Who’s there?

No one. Absolutely no one.

I’m assuming that’s what your response to this post will be. Since I’ve been gone for several months, and in the world of the internet that’s like trying to brush off some Brontosaurus bones and make her walk again. I accept my fate. And to you who are reading (Mom), I’ve missed you. Really, really badly.

<stretching out typing fingers and trying to make brain synapses happen>

Ahem.

So…

Some people are born into money. Others are born into poverty. I on the other hand, was born into the fate of working every weird job on the planet.

I’m still working at the casting studio part-time. Full-time I audition and act — that in itself is a Mexican soap opera. But, today I’m gonna focus on the studio.

Part of my job is to sit in the room after a callback while the ad agency, the production company, and the director all deliberate on what actors they want to cast. And oh lawdy, is it ever a process. No, calling it a process would be unfair to science. Often, the deliberation period is more like drinking 5 Adios Motherfuckers, spinning around in circles, and then trying to play pin the pasties on the stripper. It’s a formal shit show.

Now, there are amazing commercial directors who actually know what they’re doing, don’t take themselves too seriously, and with the confines of advertising, create an amazing product. I believe these guys are true artists.

And then there are the rest of them.

In my two years of working at the studio, it’s kind of remarkable that I’m still an actor, knowing how some people talk about us after a callback.

“Yeah, let’s just put Horseface with Fatty. She’s so ugly she’d have to marry a fat guy anyway.”

That’s an actual quote.

The worst is when they start talking shit about one of your friends who had a callback.

That’s when I bury myself in my phone in a gripping game of Bejeweled so as not to mortally injure someone. I’ve gotten incredibly daft at the hard earned skill of NOT LISTENING. You can’t. Or else you end up an alcoholic. Or in jail.

Which reminds me of last week, when I worked a series of callbacks for the same client. They just couldn’t find anyone good enough for the role… The role of saying two lines… There was just absolutely NO ONE who they felt could pull it off. So they auditioned everyone in town. And isn’t it crazy, in a city full of artists, not one person could say the two lines. I mean, WOW! Whodda thunk?!

<banging head on cement wall>

This is how it breaks down: there is bottomless money in advertising and these people who are making decisions of which actors will be in commercials are for the most part, on vacation. They fly in from New York, or Chicago, or bumfuck wherever and—

It’s pretty in LA! It’s warm here! There are so many pretty people! We can’t wait to nit-pick the shit out of them! And there’s free food and free booze and a free suite at the Chateau and there’s slaves to fetch you things!

“Get me a pen! No, a blue pen! No! A blue pen made in Monaco!”

But best of all, there’s a sea of actors who need us! They need us to pick them so they can pay their rent. So they can eat. So they can call home and say, “Hey! I booked a StarKist Tuna commercial! See, I’m making something of my life!”

Oh good gawd, you see my daily spiral?

Anybreakdownontheway, the other day was my final day working this series of callbacks for the same clients. They had now extended their vacation for a week because they still couldn’t find that one perfect person. This would be a good time to note that NOT ONCE did they ever look me in the eye or answer any of my questions. Not once. They were that cool.

And apparently not finding the right actor was more than the director could handle. So, he stopped the callback halfway through so that hishealer could come to the studio and give him a healing.

I mean…

I mean WHAT?

You are a grown-up. You are getting paid tens of thousands of dollars EACH DAY to do your job.  SO DO IT ALREADY!!!

Meanwhile, we all waited while he went into a private back office with the healer (not before he complained that the office was too small…)

I’m pretty sure that the healer was just a stripper that he pays to urinate on. After his session, he still didn’t acknowledge that I was infact a homosapien so I cannot confirm that any “healing” occurred. Dick.

Oh but see, it’s people like this who, as actors, decide our fate. Oh goddamn, just typing that sentence made me put my fingers in my ears and spout, “mumumumumumumumum I can’t hear anything, mumumumumum, I don’t wanna know what’s going on, mumumumum.”

So yeah, marijuana’s helpful. So is wine. For the month of January though I’m doing a little cleanse (because see, being a citizen of California you must do a cleanse). I’m not drinking or smoking during the week. It’s a torture I wouldn’t even wish upon the guys who are a 10 on the Dickter Scale. But it’s also good. Cuz see, I’m back. Back to my piss and vinegar HHHing ways.

Hey, slave, get me a Perrier!

Anyfloozy, as you know, I’m the proud parent of a child who made honor roll. [Translation: I wuv my doggy and kids irritate me.] A couple times a week I take her to the dog park. In a former life (i.e. my 20s) I wouldn’t have believed I was capable of such domesticity (yes, I classify this as being domestic, along with putting on clean clothes). The dog park presents all sorts of hilarity—dogs humping, licking a-holes, and rolling in poop being the least of it. Typically it’s the insanity of the dog owners that has me fully entertained (I know this doesn’t say much for me).

