As the title suggests, a terrible book was recommended to me by a woman who thought she was helping. As the fates would have it, she and this book DID help me, but in a way she, nor the author, would have ever expected.
But first . . . over 3 years of memories from a “not-relationship”.
It’s the spring of 2014. I’m standing in line at a terrible club, and my drunk is wearing off. I am bored. I’m sad. I’m getting over my ex of a year and a half, who I dumped because he wanted to get married and have babies and I am 24 and nowhere near ready to do anything. And I just want to feel something, something that makes me feel powerful for just a second. The second I get in that club, I walk up to the first guy I see on the dancefloor.
If you are an “avid follower” of this blog, whatever that means, you are familiar with my lack of travel grace and dignity. If you are not, don’t worry about it. (Spoiler: I'm a ball of nerves, and am certain I will die on a plane.)
This year, I flew home to Arkansas for Christmas. I refused to pay the $700+ it was going to be to fly into XNA (Northwest Arkansas Regional Airport), the closet airport to my family’s home, so the next best thing was Tulsa. I got an amazing deal on a round trip flight out of Burbank through Southwest Airlines, so I saved myself by not flying out of the dreaded LAX. In short, I was relieved. My patience was not tested too greatly, every flight was on time, and Southwest Airlines appears to only hire kick ass people. I’m a fan. I support them. (This is not an ad.)
I did, however, walk away with 2 stories of comedic gold, and I had absolutely nothing to do with it, I swear. I was merely an observer in these 2 tales of mayhem, and I bring those stories to you now. So please, fasten your seat belts, switch that phone over to airplane mode, and prepare for takeoff.
It’s 11:50pm, and I’ve just pulled off of the PCH into a very small, side parking lot by the Pacific Ocean. I’m close to the Santa Monica pier, but far enough away that I don’t have to deal with people. I’ve just gotten off work, cater-waiting a New Year’s Eve party at a private home in Malibu. The people were nice. They did not turn on the TV to watch the ball drop. They wanted to spend the end of their year with each other. They let us leave early. I had no other plans. I did not want to be in my car when the clock struck 12, so here I am. At the ocean at night. There’s a couple in the parking lot smoking a bowl, waiting to watch the pier’s fireworks. They acknowledge me with a, “Happy New Year”.
I do not "fly well". I am neurotic, easily annoyed, and I over-pack. There are lines. There are people, everywhere. There are small spaces that, yes, I fit into with ease, but that does not mean I enjoy them. And though I always treat myself to a new book from Hudson Booksellers, I am rarely pleased with my purchase. It’s always a waste of a day, and a loss of control. For me, it is always a lesson in humility.
Holiday travel has never shown me a kindness. Each year, I end up with an 8-12 hour delay, making a should be 6 hour travel day triple into a 24 hour experience of Satan. I’ve seen Satan in an airport. I’ve felt his hot, nasty coffee-breathe. He is not the charming, more beautiful than all the jewels of the Earth Lucifer the Bible says he is, oh no. He’s a lady in an infinity scarf, shoving her 4 bags she somehow snuck onto the plane into MY personal space, and trying to have a conversation with me about how TSA took EVERYTHING from her, and all I want to do is sleep. There isn’t enough alcohol in the world, and I still have yet to get a Xanax prescription.
I always end up crying for, truly, no valid reason. The amount of times someone has asked me, "Are you okay?", in an airport are far too many to count. Once outside of LAX, when I was waiting on the FlyAway bus to get it’s shit together (it was an hour late), I was so spent, I just put my head in my hands and shed a few “woah is me” silent tears, and I felt a hand on my back, and a very calm, “Hey, there. Can I help you?” As I hate being touched, in general, and especially hate being touched unexpectedly, and EVEN MORE SO WHEN I AM “HAVING A MOMENT”, I turned abruptly to the man with a look of deep rage. He retracted his touch immediately, put both hands up in defense, and uttered, “Annnnnd, looks like you want me to fuck right off.” And he LITERALLY ran away. No one should talk to me in airports. I am my worst self.
There’s no question about it, blogging is included in one of the circles of hell.
The term Petty Wap was introduced to me, possibly coined?, by a dear friend of mine who shall remain nameless. I am forever grateful to her for keeping me updated on what the kids are doing and saying these days.
Y'all... I am a 28 year old woman. That's not old, but it's old enough to, as my mother puts it, "know better".
Here are some texts I've sent to 'gentleman callers' where I haven fallen short of "knowing better".
This post was previously featured on Tammin Sursok's blog Bottle & Heels.
This is a collection of stories that all connect...ish. The best way to read them is to pretend you’re floating in a lazy river. Don’t question it. Just keep drinking that “road-margarita” you snuck into the water park (probably hiding in a Sonic cup), and keep floating down that man-made, chlorine smelling “river”. It all works out, I swear.
I have had the luxury of dating in LA for 5 years. I’ve loved and not loved, casual-ed and full on relationship-ed quite the collection of people, who include but are not limited to: a writer, a stuntman, a YouTuber, another writer, an actor, a hot as fuck bartender, a musician, probably another writer?, a comedian, a chef, a two-time Emmy award winning producer, a cocaine dealer… a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker… okay, those last three are lies, but one of the writer’s was pretty handy so I’m sure he could make a candle or two. Out of them all, only the cocaine dealer was a bad choice. That story is for another time... I (usually) date genuine, good people, and have grown from every experience. However… as I conclude this portion of the thought-essay I’m writing while drinking a bottle Charles Shaw 2014 Shiraz, let’s get it straight – I’m still single. Single as fuck. Also, this wine is…. really bad, y’all. Liiiiiike, it tastes like the $3 I spent on it were shoved into the bottle, then Smirnoff poured into it, then left out in the sun since 2014. There cannot be real grapes in here.
This was previously posted on Tammin Sursok's blog Bottle & Heels.
I did not take French in high school. I went the practical route and took Spanish. I still say gracias “grassy ass”, but that’s not my fault. I learned Spanish (and English, for that matter) in Arkansas. I escaped Arkansas in 2012 and have never looked back.
I have lived in Los Angeles for 4 years. In my time here, I have heard of a magical land in West Hollywood where you can meet every celebrity and movie mogul of your dreams. This land sits atop a tower overlooking the LA skyline (whatever that is) and it’s adjacent hills, and smells like lavender room spray and money. They call this land…SoHo House.