If You Could Read My Mind

So I'm walking Gatsby today, and these two women of Unidentified Eastern European Descent, who I assume are a too-lenient young mom and teenage daughter with a nose ring team, spot him and start cooing like Russian canaries. This happens a lot. I have an adorable dog. Whether I'm sporting a night gown with Universal Studios cap (Shut up. I got it in sixth grade) at the crack of ten, or drunkenly stumbling with the pup for a three a.m. pee, it's a reality I've learned to deal with: I walk the little guy, people are going to stop to pet him.

This is why at first, I'm not phased when the mother-daughter pair drops to their knees on Santa Monica Blvd. and hits him with the usual barrage of questions and back handed compliments, all delivered in dripping, sotto tone, "What are you? You like to eat, don't you? You're like a chubby sheep with horrible breath. Yes, you are." Thirty seconds of this I tolerate. Like I said, I'm used to it. But beyond that, it just gets awkward. How long am I supposed to stand lurking over my dog and his harem, acting like the useless dumb human, the blonde chopped liver? Ninety seconds deep, it's really getting uncomfortable. There's only so long I can pretend to be interested in the pile of barf and cheetos in the gutter. Further, these ladies aren't even talking to the dog any more. They're taking turns sucking on his hairy mouth and squeezing his belly so hard I may soon have a new vomit puddle to focus on. I want to speak up for poor Gatz, tell these women enough is enough and remind them that surely they've crossed mother/daughter tongue swords in the midst of this canine 'seven minutes in heaven,'.

I am, however, far too nonconfrontational for that, so I just pull on his leash and make a mental note to have him tested for doggie oral herpes.

At this point, Young Mom leaps to her feet and gets in my face. "I do spiritual readings. I am getting a very strong read from you." Nose Ring Girl leaps up and nods in agreement. I want to tell them I don't believe in that crap, and they're making me late for my mid afternoon jelly and crackers snack, but again with the no balls thing, so I offer every pussy's favorite form of rejection, "Do you have a card I can take?" Young Mom fishes through her purse. She can sense that she's losing me. Her eyes grow wider. Her accent gets thicker. She's entering act-like-a-real-psychic mode. "Who is this person you've been having trouble with lately? Someone who you're having a disagreement with?" She shoots me a 'gotcha' look so severe I'm forced to rack my brain. Bank of America? But I always disagree with them, and they're not really a person. Dr. Phil? Is it really a disagreement if he doesn't know I exist? Pineda the parking enforcement guy? Finally, I just have to break the news to her gently. "I'm sorry, no. There is no one."

She quickly switches to psychic go-to number two,"You're heartbroken over a man. You don't know if he's thinking about you." Poor old cow. She pulled the love lorn card on me, the serial monogamist, me the who's had a boyfriend longer than Scrubs has been on the air. I don't want to tell her this though. I'm afraid it will break her little gypsy heart, so I smile nervously and respond, "Maybe?"

"Maybe!" she and the kid think they've got me. They move closer in. Mom slaps a pink business card into my hand. "You're smiling on the outside, but inside you're sad." Hmm...kind of like someone who's stuck uncomfortably between the faces of two aggressive Natashas?

"I'll think about it," I smile even bigger.

"You haven't been happy in a long time," she hits back.

I nod, and giggle nervously and again try to defend myself with, "Maybe?"

I scoot away.

"You used to be happy!" is her last and best sales pitch, which she hisses at me as I writhe away with my has-been dog, reading her card as an assurance that I'm giving her psychic wares some serious consideration.

Available for Parties. Fabulous. What social gathering is complete with out an off putting woman bombarding my guests with negative blanket statements. Perhaps she does requests: "Can you just remind everyone that we're all going to die, and sprinkle in a little 'you don't think you're good enough,' and 'you'll never be truly happy'?'"

I don't think I'll hire her, though. If she was truly psychic, she would have read my level of poverty and known that I don't have money for a Pinkberry, much less a psychic. She would have known I felt bored and neglected as she and Nose Ring made me into my dog's wing man, and she would have known that the one pressing question I would like an answer to is: "How old will I be when I get my pet monkey, and will I allow strangers to violate him, too?"

Suck it, Neighbor

I don't want to be writing this right now. I was trying to take a nap. Don't judge. I've taken mid afternoon naps since I was a teenager, and I'm so addicted to them I'd probably need the sleep equivalent of methadone to kick the habit. Plus, at least twice a year, yahoo news posts an article about how beneficial power naps can be, and if there's one source I trust, it's yahoo news. Sadly, howver, it looks like I'll have to trudge through the remainder of my day sans delicious nap because once again, my neighbor is singing in the shower.

