 22. And I'm - well I'm totally not 22 anymore. But sometimes if it's real dark I still get carded.
The long version of this clip made me laugh so hard because Mr. Pattinson seems very unaffected by Hollywood (pre-Twilight release, folks. Let's see how long that lasts). It is also very funny because it involves a very brave, perhaps very drunk, chick who was totally denied and now that moment lives forever in a little tmz.com video on the Internet. The long version of the clip lives here: http://www.tmz.com/2008/09/05/drunky-to-twilight-hunk-pucker-up-big-boy/
And here is the 14 second money shot:
Once I was eating at a restaurant in Silverlake and I spotted Mr. Brody and his mom having dinner. This was pre-Pianist. As a fan of The Thin Red Line, I wanted so badly to go up to the table for two that Mr. Brody occupied and tell him what a fantastic job he did in that film. But I didn't. And then he won an Oscar and kissed Halle Berry.
I won't make that mistake again.
If I ever see Robert Pattinson eating at a restaurant in Silverlake, I will be sure to tell him that I thought he did a great job in Vanity Fair and in Harry Potter. I will tell him all of this because I predict once his little film called Twilight hits theaters in November, he will be a really huge star. Like Jonas Brothers big. I mention the Jonas Brothers because my Robert Pattinson is 22. And I'm - well I'm totally not 22 anymore. But sometimes if it's real dark I still get carded.
The long version of this clip made me laugh so hard because Mr. Pattinson seems very unaffected by Hollywood (pre-Twilight release, folks. Let's see how long that lasts). It is also very funny because it involves a very brave, perhaps very drunk, chick who was totally denied and now that moment lives forever in a little tmz.com video on the Internet. The long version of the clip lives here: http://www.tmz.com/2008/09/05/drunky-to-twilight-hunk-pucker-up-big-boy/
And here is the 14 second money shot:
11 August 2008
America Apparently Doesn't Like Gossip Girl
Check out this hilarious clip from The Soup. As you watch it, pay close attention to America Ferrera's facial expressions.
Love it!
Love it!
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