But I digress…the only really snoozefest part of the park are the Golden Retrievers. They’re about as exciting as watching dust collect. I fall asleep every time one prances by. They just rub me the wrong way like Jesus freaks and cheerleaders.

“Oh, they’re so smart, and tender around children, and eager to please.”

Pft. First of all, I only like the word “tender” if it’s being used to describe chicken nuggets and second, I don’t respect something that’s sooo eager to please. I want my dog to have random acts of misbehavior. You know, if she’s around a Yorkie who’s being a real asshole, I want my dog to give it a paw across the face. Nothing to hurt the Yorkie, but just a little reminder that just because you’re tiny, and cute and worth a ton of money, doesn’t mean you can be an asshole, okay Miley Cyrus? So check yourself.

Oh, what, you do house work now? Give it a rest.

A Golden Retriever’s way too much of a nice guy to stand up for himself. Pathetic. And a Golden Retriever would never just one day take a random shit on the floor. My dog will though. Yeah, every now and then, just a random shit on the floor, just to remind me that she’s not too eager to please me.

But see, I love that. I mean, at the time I’m FIRED UP because I have to clean up stanky ass-loaf but really, there’s days when I fucking hate my life and I’d really love to drop a load on the floor. Or when you’re really hungover, lying in bed, but you have to pee like a mofo. You know once you stand up bricks will start crushing your skull together. If you knew someone else was going to clean it up for you, wouldn’t you just love to piss the sheets? Even just once, for the thrill of it. Some idiot human is going to clean it up for you—fucking jackpot.

I want to live vicariously through my dog. Hump every and any piece of ass that walks by, eat anything I can get my mouth on. Because when you’re a dog, there’s no bikini to fit into, so fuck it! Eat till I puke! And then eat my puke! I’d sleep all day, tear up the couch, just because it’s Wednesday. And for reals, I don’t want my dog to be too good or else when it dies I’ll be devastated. I want to look back at the day she gave a Pomeranian stitches and then took a dump on my area rug and be like, hmm, think I’ll buy a fern.

Mostly just working. Socializing, auditioning, getting my feet back on the ground after the assquake that was 2010, but mostly just working.

There was some grand mistake made when I was born into the working class. I was meant for far greater things. Things like, doing nothing. I need more nothing in my life. I crave some good old-fashioned wall staring. But until I can actualize my destiny, I will have to cope with being a werkin jerk, with intermittent moments of the ridiculi.

Since we were together last, I’ve had several moments of ridiculi (naturally), but one moment sticks out and can be additionally filed into the sub-category of mortification.

Lemme preface this story with a simple fact: I’m terrified of filing my tires with air. It’s one of those reasonless fears like some people have towards creepy crawlies. Deep, deep down inside my bone marrow I’m convinced the tire’s going to explode in my face.

I usually “just so happen to notice” that I need air when any unexpecting male is in my car. I kidnap them to the gas station so they’re obliged to perform the terrifying task. I do believe it’s the one time that I completely and utterly pull the chick card.

But for an entire week, the “low tire” light on my dash had been on. I was working a bazillionty hours and couldn’t find the time to perform the kidnapping of a penis. After a week of that light mocking me, I decided that I needed to grow the fuck up, become an independent woman for chrissakes, and put air in my tires.

After giving myself 476 pep talks, I drove to the gas station and eyed my formidable opponent: the air machine. Gulp. Diarrhea. Vomit.

I unscrewed all the caps, slid my four quarters in (btw, four quarters for AIR?! Goddamn crazy is what that is) and took a deep breath. And then. Pressed. Go!

Air shot out of the hose like a machine gun. I ran around like a maniac, shooting air into each tire with my eyes closed. I don’t know how to read the gauge of how low each tire is (yeah, yeah, I know) so I just put air in every tire till the hose turned off. When it did turn off, I stood up, sweating, huffing and puffing, a little light headed, and reeking of pride. I puffed up my chest, having just slayed the dragon for all to see and noticed that I had some admirers of the male variety.

Two mensies in particular were staring at me, with gaping mouths and wide eyes. This is when I fully realized just how cool I was. Yeah, that’s right, boys, I just filled my tires with only the help of my vagina. I’m pretty goddamn awesome. I’m an independent, fearless woman who can do anything. I gave a cocky toss of my hair and sauntered over to screw on the first tire cap thingamajig.

But upon looking down, I saw that my entire left boob was exposed. MY ENTIRE BOOB. Not just a nipple, oh no, the full handful of boobtown, swinging out of my v-neck shirt. I wasn’t wearing a bra, cuz let’s face it, they’re more show than anything for me, and apparently in my intense concentration and fear swallowing, I didn’t notice that my BOOB was exposed for all to see.

