Black Friday

Rather than go shopping on Friday, I chose to drive to San Luis Obispo, change into some lingerie, and run around town with about 250 other scantily clad drunks at the 2005 North/South Intercourse.

Although I danced with many a satin-skinned lad that night, this guy was my favorite, because if you're going to do something, you should do it right:I love a man who can coordinate his pinks and still look like the outfit was no effort.

The pack of us were chasing the guy on the right in this photo. It's amazing that no one caught him in those shoes. Then again, maybe no one wanted to...

Some folks took the run more seriously, donning headlamps and proper running gear:You've got to respect a man who can seriously run in that outfit.

The run ended at a venue with beer, food and a DJ that inspired these two fellows to get down. Notice the garter belt on the guy on the right.

That was Friday night. Yes, I was in lingerie: black bustier top with red satin trim and black panties for all those interested. I left my red feather boa in the hotel because it was drizzling outside and I didn't want to be running around in wet feathers all night. Only one person noticed it was the same ensemble I had worn to another lingerie run seven months prior. Either I had left an impression on him or he hadn't had enough beer.

I think it was on Friday night that I was asked by MM to provide a cock block for him. He was pursuing a lovely lady and making some progress when another man moved in on his prey. MM asked me to come in and divert the other man so I used my feminine wiles to have him escort me to the beer truck while MM fled with the girl. No sooner had I successfully blocked the other man's chances than I turned to see the same girl's fiance! Incredibly enough, MM did get some sort of play from her behind the dance hall - and the same girl offered oral services to MB the very next evening. Ain't love grand?

Incredibly enough, that same evening my belief that chivalry is not dead was restored when I found a man with pigtails and lingerie lecturing JP on what a great girl I am and how he had better marry me or the pigtailed man would kill him. I later recall seeing the same chivalrous man sitting on a bench, legs wide open, his little sausage and franks hanging from his lingerie. According to news sources, I walked up to him and stuffed his package back into the lace panties then casually walked away. Damned ouzo.

At some point I recall stumbling back to my hotel room, alone, in lingerie and a sweatshirt. It was about four blocks away from the party but I still managed to get lost. Damned ouzo.

Saturday morning I slept in and then decided, rather ambitiously, to do the "Ball Buster" run. It was supposed to be somewhere between 8-12 miles long. Thankfully, the hares (guys we were chasing) messed up the trail thereby providing a shortcut. Of course, the shortcut led us through the wastewater canals of downtown San Luis Obispo, including a very dark and treacherous tunnel with no flashlights and lots of stagnant and smelly pools of water. That was fun until we came out of the tunnel to face arctic wind blasts for the last mile back to the hotel.

Saturday night was a blur of barley wine and dancing. I do recall holding the shirt of a man so he could butt chug off his girlfriend. For those who have never butt chugged, it's where one person drops trow and squats over the face of the other. A third person then pours beer down the butt crack of the squatter so it runs into the mouth of the squattee. I have never participated as I prefer mine from a mug. Still, it was fascinating to watch two late 30-somethings conduct themselves in such a manner. Note to boys: the best view is from the rear - unless the squatter is a man.

Sunday was bisquits and gravy at Bon Temps Creole Cafe (go there if you're ever in SLO) and then Sunday holiday weekend traffic home.

Damned ouzo.

The most bizarre Thanksgiving ever

Three things I never thought I'd do on Thanksgiving:

1. Avoid turkey altogether.
2. Hang out at dive tweeker bar.
3. Play put-put golf with tweeker bar owner and his daughter in exchange for Ouzo.

Yep, I did all three. No, I'm not proud of it. That's the short version for you skimmers. Here's the rest for those of you not busy cybershopping:

I woke up early and spent Thursday morning preparing the grand no-turkey-for-you-Thanksgiving-seafood-feast of 2005. People arrived, food was consumed, wine imbibed, and my aunt complained about the lack of Thanksgiving fare while gorging herself on Alaskan king crab legs and stuffed snapper. She even called my grandparents to tell on me for not making a turkey or stuffing. My grandfather said he thought turkey was overrated too and declared that he would fly down for the seafood feast next year. Take that bland turkey eaters of the world. I was left with the dishes and a mission to procure a bottle of Ouzo before sundown.

You see, a couple of months ago I discovered Ouzo at a party in San Luis Obispo. Or it discovered me and made me do things that were caught on camera and quite embarassing. Naturally, I had to find some Ouzo to take with me on my next trip north so I could act like an idiot again. My next trip happened to be Friday for a big Hash House Harriers Event that is held every other year on Thanksgiving weekend. That post will follow shortly.

Turns out my local bar, The Hill Top, sells Ouzo and one of the owners (T) has a crush on me so I figured I could score a bottle from him. He offered to trade a bottle of Ouzo for some leftover crab cakes and a date. Don't act so surprised.

