Oxymorons & Hangovers

Assume the worst

I have to get over my feelings of invincibility. I always assume the worst, don't get me wrong. I'm a proper pessimist. But when I lose my credit card (al-ways) I just assume it's my doing and not that it could be stolen. I've been missing one since Sunday and I barely bothered to check until today if any stray purchases have been made with it. So far, so good. Despite my need for clean and organized, you wouldn't believe how much shit I lose.

My dog ate the crotch out of more pants last night. Two pairs of work slacks have found their way into my garbage in less than a week. I can afford the dog food and occasional accessory or flea treatment, but the clothes and underwear? She's going to kill me if I don't get to her throat first.

Five months after the fact, I've got the pictures from the San Francisco trip on the computer. Four days of shenanigans with Ree in the bay area commence now! (All pictures open larger in a new window.)

 Jumping on the bed for an hour tends to make one's breastlets ache.

      

     

     

        

There's seventy bajill more. But I don't have the time. I'm yearning for the city so hard, it hurts. I want a vacation.

-Pretty Lush                 

Growing out of it

Oh, three hours of sleep is hardly conducive to a functional work day, turns out. At one in the morning, I was sleepily munching a sandwich in a Denny’s booth when I checked the time and said aloud, “I’m going to burst into tears when the alarm goes off.” Damn near did too. I was grinding my teeth so bad in my sleep that my jaw still aches and I think it was the upcoming dreaded eight hours of sitting and staring that was stressing me out. Among financial issues derived from debt and irresponsibility – but let’s talk new.

The Rockstar Mayhem tour last night was even better than anticipated, save for the seeming short set from Slipknot. But by then my everything was so exhausted that I couldn’t muster a convincing complaint. I was unsure about Disturbed. I like ‘em enough but probably wouldn’t go out of my way to see them. But they opened for Slipknot on the main stage and I was really pleased. A little cheesy, mmkay, but I think I need their CD, finally. The others bands ranged from decent to annoying screechy metal noise and I was very surprised by Dragonforce. Slipknot was exceptionally great. The new(ish) masks and the drum solo and these adorable little animals:

They played a few songs that actually had me beaming with excitement. But only one from the upcoming album.

Glen Helen is one of my favorite venues if I can look past the drive and the dirt. The open air, the sound quality, the layout of the place; it all comes together perfectly for any type of music, any type of crowd. The surroundings in the early evening are unbeatable – mountains in every direction, clear view of the sunset, the moon behind you with the sun in front. Not to mention there’s STARS out there where no one lives.

But.

As far as people and crowds and scenes go, this black clad, anti-authority, pro-destruction, middle finger waving, bro & their hoes, twenty pound gothic uniform in the hundred degree heat… is not for me anymore. The assholes beating on each other bare fisted, crowding a hundred plus people around a fist fight, drinking to the point of total oblivion by noon, setting fire to every piece of trash and running around it like a bunch of uncivilized primates… my anxiety was in high gear when it looked like four hundred insane fuckers surrounding a dozen scrawny security guards. There’s no containing or controlling that kind of energy and I get it, a lot of these people get off on that kind of chaos, but as far as my taste and idea of fun go – I’ll stay home from these big outdoor metal fests. I love the music. I think a lot of good metal bands are underrated and judged as screamy, gothy crap that have an appearance and image agenda. I’ll be the first to say that Slipknot especially are a big group of really talented, really crazy, really entertaining motherfuckers. But their scene? The majority of their fans? No thanks. When they come back to the Forum or something similar, sure, I’m in. But I’ve seen my last of these types of shows. This goes for Ozzfest too, which has a mirrored fan base. I’d bite my tongue for a few select performances, maybe. But not likely. (Although it was the perfect crowd to narrate from my secluded patch of grass. The commentary we had going was a fucking show in itself.)

Call me a pussy. I’m in it for the music and the energy. Not the nonsense. I miss Coachella.

Dirty digression: On my last day in San Francisco, I dropped my prescription sunglasses in not one, but two public toilets. I didn’t learn my lesson the first time that hanging from the neck of my shirt wasn’t an effective strategy for glasses carrying when leaning over a toilet to put down a seat cover. In trying to keep the possibility of germs off my ass, I instead put the whole toilet on my face. (After a good rubdown in a vat of soap, of course.) I’m the only fucker dumb enough to do that twice in two hours. And I thought you should know.