I looked something like this:

Oh sweet Jesus.

I cupped the sucker and shoved it back into my shirt. I swung open the door and Greg Louganis’d into my car, bonking my head on the steering wheel. Oh god oh god oh god ohgodohgod!!!

I started my engine and trying to act as normal as possible, screeched my way out of that gas station, mensies still staring. I couldn’t stop laughing. I mean, who shows off their boob at a gas station? Me. Apparently I do. But even the public nudity didn’t ruin my feelings of pride for tackling my fear and putting air in my tires.

Until I looked at my dashboard and saw that damn “low tire” light still on. God fucking damnit. Maybe I’ll just stick with being a werkin jerk.

Okay, so if you remember (I know there’s a weekend and probably some boozing in between), I was about to make the momentous decision of what flavor Slurpee I was going to get. I was 7 years old, fresh off the commune, it was my first Slurpee and for all I knew, my last, so I better make a good goddamn choice.

Now there was the blue raspberry that Mrs. Cuntalot picked; that did seem intriguing…but I didn’t want to give her the pleasure of being a copy-cat and I was still pretty convinced that “blue raspberry” was just a liar’s term for rotten fruit. Then there was the green apple that her daughter the Gremlin got and then mixed with the blue raspberry. That combo produced a color similar to that of cat diarrhea if the cat had just drank an apple martini. I’m not a fan of cat diarrhea, especially of an alcoholic cat with no taste in good booze, so the mixing of the two was out.

And then I saw it, a Coke flavored Slurpee. Jizzitty jackpot biznatches. I had never had a soda, much less The Coca Cola and I had never had anything with caffeine. Bring on the crack. I had to face facts—I may never be back to 7-11 again, so I needed to maximize this opportunity. I needed to get the most bang for my crumpled up, sweaty buck.

Poured, purchased, lid on, red-scooper-straw in the hole—come to mama. I closed my eyes, wrapped my chapped lips around that straw and I sucked. And when it hit my tastebuds…

…

Eh. It was o-kay.

I figured the disappointment must just lie in the first taste. Like the first time you have sex. I needed to acquaint myself to these new flavors and textures before I could fully appreciate them. I took another sip.

Meh.

I mean, it wasn’t awful, but it surely wasn’t something to spend my lunch money on. It was sloppy joe Tuesday and even though I didn’t know what a sloppy joe was, I was pretty sure I wasn’t gonna get it at home.

I wondered if Gremlin’s cat diarrhea Slurpee was any better. This is an actual photo of Gremlin, btw. Just so you can put the face to the name.

“Hey Gremlin, I’ll trade you a sip of mine for a sip of yours?”

“Coke Slurpees are gross,” Oh great, so she knew this and didn’t warn me? Butthole. She continued, “But I guueeessss you can have a sip of mine. Just a little sip though.”

And so I did. And that goddamn cat diarrhea, alien vomit Slurpee was HEAVEN. Shiiiiiiit. I totally blew it. BeeeLEW IT. Let slip my one and only chance at legal crack cocaine. A life of pinto beans, brown rice and kale awaited me.

The depression hit me hard and fast. Everything went dim and far away. All I felt was my own despair. As if I had fallen into a K Hole without the K. I came back to a semi-conscious state and I tried to play it off like I was loving my Coke Slurpee, fully committed to my choice, but inside I was dying a thousand deaths. It was worse than being on the Price Is Right and choosing door #2 when the Chevy Malibu was actually behind door #3. Worse.

I finished that goddamn Coke Slurpee. I had to. Even if I didn’t like it I needed every gram of pure, refined sugar, every ounce of caffeine, every minute of the resounding sugar crash, and every moment of feeling normal.

Slowly I began to get over my 7-11 depression. Especially once I found out that they had some candy as cheap as a dime and that I was pretty good at convincing Mrs. Cuntalot that a 7-11 diet makes you skinny so we should go there as much as possible.

As Cuntalot’s muffin top grew, so did my taste for Now N Laters, Airheads and Charleston Chews. Whether the situation fits or not, I can pretty much always sum up my life with the same Nelly quote:

“Tell em, fuck the shame. Tell em fuck the game, don’t let the game fuck you.”

HHH out.

My hair wasn’t really curly till I hit puberty so I braided it at night to achieve this awesome effect.

There was a chunk of years after we moved to the city that if I had to describe them in one word it would be uncomfortable. I’m an only child so I really had to figure everything out about living in civilization on my own. Picture Encino Man living in my 7 year old body. People, I mean having to wear clothing was new, if that gives you even a glimpse. Not that we were naked all the time on the commune, but clothing was optional and I often opted out. Unless you consider the occasional finger symbals and pink tutu clothing.