So after our seafood extravaganza I filled a plate with a few crab cakes and sauce and took it up to the bar where T was stuck working. There were only two other people in the bar when I arrived so I decided to have a beer and play some pool with the boys for an hour or so. Well, an hour turned into two and before I knew it I was fully engrossed in the extraordinary people watching that is associated with a dive bar on a major holiday. The Hill Top is tweeker central and all the meth freaks were out in full force by 4 pm. It was both sad and funny at the same time: These people are so far gone from what I view as 'normal' society yet they are a community of sorts and were enjoying the holiday together, trading tales of the one day they pretend to be sober for friends and family before scampering off to the bar to score a fix. Eventually, T was off and wanting to take me to dinner before handing over the Ouzo. Having nothing but a sink full of dirty dishes to go home to, I agreed. He then said he needed to pick up his daughter first and that the three of us would go to town together. This sounded good to me because I knew T wouldn't try to make a move on me with his daughter present.

So T and I took his truck up to my parents' old neighborhood (now a hoity toity part of town) where his daughter was having a meal with friends. We, of course, arrived right in the middle of their Thanksgiving dinner. It was mind-boggling to go from a bar full of cranked out drinkers to a nice, down-home Thanksgiving. Turns out the family recognized me and the tension was eased through mutual tales of my crazy parents and their menagerie of critters that had once roamed the neighborhood. Note to self: Alpaca speak is a great ice breaker when crashing someone else's holiday party. After about 15 painfully awkward minutes of small talk and Jello mold avoidance tactics, we fled.

T's daughter is 14 years old and at that gawky braces-and-pimples stage of life. She wanted to go ice skating. I wanted to go home. She begged me to go ice skating with them. We know I'm a sucker. So there I was, stuffed into the cab of a Dodge Ram pick-up with a strange man and his pleasant-but-a-bit-off teenaged daughter, heading to an ice skating rink on Thanksgiving night. Ice skating was closed and I thought I was saved until we passed the local miniature golf course and just had to go play. I should have gone home. The daughter, starved for attention, again groveled so I played and attempted to make the best of an extremely abnormal situation. After 18 holes, she wanted to go again. Again, I wanted to go home. Somehow I found myself on the course for another 18 holes, in a daze, needing some of that Ouzo.

Finally, the golf course closed and we were kicked out. The two of them wanted to continue 'hanging out'. Thankfully, Carrow's (their favorite hangout) was closed and there was nowhere to go but home. At least I got the Ouzo...

Turkey Sucks

There, I've said it.

Yes I'm bitter because the annual Thanksgiving standoff has resulted in my need-to-please-the-family-to-compensate-for-my-loser-brother-whose-trial-is-in-two-weeks taking over my sense of reason and making me volunteer to cook tomorrow. Damn my aunt who can't cook all to hell for not stepping up again.

So last night as I was considering what to cook for just six people (we know my bro and the crank skank wouldn't dare show up), I decided turkey is out because, well, in my humble opinion, turkey just isn't that great. The only thing it has going for it is that it's big, dumb and slow and the pilgrims were able to catch it easily. I'm surprised grouse isn't the annual feast bird out west. It's not especially flavorful. Nine times out of ten it's dry. It's a bitch to carve. My dog is allergic to it. And, worst of all, it results in mandatory turkey-based meals involving stale rolls and can-molded cranberries for the first two weeks of December each year. If turkey were as great as we pretend it is for that one day a year, it would be more common in restaurants and frozen meals - wouldn't it?

I thought about cooking cornish game hens to try to keep with some semblance of tradition. Then I realized I don't want to cook game hens, stuffing, mashed potatoes, yams, and all that other stuff you only eat once a year because I'll be stuck with the leftovers. So I decided on an alternate menu that includes some of the family's favorites and will all be consumed in one sitting:

Oysters Rockefeller (dad's fav)
Prosciutto wrapped asparagus (mom's fav)
Crab cakes with secret homemade remoulade sauce (everyone's fav)
Filet of sole stuffed with cajun rock shrimp and crab meat (it's good)
Steamed veggies (for health reasons)
Rice pilaf (for my aunt who will complain if there's no rice or potatoes)
Boston Cream Pie (my fav)

The good thing about this menu , other than that it's all tasty, is that I doubt there will be a rush on any of the items at the grocery store since everyone else will be scrambling for Mrs. Cubbison's dressing mix, cheap turkeys, sweet potatoes, and pumpkin pie.

And whoever complains first about the lack of Thanksgiving fare (taht's you aunt P, oh, wait, you don't read...) gets to cook next year.

Enjoy your turkeys.

Yes, I know this post sucks but I haven't been out with any overweight militants in at least three days.

I just never learn, do I?