-Pretty Lush

Expressions

Yesterday, I had my own personal meltdown of sorts. I put my head in my hands and pulled my hair and grinded my teeth and text my best friend the details of my financial shithole. Then I bucked up and went to a comedy show with some friends I don’t see enough of. Comedy venues have replaced dive bars in my social life. Some people get excited to say, “I’m on the list.” I feel like a jackass. I try to keep my voice down every time. Never fails, “EXCUSE ME?” into the megawatt unnecessary microphone behind the bullet proof glass.
So that was fun. And Dane Cook came again. There were some obnoxious, unhappy spectators that resulted in a very heated confrontation which Dane handled mighty well, until the trio was escorted out. I don’t understand spreading misery in a place where people came to laugh. Don’t mess with my vibe, cousinfucker.

It’s been about a month and a half in the new place. We still don’t have decent window coverings or a hold on the jungle of a yard, but its home and I’m very happy there. I just wonder what the neighbors think when we’re yelling all the way across our little abode with all the windows open, “Maybe the stripper is your baby daddy.”

Last weekend was roomie’s twenty-eighth birthday. It was held at my parent’s house, where there’s more room, less weeds, and a pool. Among a couple dozen lesbians and enough booze to sink a thousand lushes, enter stage left, a blonde stripper, as requested. She did things that made me question her agency and their perimeters. The cops were called because the neighbors are and always will be assholes. But the next day, when they shot fireworks under trees and power lines and INTO MY BACKYARD AT REE’S HEAD while I fretted about my parent’s roof going up in flames, they were the assholes. So I called it even. And I called the cops.

Angel stadium put on a most excellent firework show on the fourth. All fireworks are most excellent, but this was top notch. From our seats, the 57 freeway was clearly visible and at least twenty cars had pulled off the shoulder, hazards flashing, to watch the show. I don’t know why, but that was my favorite part.

Something I’ve yet to mention though it’s definitely worthy: As of three weeks ago, I have a response if anyone ever asks me about the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.
During the early evening ascent on an LA bound flight from San Francisco, the city was all twinkly below and the fog and clouds were all smooth and soft ahead. After a few minutes, the plane was on top of a thin layer of clouds, like stretched cotton, showing just enough of the city below to make it look like a mantel display of architecture and glow. The sky above was clear and it gave the feeling of being on top of a clear surface, seeing the tiny, quiet city underneath. Not to mention the early twilight colors but I’ve already butchered this totally perfect picture in my mind by trying to put words on it. You know me, mucking shit up with words all the time.

My weekday mornings are always bitchy. I cut it too close on time and I get snappy and impatient and just become a total bitch on a PMS binge. I know this. I don’t like this about myself. This morning while trying to rouse Kiddo, swaddled in her super mega oversize night shirt, I was getting more and more peeved as she squirmed further and further away and made little grunting leave-me-alone noises. As my lips pursed and teeth settled into a good clench, she flips her entire body over in a high energy 180, suddenly awake. “Is today Friday?! I’m going to the zoo with my school! I need quarters and a blue shirt!” Fuckin’ A, if anything is going to break my morning BF; it’s an ecstatic child I like to call mine.

-Pretty Lush

Home away from home

I just stopped in to blow the dust off the place. While I was frolicking about without internet/in San Francisco, I wanted to have my girl Kristine post for me with the topic: funniest/weirdest shit that ever went down with Pretty Lush. She may or may not have told the story that involved an abandoned factory and lady officer, preceding the Tool show… or the one about the donkey… or even the one about the almost bloodshed in Santa Barbara that one time. It’s too bad I just had this idea two minutes ago.

So I survived San Francisco and all I got was syphilis. Nah, I’m clean enough but sore as a motherfucker from all the abuse I took being a tourist. SF is a lot like LA… with more aggressive homeless folk and steeper hills. And waaay better architecture. Luckily I chopped a huge percentage of my hair off before we boarded the plane because it was fucking windy. In typical Lush fashion I left every possible confirmation possible at home. Flight, shuttle, hotel reservations and Alcatraz tickets… not to mention all the addresses and free entry passes to a dozen strip clubs.

I digress.

There was alcohol and good food and we even danced for a minute. Alcatraz was incredible and very worth checking out. Chinatown was scary as shit at night. The wharf is a stinky place for someone who doesn’t like seafood, but it’ll grow on you if you spend long enough in a charming little restaurant and drink enough locally brewed ale. There was a dozen bus rides and one trolley stint, where we, yes, hung off the side like tourist. “…like a Reuses monkey.” (Reeses? Google didn’t help me much on spelling that breed.) There was a whole situation in a stairwell that involved security that we won’t get into. I need to save some dignity for the weekend. There was incredible Italian food that went way outside my picky eating box, sake bombs, and one very incredible turkey sandwich. There was… a lot. A gal approached me in a bar, grabbed me by the lapel of my peacoat and said very seriously, “You’re extremely chivalrous and I’ll never forget it.” I had never seen her in my life.