My parents ate only the purest foodstuffs imaginable, and thus, so did I. I mean, they were hippies for chrissakes. As a kid, leafy greens, beans and rice were the staple. I didn’t even know any different. But when we moved to civilization there was a smorgasbord of crap that I was hell-bent on ingesting.

Okay, so I’m being baby-sat by the same Mrs. Cuntalot who took me to the circus and laughed at me when I took off all the cotton shit on the cotton candy and then looked at the stick in quandary. (Sorry Mrs. Cuntalot, we didn’t have disgusting, fucking cotton candy on the commune. How am I supposed to know that you’re supposed to eat pink hair?)

(This is an actual photo of Mrs. Cuntalot)

So while she’s baby-sitting me, her and her gremlin, carrot-topped daughter decide we should go to 7-11. FUCKING BONANZA. I never so much as stepped foot in a 7-11 and I was steee-oked. Mrs. Cuntalot, you just might redeem yourself yet…It was hotter than a fat man’s crotch out so they decide we needed Slurpees (you can see this was them making all of the decisions; I was just trying to act like I’ve done this a million times before.)

So Mrs. Cuntalot gets raspberry and it was BLUE. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’ve eaten raspberries and they’re red, mothafucka. I figure this is my chance to show them that I know a thing or two.

“Mrs. Cuntalot? I don’t know if you should get that flavor. I think it might’ve gone bad because raspberries are actually red.”

I bet you can imagine what happened next. Laughing, pointing, head shaking—snickering from every direction. I don’t remember (because I was in a mortified blackout), but knowing the characters of those two, I’m sure they told everyone in the 7-11 just how fucktarded I was.

“Um, it’s blue raspberry,” she snorted.

Oh duh!!! My bad! Apparently 7-11 has the monopoly on the great, fabled blue raspberry of the Adirondack. Pft.

“Oh.” I quickly tried to save face and figure out what the fuck was going on. Is 7-11 a bunch of liar, liar, pants on fires or have my parents been hiding these delicious blue raspberries from me? Damn hippies!

Then it’s Gremlin’s turn to choose her flavor. Like a little bitch, she decides to mix the blue raspberry with green apple. I was happy to see that once she mixed it up with her scooper straw it became the color of alien vomit.

And so then it was my turn to decide…

To Be Continued (I know, I know, edge of your seats)

Children make it possible.

Whenever I’m around one (or god forbid more than one) I’m constantly paranoid that they’re going to ask me one of their trademark blunt questions.

Like, “why are your boobs so small for a grown-up?” Or, “why do you make less money than my 16- year-old brother?” Or, “will you hold my hand?”

I don’t know. They’re capable of anything.

Moreover, I find their lack of refined motor skills and limited vocabulary tedious.

But then my closest friends went and started having kids (the nerve) and I was horrified to find that I actually (gasp) kinda like the minis. And in some cases, a warm, fluttery feeling in my chest began to grow towards them…I’ve heard this feeling been called “love.”

How is this possible? The little gremlins, with their runny noses and sticky fingers wormed their way into my black, charred heart.

I recently got to see my favorite little girl. She makes the word adorable inadequate. I wish I could see her and be around her joy everyday. She’s beyond words scrumptiously loveable and more hilarious than I could ever dream of being.

As evidenced by our recent interaction in the bathroom. Yes, this is a bathroom story.

While hanging with her parents (and by “hanging” I mean drinking tequila), Most Adorable Girl, who I shall call MAG, came up and grabbed my hand.

“Buffy, have you seen our toilets?” She is 3 and a half years old.

“Why, yes, I have. They’re lovely,” which I followed with an awkward bow and a tip of the imaginary hat.

“Can I show you them again?” asked MAG.

“I would enjoy nothing more.”

She lead me to the bathroom, informing me to shut the door behind. I obediently obliged.

I was the perfect victim.

I thought maybe we’d be glossing on some make-up, putting bows in our hair; I was game for anything. Or so I thought.

MAG effortlessly wore a floor length, poofy dress. Just another Saturday. Even more effortlessly she pulled the dress above her head and walked over to the infamous toilet by which she lured me in. It was at that moment I realized we wouldn’t be doing any girlie activities.

“Oh, do you need to go to the bathroom?” I questioned.

“Yes.”

“Oh, okay, I’ll just come back when you’re done.” Silly, silly me.

“No, I need your help.” In retrospect, what she really meant was, “No dipshit, get your ass over here and help me. I’m 3 and a half.”

“Ohhh. O-kay. You want me to hold up your dress?”

“No.”

“Soooo, you want me to hand you the toilet paper?”

“Nope. I can get it.”

Confusion clouded my face. Perhaps she just wanted the company? I took this as my cue to start telling her a story.

Until she started grunting.