And this isn't your run of the mill shower singing. My neighbor, a wiry legged man with a five o'clock shadow/tan in a can blonde with a D cup is practicing his/her (depending if it's day or night) rendition of 'Cocaine is a Girl's Best Friend'. It's a catchy, fun little number set to Marilyn Monroe's 'Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend', and she is pulling out all the stops. Full vibrato, lots of pizzaz. I can hear the jazz hands through the wall. There's even a section where she breaks it down, belting at full throttle: "I ain't talking 'bout no crystal meth. Co-caine..is a...gi-irllls beeest fr-ieeend!" I would be annoyed, but I know she's got a gig tonight hosting Bingo at Hamburger Mary's. Besides, he/she's not my most annoying neighbor.

There's also Gloria, the post-op Puerto Rican who has a fake flower adorned crucifix hanging from her front door. Gloria has calves the size of rump roasts and she spends her days alternating between thumping around her apartment in what must be lead soled high heels, and fucking so loudly and roughly, she must make the patrons across the street at the Tomcat cringe. Gloria isn't my most offensive neighbor, either.

Nor is Desiree, my old next door neighbor from downstairs (nee Dimitre, she became Desiree about 8 months after Jack and I moved in. I got her mail while she went to Mexico City to get the snip). Desiree is actually a fabulous neighbor. She works two jobs - check out clerk at Target, and lady of the night. She brings us cookies at Christmas time, and shooes away the homeless when their drunken heckling becomes a bit too abrasive. She also brings over clothes that are too small for her, or as she puts it "not made for big boned girls,". When she was making the switch from Dimitre to Desiree, she brought Jack all of her old man clothes. I accpeted them because I didn't want to be rude. Jack was less than, tickled pink at coming home to a pile of I'm-not-going-to-be-male-any-more hand me downs, but I know deep down, he saw that her intentions were kind. Desiree is actually my favorite neighbor because, while she often seems put together, I think the pressure of holding down two customer service jobs sometimes gets to her, and she's great fun when she becomes scatter brained. Last week, I was driving a friend to the airport at 5:30 am, and I saw Desiree running full speed toward the back of the building. Without me even asking what was wrong, she clued me in, "I threw my purse away!" Who hasn't been there?

My most annoying neighbor is just a plain old straight man. He's overweight, bald, and has a moustache, and has apparently chosen to focus the frustration brought about by these unfortunate facts on us. When my dog barks at the Fed Ex guy, he screams from behind his door "Quiet! Quiet!" When I pass him in the alley and say hi to him, he just averts his gaze like I've asked him for spare change, and mutters, "Hi." He has told us that Jack and I walk really loudly when we're leaving for work in the morning. That's right. We're all living in the midst of a tranny themed Melrose Place, and the daily ten seconds of our footsteps are what he finds disturbing. Now, I'm an open minded person. Turn your tricks, lose your junk, and blow 'em away with your narcotics themed dittys, but dude, don't be a dick.

Hello My Prettys, and Welcome

I've decided to start a blog for the same reason most people do: because I'm quasi-unemployed and a touch narcissistic. (Coincidentally, these are traits that may also lead one to pursue a career in stand up comedy.) I say 'a touch' narcissistic, and not 'full blown' because I am not enamored with my own image. In fact, looking at pictures or videos of myself is about as enticing to me as an Easter basket full of chocolate malted mayonnaise balls. This is why I do not envy famous actors.

It's bad enough that I'm forced to face my voice and image every time I check my voicemail or get some godforsaken tagged facebook picture in my inbox. I cannot imagine being stuck in traffic next to my big old mug when it's been plastered on the side of the MTA.  

There is also the public harassment to consider. I'm not talking about the mutually beneficial shit show that is LiLo and her Electrical Parade of paparazzi flashbulbs. Even middle aged character actors can have a tough time leading a normal life. I was in Rite Aid yesterday, and Ben from Lost was behind me in  line. Just as he placed his Maalox and Windex on the register belt, the woman behind him assaulted him with a barrage of 'You're Ben from Lost! I love you, but I hate you!" Ben from Lost just nodded patiently, "I understand. I understand." Other customers in the store stopped what they were doing and were now staring at the debacle.

"I mean, I really just hate you, but you're so good! Ew! I hate you!" The stock boys emerged from the back to survey the scene.

  I high tailed it out of there. I may have been buying a wagon load of cold medicine, tea, and overpriced herbal tablets, but this woman was truly sick. After one's early childhood and/or hallucinogenic drug phase, there is no excuse for a healthy individual to mistake fiction for fact. Ben from Lost is just a guy who gets up in the morning, goes to work, and delivers some lines that have been written for him by a bunch of highly paid writers. There is no reason to love nor hate him, and there is certainly no reason to squawk at him in public like you've just spotted the car that's currently being announced on Amber Alert. He's just a person whose job requires him to use his image to create a series that is mysterious, melodramatic, and gratuitously frustrating. That said, I would happily take a bit part on Lost. Like I said, I'm quasi-unemployed and a touch narcissistic.