The city was fucking fabulous. I want to exhaust myself there once a year, every year, doing something different every time until the thought of the bay area makes me puke Anchor Steam. Ree and I still refer to our fancy hotel as ‘home’ and while I want to check out every single thing that ever existed and not do too many things twice, I’d stay there again and again. Purple carpet, people. I’m just sayin’.

Kiddo lost both front teeth and holy hell, the story about the ‘tire thwing that holds three people’ is absolutely hilarious. There is no cute like missing front teeth cute. I’m confident I could fit my shoe through the gap. I even want her to get professional pictures taken soon. By kindergarten school picture time, they could be growing in! I shudder at the thought of kindergarten. I have a BABY not a CHILD. Public school cannot take that away from me.

My phone is out of control vibrating. I want to throw it through a brick wall. This is what happens when you’re semi-in charge of a birthday party. Happening tonight. That I have no supplies for.

I love you.

-Pretty Lush

The happy and the !@#$

The new job is all the anticipated craziness and nerves I expected; weird terminology and brief panic attacks stemming from not yet knowing what in the world is going on around me… and then I’m soothed by the fact that it will all be perfectly fine in time and I will not regret it. All transitions are long and arduous, this one being no exception. The people are nice. My supervisor seems to royally kick ass. My trainer is cool and knowledgeable, although there are times when she is so swamped in her own work that I’m left to animate my Office Assistant for entertainment. There’s a girl in a nearby department that I worked with at the grocery store. I’m always amused when I see what a small world it can be here in overpopulated Southern California.

All of this strange, stomach ache inducing unfamiliarity is ironed out every time I look around. The building I work in is by far the most interesting blend of architecture and design. The company is an upscale office furniture one, ergonomic to boot, and the whole place is a working showroom. I sit in a chair that retails over $1,100 and my ass has never felt so good. There is a growing green initiative taking place here and I’m loving it. Everything is recycled/able and they encourage people not to waste paper by doing everything possible electronically and printing on both sides. There’s some optional environmental impact conferences next month that I’ll probably attend.

This job takes my old job and goes, “Bitch, eat your heart out,” and then flips her hair and saunters off, hips swinging like wrecking balls.

Last weekend, while Kiddo was with dad, Ree and I were perfectly content to spend a slightly hungover, sweaty Saturday watching movies from the couch and ordering in. The night before had been my last day at the old job, and we (along with a dozen ex-co-workers) celebrated accordingly. Saturday we woke early, drove to Ree’s old apartment and slung trash bags over the railing from her second story abode until we were pouring sweat. That place is almost clean… if we can just avoid melting into puddly, gooey humans in the effort.

So we get a call from a good friend of ours, Jen. There’s some unwanted VIP tickets to this exclusive club in the IE, heavy on the builder industry clientele, some rock bands playing, not her or anyone else’s scene, do we want them? While we contemplated the unlikely fun of the Inland Empire and running into old contacts from the industry we’d both just left, the two most glorious words ever breathed by a human being were uttered: Open. Bar.

We dressed accordingly and found this place within an hour and a half, located in an small industrial complex. A golf cart blasting Nirvana drove up to my car and told us to hop on. We were dropped off behind a plain looking building, with a small banner, siting: Voodoo Lounge. I could already picture the originally invited executives from my old job making elaborate U-turns to head home. I don’t think any of them would have given the place a shot. At first glance, as we entered through a chain link fence and were searched by metal detectors, surrounded by plastic picnic furniture, I wasn’t sure I wanted to give it a chance. I couldn’t figure out why we’d been required to dress up for what seemed like a backyard BBQ. The patio area was mostly a place where smokers congregated and merch girls sold band T-shirts. A door in the corner led into the mystery building. We didn’t know if we were to anticipate a restaurant, a bar, a venue, a fucking torture chamber… But one of the main reasons I love Ree so much is that she has brought out in me the ability to make the most of any situation with her natural ability to have fun, to BE fun. She said, "You know we'll probably end up having the time of our lives."