OH MAN. This was way more than I bargained for. So naturally I started to laugh. Duh. See, I’m never around children and adults don’t go number two infront of each other. Watching another human being poop was unchartered territory for me. I might as well have been walking on the moon.

Still unsure of why I was there, through masked chuckles I asked again:

“So MAG, what is it that you need me here for?”

“I need you to wipe my butt.”

No, no. Nonononononono. Nooooo. Seeeee, I don’t wipe butts. Nope, no butt wiping here. Honestly, I don’t even know how. No, this is not something that just comes naturally to women. Good gawd. And suddenly I’m reminded why children terrify me. At any point, they might ask you to wipe their butt.

So I do what comes natural – I laugh. Laugh so hard I’m crying. And sweating. Maybe even peeing. Water was leaking out of every one of my orifices. I wasn’t laughing at her, I was laughing at how ridiculously unsuited I was for this role that I was playing, this role of adult.

I am a failure as a grown-up; I saw it in her eyes. And instead of try, all I could do was laugh until I think even I was farting.

MAG calmly looks over at me, me the rolemodel of maturity and says:

“I think I need some privacy. I’ll call you when I need you.”

Translation: You think I really just wanted to show you the toilet? Jesus Christ, you’re really dumb for an adult. Now get outta here before you ruin my poop.

Sweet Jesus, I got kicked out of the bathroom by a 3 year old. I mean, what kind of a person do you have to be to be kicked out of the bathroom by a 3 year old? Don’t get me wrong, I was relieved. I was clearly not cut out for the job. What job I am cut out for though is going straight to her mom and telling her there was a butt that was going to be needing some wiping.

That and pouring myself another drink.

MAG’s Mom, being one of the most-supreme coolest chicks on the planet, cracked up. In a way though that meant, “You know, this totally happens every day.” Which of course I interpreted as, “I am a childless freak.”

When the dreaded “Buuuuuuffy” came from the bathroom, MAG’s Mom took the lead (gratitude rushing through my veins), but she told me I should come because when we walked in, MAG would be doing something particularly hilarious.

I mean, how cool is this mom?

I must admit, I was dying in anticipation, but still frightened that I was going to be asked to do anything related to poop.

As we opened the door, MAG was standing, dress over head, bent over, legs spread apart, bum facing us.

Ready for the wipe.

Which has become my new motto. I’m starting to love kids. As long as I don’t have to wipe their butts.

The plan was to start the night by popping our male strip show cherries at Hollywood Men. I imagined Hollywood Men to be like one of those strip reviews like the Chippendales or Thunder Down Under. Except, from what I understand, the guys at HW Men are much better looking (it is Hollywood afterall, the land of the underwear model) and the show is much more pornographic.

I, like most women, always thought male strippers were pretty nasty. I imagined the least sexy thing a man could do was dance on stage while sporting a g-string and waving his schlong in my face.

I also imagined all male strippers to look like Fabio.

No gracias.

Well, well, well, I learned a thing or ten that night.

Quick backstory, after I graduated from college I worked in a strip club. (I know, another addition to my resume of absurdity.) It was the typical variety that only had female strippers. And no, I wasn’t one of them. I was a cocktail waitress.

Pinky swear.

Of course, my uniform did include heels, fishnets, and a g-string unitard, but that never came off. More on that insane experience some other time.

But one of the many things that I learned while working at The French Quarter Men’s Club was that men are not allowed to touch the strippers. Dudes must keep their hands to themselves or else there’s a bodyguard all up in their grills. If they go into the VIP room they have some leeway with a little grab and tickle, but for the most part, in every strip club I’ve been to, customers no touchy.

Not so at Hollywood Men. In fact, there appeared to be no rules, as hard as we worked to find them, and then break them. I suppose the only rule was don’t do anything (or have anything done to you) that you wouldn’t want your boyfriend to find a photo of.

Unlike a female strip club, the guys have choreographed dance routines, some solo, some in groups, and characters that they play. And to all of our surprise, they were actually great dancers.

Bravo! Bravo!

And they had quite compelling storylines such as, the best way to get rid of all the hot wax that’s been collecting from a burning candle is to dump it on your chest.

From the moment the first guy stepped on stage, dressed in a fireman’s uniform and jerking off his fireman’s ax (oh yeah, they went there) the audience (all women) went KUH-RAZY. I’m not talking, Barney’s is having a sale crazy, I’m talking Barney’s is giving away all their shit for free crazy. No, no, crazier than that: Barney’s is giving away everything for free, you get an hour massage from a male underwear model and you’ll lose 15 pounds type o’ crazy. The kind of crazy that only the subjugated half of the population can go.

I’m pretty sure I have permanent hearing damage from the screaming. And I may have torn my vocal chords from my own.

Oh, oh, oh, how could I forget—the waiters! The waiters look like this:

And this:

‘Nuff said.

