Yesterday when I heard that President Bush is in Bratislava, Slovakia for the U.S.-Russian summit I couldn't help but laugh and remember my own ill-fated trip to Bratislava several years ago.
I was one of those girls who grew up believing in true love. I was certain that I would fall in love once with a great man and stick with him forever. I even saved myself for him when all the other girls in the trailer park were putting out in exchagne for bottles of Boone's Farm.
The luckiest man on earth back in 1991 turned out to be Rob. He was an officer in my unit in the Navy. He was from Texas, tall, southern accent, smooth talker, and both protective and patient with my innocence (if he could see me now!). He was my first love, my first everything, and for a couple of years life was perfect. Both in the Navy, fraternizing, christening Navy property all over the world, and living it up. He would call me and tell me to go to the airport to a ticket office, I wouldn't know where I was going until I got to the counter, and we would meet in some place I'd never been. We would travel somewhere nearly every weekend - to Paris, to the U.S., to Germany, Maui, you name it. Life was exciting and passionate.
Then I got out of the military and headed to college in another state. As happens when people are passionate, possessive and jealous thoughts consumed Rob. He called several times a day and questioned my whereabouts. This led to an ugly but passionate break-up that left me in the more advanced stages of first love heartbreak and him married to his high school sweetheart as an act of retaliation. He actually sent me a wedding invitation with a plane ticket and a note that said "If you show up I won't marry her". I sent the note and plane ticket to her. A gal should know what she's getting into, right? The wedding took place anyhow.
We all know I eventually moved on. I compared every man I met for the next couple of years to Rob and once I found out the unlucky soul wasn't a clone of Rob it was over. Rob would call me about every three months to chat and that would throw me into "What could have been" mode. You know the mode.
Then, one evening in the summer of 1995, the phone rang. It was Rob, he was in Europe working on a project for the State Department and needed to keep the conversation short. He said he had just three questions for me: 1. "Are you still single?", 2. "Do you have any vacation time?", and 3. "Do you want to meet me in Slovakia for a week or two?" Yes, yes and yes. Three weeks later I was on a plane to Slovakia to spend 10 days with Rob. I was so excited to see Rob again and all I could remember was how perfect he was for me, how great life had been.
Upon arrival, I primped in the bathroom to make sure I would look good before exiting the plane. I wanted everything to be just like old times. My haert was racing as I walked down the hall to baggage claim. Then I saw Rob. He had apparantly exchanged half his hair for a pot belly and a pair of highwaters. He came up to me and wrapped his clumsy arms around me and tried to kiss me. This was not the man I remembered from years gone by. Once I recovered from the initial shock and disappointment some signs of the old Rob began to emerge and I decided to just make the best I could out of the trip.
As soon as we got back to the hotel Rob was all over me. I was having trouble mustering any inkling of passion for him so I relied on pity and found the strength to go on. Besides, if I remembered correctly, he was the best lover ever.
Two hours later I found myself lying on my back, two mattress springs sticking into my arse, staring at a water stain on the ceiling of room 216 of the Hotel Bratislava (it didn't have the 'Topless Nightclub Paradise' back then) as Rob huskily whispered obscenities laced with a twinge of Texas accent in my ear while pumping away with his devastatingly small penis. Thank goodness it was over in a few minutes when he whooped and hollered and acted as if the Longhorns had just won the Fiesta Bowl prior to collapsing into a deep sleep.
The next morning, I feigned soreness after the previous night's activities, shared a room service breakfast of sardines and dumplings (traditional Slovakian fare) with Rob and kissed him goodbye as he went to work for a few hours. As soon as I saw him leave the building, I snuck off to the train station and caught the express to Vienna - somewhere I's always wanted to go and that I knew I could find little sausages much more satisfying than Rob's. To this day I still smile and remember the loss of the illusion of the perfect man whenever I see a Vienna sausage.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Thursday, February 17, 2005
This is Your Life - Oak View Style
This morning I was running late to work. As is usually the case when running late, the car was running on empty so I pulled in to the local gas station in Oak View to fill up. Naturally, the machine at the pump was out of order so I actually had to go into the station to pay at the register. Sometimes I forget how little human interaction is required in our society these days. Must be why we are all so conscientious...
A turquoise Pontiac Grand Prix, circa mid-90's, had arrived at the same time as me. A young man, about 25-28, with slicked-back hair and a moustache, wearing baggy pants and a big Raiders jacket got out of the passenger seat, walked around the parking area for a minute, then approached the gas station store. He arrived at the door about two nanoseconds before me and rushed in. Nevermind that he didn't bother with holding the door - a girl never expects that anymore. Not pulling it closed would have been a nice gesture, though. Thank you women's rights activists.