Okay, I was trying to keep this a secret but it's giving me so much material I feel that my temporary embarassment is worth the sheer entertainment value of the thing: I put an ad online a couple of months ago to meet people where I'm moving.

Don't worry, I've hidden the profile now so you stalkers can't find it. And yes, there were pictures on it. Lots of them. One involving a spiked dog collar and leather...

So here's the deal with internet dating: women who post pictures and appear to have at least six teeth, weigh less than 200 lbs, and have two or more limbs, get responses. Lots of them. Strange ones. Short ones. Long ones. I-love-you-will-you-marry-me ones. Didn't-know-you-could-live-past-12-with-that-disorder ones. I-paid-for-a-glam-shot-just-for-this ones. And occassionally, seemingly normal ones. It's kind of like shopping at Ross - you have a lot of seconds, overstocks, and irregulars with an occassional good find that seems like it won't fall apart at the seams until you've tossed in the spin cycle a few times.

I posted my ad a couple of months ago and have been contacted by a number of candidates. Actually, more likely every single man in Kern County that can search the internet. Being a nice girl (sometimes) and realizing people are putting themselves out there to respond, it's my policy to attempt to reply to anyone who takes the time to actually write me a note. The problem is that so few men get responses, when you do respond to their note, they immediately fall in love and start building their world around you. God forbid you have a few e-mails and then allow for a phone call before choosing chocolate or vanilla for the wedding cake. And if you don't respond they'll send you a nasty e-mail breaking up with you and telling you what a b**** you are. Seriously, I can't believe how many times I've been broken up with by men I've never met.

So a couple of weeks ago I exchanged phone numbers with G, a private pilot with a house on the local runway that has a hangar instead of a garage. He has traveled the world as a bush pilot, cargo pilot, and probably less-than-legal-stuff pilot. Now he's settled in the high desert to be closer to his son. We spoke on the phone and had a great conversation - about the military (having both been in), places in Mexico we've been to, earth-moving equipment (men are fascinated by my equipment operator past), and life in general. He sounded active, adventurous, and fun. It was a nice conversation and I looked forward to meeting him.

We had another phone conversation at some point and discussed my crazy family and their zoo. He mentioned that his son loves animals and he'd love to take him out there if possible, date or no date. So I told him the next time I was in town I would take him and his son out to see the animals. The next time was set to be Saturday and he just happened to have his son that weekend. Perfect, it was set up.

It was after this second phone call when the first sign of crazy appeared. Last Monday to be exact. I came home to one message from G on my home phone, then four hang ups on the machine. My cell phone, which I rarely turn on, had 6 missed calls from him! This was all in a span of about two hours. No messages but the one, and a bunch of hang ups. No sooner had I cleared the messages on both phones than my home phone rang. I did not pick up. Another hang up, presumably from G. Then the cell phone rang. Again, I did not pick up. In fact, I switched both phones off, made a mental note of G's propensity for phone stalking, and called it a night. The call log on Tuesday showed four more calls to the cell. Remember, we hadn't met yet.

The next evening G called my cell and I picked up. One has to deal with these things eventually, right? I answered the phone, "Is this my stalker?" He fumbled with words and excuses: the gist of it was that he had been 45 minutes from Ventura attending his court-ordered anger management class and thought we could meet in the middle somewhere that night for dinner and that's why he kept calling. Impressed as I was by the excuse, I told him I didn't think we should meet. Then he played the son card. Yep, the old, "But you promised you would take him and it's all he's talking about and we'll just go see the animals and that will be it."

So Saturday came and I called G from the road. What can I say? I'm a sucker for kids and it's not the poor son's fault his dad is crazy. The plan was to meet in the middle between my parents' place and his, then have them follow me out to the ranch. We ended up meeting at McDonald's in town. Keep in mind that the guy had a picture on the internet and he looked average.

I arrive at McDonald's and what do I see? An old black Jeep CJ-5 with camouflage seat covers, airplane insignia and a Semper Fi bumper sticker that I just know is his. Something inside my head tells me to put my truck in reverse and skip the meeting - 3 year olds get over stuff, right?

Still, I've been to war, felt poo bags, and seen worse in the form of Batmobiles so I go inside. I scan the room for someone who looks like a familiar stranger and see no one who even remotely resembles the guy in the picture online. In fact, the only single guy I see with a young kid is fat and extremely unattractive. Wouldn't you know it? He recognizes me and attempts to unwedge himself from the plastic booth while balancing his extra large milkshake in one hand and shoving a fistful of fries into his mouth. And there he is, in all his Hoo-Rah glory, wearing the largest pair of camo pants ever made (could they have been converted from an old field tent?), a black turtleneck (not to be worn by men with the physique of Boss Hogg), and a camo hunting cap.