I think all the ladies would agree that the best part of the show was when the Dippers (that’s a new word I just made up. dick + stripper = dipper) came out into the audience for lap dances.

My experience of lap dances are as follows:

1) Stripper approaches customer and asks if he would like a lap dance

2) Customer says yes and pays her said amount

3) Stripper performs said lap dance while customer’s hands are firmly planted by his side

4) The song ends and en fin lap dance

I was expecting a similar such transaction except instead of fake titties in my face, there would be a banana hammock. Actually, I wasn’t expecting anything in my face at all, because I wasn’t planning on having a lap dance. (I suppose there’s one thing in life I’m too prude for … alright, alright, it’s cuz I’m too cheap.)

Little did I know that at Hollywood Men, you’re getting a lap dance (or 7) and that’s that. The Dippers come off the stage and decide (by picking you up and putting you in a chair, well okay then! oh my!) who they’ll be gyrating on. And I must say, we were quite the popular table.

Who doesn’t like some dark chocolate?As for what I thought to be the universal “no touching” rule, apparently HW Men has a “must touch” rule … After one of our ladies’ lap dances, she looked up at us with JBF hair and said,

“I think I just got titty fucked. And I liked it.”

That’s sorta how the night went. One surprise after another.

“What? This old thing?”The best part (besides getting to ride the rollercoaster for free…) was getting to see all of these women, who live in a world where we’re not thin enough, sexy enough, pretty enough feel as though we were the hottest women in the world. Hollywood Men should be prescribed as therapy.

Even though the Dippers were being paid, my homegirls and I, who are critiqued everyday on our physical appearance, got to be worshipped by underwear models.

It felt good. It felt right, like making up for lost time. Like some deep, powerful place in us, that the world had tried to smother in feelings of inadequacy, had been reawakened. And we liked it. Viva la banana hammock!

I get in depth with the laws in my piece Sentenced, but today we’re goin to the Pot Doc.

I went to visit my first Pot Doc a year and a half ago. He was an MD who had rented out space (read: a garage) on the Venice Boardwalk (a place where you can’t walk a block without getting contact high). The doctor’s visit was $150, cash, and no appointment necessary. I was in line behind 20 or so other patients and when it was finally my turn to see Dr. Reefer, I got inexplicably nervous.

As if I was about to see the Wizard and he may or may not grant my permission home.

I went into his office and found someone who looked like the love child of a Kiebler Elf and Santa Claus. He examined my paperwork, asked me a few questions about my condition (I have ovarian cysts which cause intense cramping; I also have bouts with insomnia—the symptoms for both of which are alleviated with marijuana). He then checked my vitals and my reflexes and proceeded by writing me a year’s prescription for pot. As in JACKPOT.

I walked outta there like I just learned how to pick winning lotto numbers.

Once you have your prescription you can visit any medical marijuana pharmacy that you wish. Luckily, there are three pharmacies within walking distance from my house. That’s my definition of location, location, location.

Cut to a few months ago my prescrip expired. Oh sad day. My most favorite pharmacy gave me a referral card to a pot doc around the corner and $70 off the exam.

Lemme get this straight—I can walk to my doctor’s appointment and the fee is almost half off? If you know me at all, you know that I’m the laziest person on the planet when it comes to driving and if herpes was on sale I’d buy it.

I made the appointment quicker than you can say rice krispie treat.

The receptionist informed me that I needed to bring doctor’s records of my condition, dating within the last year. Gulp.

I mean, I did go to several doctors about all my iss-ues. In 2003. But after thousands of dollars and Doc after Doc just writing me Rx after Rx for Vicodin and birth control I broke up with Western medicine.

For two years now I’ve been seeing my magical acupuncturist and my condition is far better than it was when I was just pumping pills into my body. But yuknow, sista still wants her medical grade puff puff for all the ales that needles can’t cure. Like my neurotic brain that won’t shut the fuck up and let me sleep.

Anyherb, I didn’t want to bother my acupuncturist with getting written consent for the Pot Doc (it’s a sticky subject I wasn’t dying to broach with Dr. Needles). My only other choice was praying that the marijuana gods would shine down, causing Pot Doc to have a memory lapse when asking for my medical documents.

I also wore a deep v-neck shirt and tight jeans. A girl’s gotta have a Plan B. Fingers crossed Pot Doc was a straight man and the weed hadn’t killed his sex drive.

But I was nervous. Really nervous. I needed a joint for all this anxiety I was creating for myself.

In the waiting room I tried to invent some sort of reason why I didn’t have the documents.

A) “House burned down?”

B) “Umm, my doctor wrote everything in invisible ink?”

C) “I’m blonde. And did I mention I have boobs?”

Yeah, option C was the clear winner.