We went into the building and walked through a dark hall and into the absolute coolest place I have ever been in. Every square inch of wall and ceiling was covered in vines and leaves, huge tiki ornaments buried within the foliage, TREES, people, right in the middle of the floor. Overstuffed recliners, couches and benches upholstered in animal prints. Strange punk rock bartenders with little to no experience backing bars – but an abundance of cleavage and heavy hands, poured drinks. We got our first round and I made myself comfortable on a zebra print recliner just off the dance floor, directly in front of the stage. We marveled at the joint with slack jaws, pleased as punch to have driven so far, if only to say we’d officially seen the most aesthetically pleasing club/venue that ever was. (And in the middle of no where!) The bathrooms had the coolest damn paintings in them, which I took pictures of on my cell, but... read on.

The first band that played was a southern hard rock band with a list of classic covers under their enormous belt buckles. Collectively, they had more hair than my body could produce in a lifetime. Straight Confederate flag sportin’, twang talkin’, batter dipped & deep fried southern rock. With a side of ranch. They were awesome. The more we drank, the more we appreciated covers like Sweet Home Alabama and Simple Man. As time passed, I became completely blissed out of my friggin’ gourd. I got to sit in a comfortable recliner, sipping strong! free! rum & diet concoctions, watching very, very decent live rock n’ roll, with my best friend? I’ll probably go to hell for that blatant, indulgent, display of debauchery. It was like I cashed in all my good time elements and here you go, we’ve produced you the perfect evening.

It was the best night out in a long, long time. Way, way too drunk to drive home, nevermind the check point in between us and the freeway, we bunked in a Motel 6, where somehow Ree’s cup of water/ashtray spilled on my phone and left it depleted of any battery power, permanently. That, along with my missing debit card and way too heavy of a period has made this week not only stressful, but bad bad bad.

But I still can’t bring myself to complain – except for in the confines of my own perfect apartment with only my roomie, Kiddo, and a chihuahua to hear my strings of expletives and death wishes.

One week from today, I board a plane to SF. HOE. LEE. SHIT.

It's unlikely that I can update as often as I did before, but don't give up on me. I'll be producing mediocre accounts of my shenanigans for a long time.

PS. I watched Crazy/Beautiful last night after RESFUSING to ever see it. That movie successfully fucked me up and quickly became one of my favorites. That fucking Billy Corgan lookalike won this round...

I'll never wear lipstick again

In my constant looping thought process and assessment of the life I'll be leading shortly, I realized 'new change' is an oxymoron. Here's how I got there:

• New apartment, in new hood, which requires new grocery store, pharmacy, twenty-four hour take-out joint, and dive bar, at least
• New school for Kiddo, three months prior to kindergarten (luckily the school will also be the post-kindergarten hang out spot - so it's not entirely like switching her school three times, just mostly like switching her school three times [someone please direct me toward the therapy this guilt will inevitably lead me])
• New route to work, school, Kiddo's school, all including freeway & traffic
• New bills

& finally?

• New job (& my wonderful boyfriend and I broke up - can't comment)

Yesterday I was offered a position/wage that I couldn't possibly turn down. More on this later, as I haven't told the people who most require this knowledge, ie, my manager and co-workers.

I moan a lot about not reading enough. It's a passion of mine, I have a feverish desire for books and I want to be in them, always. I'm just in motion (be it my pinwheeling arms trying to regain balance or A GRIP ON MY LIFE) and never have time to really dent the books I'm always reading. So I'm still buried in A Dirty Job by Christopher Moore. It was strange and unlikely to appeal to me at first (what with the paranormal, which seems up my dark and twisted alley but it's usually not) but I kept at it and I just love it. It's hilarious and offers constant descriptions of San Francisco. I'm a total sucker for deep city culture (achieved only by authors who live/have lived there, I'm convinced). A lot of Poppy Brite's stories take place in New Orleans (or Missing Mile, who's with me?!) but it was her series of Liquor, Prime, and Soul Kitchen that have gotten me obsessed with being a tourist in the remains of the French Quarter and stumbling along the narrow Bourbon St.

Point being: I read a lot today. And it was nice.

To preface the funniest line I read today or possibly ever, Charlie is the owner of an apartment building that Ms. Ling rents in, and his dogs are humping him: "Ms. Ling couldn't help but do a a quick appraisal of the monetary value of the slippery red dogwoods currently pummeling her landlord's oxford-cloth shirt like piston-driven leviathan lipsticks." The violent/hurl laugh result almost made a Diet Coke explosion.

Between three girls, two cars and one truck - we have to get from meeting point A to big, heavy TV pick-up point B, transport to truck, unload at new place, and return owners to correct vehicles. You're on the edge of your seat in anticipation for that outcome, I know. Calm down, seriously.