I realize I am sometimes prone to exaggeration, purely for effect, but in this case, I need not lie. The man had to weigh over 300 lbs. And to be dressed in fatigues and driving that Jeep - it was comical. I did my best to hide the shock and focused on his son - a cute kid whose father had no clue. The son was eating a Happy Meal so I sat down to wait for him to finish. And then, in case you couldn't possibly imagine things getting worse, they did.

G started quizzing his son about military aircraft. He would ask him what kind of plane flew 6537 mph, which one had specific rotors, etc., and then sternly correct the 3 year old who cared more about pickles on his cheeseburger than Osprey landing gear. G also told me more than I ever care to know about aircraft. Finally, we headed to the ranch where the fiasco continued.

My father, a Marine drill instructor, did not like the guy one bit. He commented that no Marine would ever let himself got to hell like G had. My mother thought he needed to get a life and we pondered what aircraft cockpit was weight rated for such a behemoth. It was unpleasant and, thankfully, my folks feigned a need for my services once the boy had seen an touched all the animals and gotten his Christmas card shot with the reindeer. I breathed a sigh of relief as G took off down the dirt road and looked forward to never communicating with him again.

Later that afternoon, as I was on my way up to the mountain estate, G called my cell phone. He sheepishly inquired, "You're not interested are you?"

What could I say? I was hungover, had just met a man in camouflage with anger issues at McDonald's to be lectured on military aircraft capabilites, and, oh, he compeletely misrepresented himself in his personal ad?

So I asked him if he would ever date someone who lied about themselves and was 150 lbs overweight? He said no. I replied, then what makes you think I would?

Note to men: 1. Don't lie about your looks - if you ever meet she'll find out. Better yet, lie about stuff she won't figure out for a few dates - like anger management classes; 2. No matter how much you are into planes, trains, or cars, she isn't - just like you aren't into the Hollywood gossip scene - so don't discuss it if she's not asking; 3. Never meet a date a McDonald's; 4. Camouflage is only appropriate as a costume or uniform.

Crushed

So our local chapter of the Hash House Harriers actually had a run in my neighborhood yesterday. Miracles never cease. The run was nice - over the mountains, through the bushes (complete with stickers and pricks), across the river (several times), through the paintball war zone, past a farmer with a gun who did not think having beer-toting adults run through his property was in the least bit amusing, and finally to the keg at the end. After the run I came out of retirement as general manager and led the group through the religious ceremony also known as 'down-downs' wherein we drink beer, sing silly songs, and give someone a toilet plunger to carry around on the next run. Yeah, guess who got it? After that and a few trips to the keg, a group of us headed to the local BBQ establishment for dinner.

So there I am, chortling with friends, thinking how nice it is to be in my 'hood with this motley crew, wearing wet, muddy lycra and a hideous goldenrod shirt when who should I see snarfling some BBQ in my hometown? My crush!

Our eyes locked for a moment before my friend nearly knocked me over with her buckled-over laughter at the situation. I murmurred some semblance of a hello and scurried off to the restroom to assess the situation.

Yep, even through my happily buzzed haze, I could see it was bad. Goldenrod is hideous in strawberry blondes. And the lycra! Good grief, who wears wet lycra to dinner? And my hair - imagine Cousin Itt without leave-in conditioner. I headed back inside to get in line, deliberately avoiding eye contact and feigning small talk with my fellow drunken revellers - one of whom was over talking to my crush giving him a massage as he sat across the table from his wife and child. The nerve! Touching my crush!

After dinner, when our raucous crew was leaving, peer pressure forced me go back into the BBQ place under the guise of introducing two fellow runner-drinker-lawyers to the crush to harass the hapless crush a bit. It was awkward but not as awkward as it could have been if I'd had my toilet plunger in hand.

In the end, I smiled all the way home as I relived the hilarity of it all. You see, the really fun thing about a crush when you're an adult is that it renders a normally gregarious and witty person (that would be me) completely speechless, dumbfounded, and questioning why you hadn't gone home to change and primp before going to the restaurant lest the elusive crush show up at your local BBQ establishment on a Sunday night out for dinner with his family. Not much can do that to an adult after living a bit and you've got to savor the silly little moments when you can. After all, anything that can defeat steadfast ration for a fleeting second is worth some contemplation.

And don't worry, it's not that I'll ever act on my crush. It's just that it's so darned fun having one. The element of surprise is one of the best parts of the crush: you don't wait to see the crush, you don't even ever anticipate it, but when it happens it leaves you in a schoolgirl-waiting-to-be-asked-to-the-prom-by-Johnny-the-football-captain-oh-my-god-he-just-looked-at-me-I-may-puke kind of way. You know you're never going to the prom with Johnny (because he's with that cheerleader you don't like), but you still like to think about it.

So here's to crushes, wet lycra, and being rendered speechless at The Oak Pit.

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