Amidst biting off all my nails, Pot Doc called me into his office. I was relieved to find that he had an unflattering haircut and an out of date suit. Lookin’ like we got a hetero on our hands here. Go time.

I sat down in his office and he asked me if this was my first time. My legs involuntarily squeezed tighter together. I explained to him that I go to the pharmacy down the street; he glanced over the questionnaire I filled out in the lobby and then he asked me what I usually buy.

I was a little taken off guard, but I rambled off a few of my favorite varietals and edibles, finishing my monologue with a particular chocolate bar. To which Pot Doc says,

“Oh I love that chocolate.”

“Me too!” I blurted, a little too eagerly, just happy to have found something to talk about other than the fact that I didn’t have my medical records.

“Have you ever tried the cannabis drinks?” he continued.

“Yeah!!” again with the excitement, chill the fuck out HHH. Then much more matter of factly, “The horchata flavor is my favorite.”

“Me too!” Now he was the excited one. This was looking good people, real good. I released the death grip I had on my purse and relaxed into the chair. Oh yeah, Pot Doc, I’ll talk cannabis with you all day as long as you sign that little piece o’ paper.

He went on to recommend a few different products to me—marijuana bath salts (yes please!), pot lip balm (sure why not!), and bud breath freshener (make it a double!). He said that he uses the breath freshener right after work so that by the time he’s home, he’s high.

I was really starting to like this guy.

After several more minutes of exchanging tips on which sativas are the headiest and which indicas are the best body high, he merged off topic and told me several stories about his crazy ex-wife who was now his landlord. I consoled Pot Doc and told him that she clearly needed some cannabis bath salts in her life. He agreed.

Yeah, I had this one in the bag.

And then, as an after thought, he stood up and walked around my side of the desk to take my blood pressure. Well alright, if you would feel better with such formalities, I’m game.

As he finished he said,

“Okay Miss Charlet, I’ll see you in a year for your renewal.”

Sweet Jesus!

As I stood up, Pot Doc reached out to shake my hand. With glee and a deep desire to get the F outta there before he changed his mind, I rammed my hand into his. To find that he only had two fingers.

How did I not notice this? I was too distracted by my missing documents. Clearly I’ve known digitless people in my life, but it rarely goes without noticing. Like if someone has two different colored eyes, or backne, or red hair. You notice those things.

And when you shake the hand of someone who only has two fingers, you want to be prepared, not cuz it’s gross, but yeah, it’s a little weird. Where do you hold onto? Anyway, that moment was like taking a glug of what you think to be beer, but it’s really tomato juice. It’s not gross; you just wished you had known it was tomato juice in the first place.

Anywhatevs, I love Pot Doc, his two fingers, and my renewed marijuana prescription. God bless Cali.

Enough with the dramatic period placements, but in my world, 3 weeks is a long mofo time. Unless I’m on vacation. For 3 weeks. Okay really, I’m done.

Our new step-child dog is a Pug. Snoots looks at her like the fat the kid at school who she has to be nice to.

So between working as many hours as a Mexican and the sleep deprivation from the Pug’s snoring, I’m in a constant state of anxiety and fatigue. I shall call this anxigue.

I fear that I’m a humorless drone. Only with a couple funny heres and theres to share.

Heres/Theres #1. You must watch this. It will make you happy. I promise.

There’s a joke going around the office that this was me as a child. I only wish cuz then right now I’d be ruling the world.

Better than anyone…better than anyone.

Heres/Theres #2. Speaking of the office, I was running a callback last week for World Class sprinters. Track stars. Olympians. The real deal. (Jesus, what is it with the excessive punctuation? It must be my anxigue.)

So there’s all these guys in skin tight outfits like this:

Which certainly isn’t the craziest thing I’ve ever seen around the casting facility, but maybe one of the best. I’ve seen worse than a track star in a nearly see-through banana yellow onesie.

Anymeow, it was one of these fine specimen of human form, these thoroughbreds, who uttered one of my favorite pick-up lines evuh. Oh wait, waitwaitwaitwait, lemme you tell you his name first. I know this is probably all bad form and shit to be saying his name, but I can’t help it.

His name is (silent drumroll please)…World Champion.

Not kidding.

Now, did his mother give him that name when he squirted out? I doubt it, but did he get his name legally changed to World Champion, oh yes, he did. Uh-mazing.

So I have World Champion waiting on deck and he says to me:

“Dang, you always eat so healthy?”

Here’s where I should tell you that I wasn’t eating anything. Naturally I was confused, looked around a bit, but when I realized he was talking to me I said:

“Um, I try to?”

“I can tell. You a cheetah.”

That’s right, World Champ called me a cheetah. And THEN he says:

“You’re just the way I like a woman, strong on the bottom, small on the top.”

…

I’m going to decide to take this as a compliment. At least he didn’t say thick on the bottom I suppose.

“Really?”