-Pretty Lush

A fire in your pants

Well, it's Friday and it's pay day.

And it's one day closer to: moving day, San Francisco departure (picture this Lush, white wine in hand, waving goodbye to LA as her seatmate has a panic attack next to her - must remember to bring good, calming drugs) and a quadrillion other exciting things about this summer.

And where is my focus? On my vagina, or as Kiddo might suggest, va-jeen. Out drinking with the ladies last night, two+ Cape Cods down and there's this subtle burn going on in my nethers, demanding my attention. As time passed, the pain exacerbated. I text Dr. Krazy Bitch for diagnosis today and she confirms what I thought was true: UTI. I'm flushing it out one way or another, if only because I don't want to be prodded by anyone but my boyfriend and my insurance rates went up. What was once a reasonable co-pay will now have me 'netting for holistic remedies. Will I get the same effect if I put vodka in my cranberry juice? This is not at all rhetoric.

I'm off to pick up some craigslist furniture. I'm still young/cheap enough to glorify the hand-me-down.

Love to the mothers this weekend - our job is madness with a smile - and everyone else as well.

-Pretty Lush

Home Sweet Home

On the way to work this morning, I passed a fish store that triggered the memory of the previous night's dream: I bought dozens of strange multi-colored fish and let them loose in my tank (suddenly giant, as opposed to reality-sized, which is ten gallons). They swarmed my precious slider, Jack, and ripped his leg off. I saw it moving down toward the rocks, drifting like a leaf, and had this panic attack of anxiety that all of these fish would kill my turtle and I had no freakin' idea what to do because I couldn't just reach in and save him. THEY WOULD EAT ME.

In reality, I should get some (small, likely gold) feeder fish for Jack to get carniverous on. It's quite the show.

Last night, Kiddo was left to her own devices for a few minutes while I posted some skinny pants (giving up) on Ebay. When I returned to the bedroom, she was drawing a princess (cringe) with a huge triangular body. I asked what the triangle shape was all about and she said, "It's a princess shirt." Oh. On the back of the princess page was a drawing of Jeff and I with a heart between our heads. Underneath, she had spelled out our names and wrote, "is frenble." It took a few seconds for me to realize she had sounded out 'friendly' and switched up her B & D. I didn't have the heart to correct the error but I grinned like the pround parent I am.

After work, Ree and I viewed the apartment as planned. We'd only seen a similiar layout, as her friend lives in a unit across the way. When we entered the lovely little dwelling, a man on a cane hobbled out to us, hollering, "Turn around, turn around!" Which sounds like a stick-up in recollection but I could have outrun this guy on my knees. His threat level was nil. He explained that he didn't want us to judge the place based on it's current condition because it was the type of place that your friends say 'has potential.' We toured and he promised new floors and paint, etc. From what we could tell, the previous resident was a cat loving, wine drinking woman with a wallpaper fetish. Despite the half-scraped stickers on the doors, the rust stains in the vinyl, the yellowing walls, I was so completely in love with the place I almost stripped naked and pressed myself to a bare wall. We're mailing our applications tomorrow and I'm almost positive it's a go from there. June will be a busy month with this move and our San! Fran! Cisco! Trip!

It may take a cocktail or nine, but we'll be fine.

-Pretty Lush

Time out for glee

I just booked a flight to San Francisco! June is way, way too far away right now.

Auction Happy

Maybe it's the heat that causes me to sleep all naked-sprawl, or maybe it's my tasty blood cells, but my body has been bit to shit by some fucking critters. The bites are everywhere and I'm raking my stubby nails relentlessly up and down over the bumps. The relief is almost orgasmic. My ankles are going to be dripping blood and I'll be sitting back in my swivel chair, panting and spent.

I'm thanking all things holy (like Tivo & Abba Zabbas) for v-tunnel.org. It's a gateway to my sad little addictions like Ebay and Diablo Cody's blog. (My company blocks all the good shit.) Having access has sent me on a spending spree -- I'm bidding on things just because I can. I'll have to curb that right quick if I anticipate buying my plane ticket to 'Frisco in the next two weeks. (Aaaaawwww yeeeeeaaaaaah, I'm gonna be set loose in the bay area once again, and this time I won't get dumped for a trampy little skank hoe that gets all up in my life the second I leave town!) My excitement can hardly be contained (YOU JUST TRY TO CONTAIN IT!) as I'm bursting at the seams with fruit flavor and exhilaration.

Time to nuke the leftovers and fall face down in my gorgeous book.

-Pretty Lush has outbid you.