“Yeah, you’re a cheetah.”

Again with the cheetah.

And then World Champ goes on to say, “And I like the way you answer the phone. You’re the perfect woman.”

Shoulda stopped while you were ahead World Champ. Let’s just leave it at cheetah.

I thanked him, because I couldn’t think of what else to say, and then World Champion, his muscles, and his onesie walked away.

End scene.



You know our beloved Fairfax Jesus Guy? Of course you do. He’s graced my neighborhood and general vicinity of Holly’hood with his holiness and sic hip hop dance skillz since before this blog began.

What you might not know though, is that FJG earns his living by standing on Hollywood Blvd and posing for photos with tourists. Hey, even the son of god has to pay rent.

There’s actually a group of people who make their living in this same way, standing on Hollywood Blvd, infront of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. There’s a Superman, a Marilyn Monroe, an Incredible Hulk, a few Jonny Depp’s from Pirates of the Caribbean, and many more. The city of Los Angeles doesn’t hire these folk; it’s by their own volition that they choose to dress up and take photos with tourists with the hopes of tips.

Hey, we all have our niche.

If you want to see the best documentary EVUH, check out Confessions of a Superhero. Actually, you really just must watch this movie.

I realize I’ve been on a documentary binge lately, but I guess that’s what happens when your own life consists of: work, poop, eat, poop, work, Bravo TV, eat, work, poop. (Who am I kidding? I only wish I pooped that much.)

Confessions follows around Superman, Wonder Woman, Batman and the Incredible Hulk in their daily lives. They range from struggling, out of work actors to spectacular nutcases. Not much more that I love than a good nutcase.

Speaking of Jesus, a few days ago the city of L.A. began arresting these Hollywood Blvd. superheroes. Apparently one now needs a license to dress up and take photos with strangers…And how would one go about obtaining this license? Riding your magic carpet to city hall and giving the Mayor 3 magic beans?

Oh wait, lemme guess…it’s going to be some sort of fee. Then you can carry around a little scrap of paper saying that you’re allowed by the grand city of Los Angeles to dress up in costume and stand on the street.

Hooooow…officially nauseating.

Just more evidence of the city’s absurd fund raising tactics. To be filed in the same category with LAPD stationed around parks writing out tickets upwards of $300 to anyone with a dog not on a leash.

Thank you Mr. Officer—I don’t know what I would’ve done if that Yorkie wasn’t put back on her leash! Golly, I sure will sleep easier tonight.

Cuz that’s what we got here in the City of Angeles, priorities.

Let’s get back to Fairfax Jesus Guy already. A few days after the arrests of Spiderman, Catwoman, Batman, Scooby Doo, Jack Sparrow, Elvis, and several others, I saw a sullen Jesus pulling weeds in his garden. I mean, if Jesus is depressed, is there any hope for the rest of us?

Batman being arrested. And that’s not the fanny pack fashion police.

So I began to think, what kind of job will FJG get now? Once you’re Jesus, you can’t just get any regular old job. FJG would be a terrible waiter—he doesn’t seem to be in much of a rush and I don’t think his hair and beard would be up to health code. He couldn’t be a teacher, all that church and state rigamaroll.

And so, I’ve come up with several job ideas for our beloved FJG now that he’s unemployed.

1) Being my personal assistant.

Ever since I began working a bazillionty hours, I barely have time to do all the necessary chores in life, much less keep up with my strict Bravo and cocktailing schedule. The job requirements would include, but not limited to: performing all mundane house chores; organizing my TiVo and creating a rigorous viewing schedule; walking Bella and examining her poop to confirm that her bowels are working properly; and finally, congratulating me daily on my large brain and shapely thighs.

The pay is shit, but the benies are decent. I make a mean cocktail and encourage drinking on the job. And we’re neighbors, which would eliminate a commute. An extinct concept in L.A.

2)…

Ya got me, that’s the only idea I came up with, but isn’t it a terrific one? When you hit it out of the park with your first try, why continue? I mean, how could he say no? Doesn’t Jesus have to say yes?

Oh I CANNOT WAIT to drink margaritas with him as he folds my laundry! But don’t get me wrong, this is purely a selfless act on my part. I asked myself, “Self, what can you do to make the world a better place?” And I answered, “I can let unempolyed Jesus wash my dishes.” I’ve brushed off the title of saint before, but this time, I may acquiesce.

Maybe I’ll even invite his out of work superhero pals over for game night. [Note to self: in his training, make sure FJG knows how to make all my favorite snackity snacks.] We’re going to make magic, he and I. First, we’ll he’ll conquer my dirty toilet bowl, then Los Angeles, ultimately the world. Together, me and FJG, one episode of Real Housewives at a time.

Now all he has to do is say yes. Details.

I better get a special place in heaven for saving Jesus.