Anyhow, the guy came in to inquire about the Help Wanted signs in the parking lot. He was polite to the clerk saying, "excuse me" and "sir" but there was something off about him. He was one of those white guys who talks like a street guy/gang member, saying "man", "aaahreyt" and "I see how it is". He even walked with an interesting gait, like he had a limp or something. Perhaps he had been shot in the gang wars of Oak View? I, of course, just wanted to slap my $20 down and get back to the pump. But the guy kept talking to the clerk. The clerk, who didn't speak English well - or more likely was pretending not to speak English to get rid of this guy, told him to come back after 2pm when the manager was there. It was clear to me that he didn't know anything about the job opening and the boss would be back after 2 pm. The white guy was getting impatient and wanted an application and continued to press the clerk for information on the job - What shift was it for? Hourly rate? Do employees get discounts on Olde English? After a few minutes he gave up and walked away. I paid the clerk and went out to pump.
As I was at the pump the white guy was leaning against the hood of the Pontiac complaining about never getting a fair chance and discrimination and f***ing Mexicans getting all the good jobs, and how that guy inside couldn't even speak English, yada, yada, yada. I wonder how many people think being a clerk at the local Thrifty Gas is good job, one to aspire to and feel cheated about not getting.
Someone was responding to his complaints, a female. Curious about what sort of woman this guy could attract, I looked over to see who he was with...I hadn't even turned my head when I heard, "It's alright honey, we'll find you something." He replied, "I know mom", then took another drag on his cigarette.
A turquoise Pontiac Grand Prix, circa mid-90's, had arrived at the same time as me. A young man, about 25-28, with slicked-back hair and a moustache, wearing baggy pants and a big Raiders jacket got out of the passenger seat, walked around the parking area for a minute, then approached the gas station store. He arrived at the door about two nanoseconds before me and rushed in. Nevermind that he didn't bother with holding the door - a girl never expects that anymore. Not pulling it closed would have been a nice gesture, though. Thank you women's rights activists.
Anyhow, the guy came in to inquire about the Help Wanted signs in the parking lot. He was polite to the clerk saying, "excuse me" and "sir" but there was something off about him. He was one of those white guys who talks like a street guy/gang member, saying "man", "aaahreyt" and "I see how it is". He even walked with an interesting gait, like he had a limp or something. Perhaps he had been shot in the gang wars of Oak View? I, of course, just wanted to slap my $20 down and get back to the pump. But the guy kept talking to the clerk. The clerk, who didn't speak English well - or more likely was pretending not to speak English to get rid of this guy, told him to come back after 2pm when the manager was there. It was clear to me that he didn't know anything about the job opening and the boss would be back after 2 pm. The white guy was getting impatient and wanted an application and continued to press the clerk for information on the job - What shift was it for? Hourly rate? Do employees get discounts on Olde English? After a few minutes he gave up and walked away. I paid the clerk and went out to pump.
As I was at the pump the white guy was leaning against the hood of the Pontiac complaining about never getting a fair chance and discrimination and f***ing Mexicans getting all the good jobs, and how that guy inside couldn't even speak English, yada, yada, yada. I wonder how many people think being a clerk at the local Thrifty Gas is good job, one to aspire to and feel cheated about not getting.
Someone was responding to his complaints, a female. Curious about what sort of woman this guy could attract, I looked over to see who he was with...I hadn't even turned my head when I heard, "It's alright honey, we'll find you something." He replied, "I know mom", then took another drag on his cigarette.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Mardi Gras - Santa Barbara Style
I spent Saturday running around downtown Santa Barbara in a red feather boa, bustier, mini skirt, garters, stockings, and feathered mask. It was the Santa Barbara Hash House Harriers' seventh annual Mardi Gras event.
I am usually enthusiastic about these events but for some reason I just never got into the spirit of things this year. It may have something to do with my recent bout with sobriety. Nevertheless I reluctantly spent Friday evening at the mall looking for an adequate costume to fit the theme of "red and raunchy". At least it is Valentine season so there was plenty of red to choose from in the lingerie departments. In fact, there was almost too much to choose from because, yes, you can have too much red lingerie. Besides, I am a bit averse to red lingerie ever since A, of Catwoman fame (July 2004 archives), asked me to don one particular outfit so many years back. In the end I found something sufficiently trashy yet subtly innocent. Okay, maybe not innocent, but the theme was red and raunchy...
So there I was, sitting in a bar, looking like I ought to be in a saloon with rooms rented by the hour, somewhat sober, watching the events unfold, when I noticed something terrible happening...People were giving out beads left and right and no one was flashing!!! What self-respecting Mardi Gras participant would ever give up a set of beads without seeing some flesh? What is the point of calling something Mardi Gras if you aren't going to keep with the tradition? I was greatly disturbed and disappointed in those folks - especially the ones constantly begging for a flash without reason or beads. This was their opportunity to ask without seeming so lurid. I am, however, proud to say that I earned the one set of beads I coveted most - the set of little pink bunnies - by doing a half-flash (that would amount to one breast) for a recently engaged, highly intoxicated man. The benefit of this bargain for me was 1. The bunny beads, 2. He was too drunk to remember, and 3. He'd never tell even if he did remember because his fiancee would probably kill him. I also learned it's tough to properly flash while constrained in a bustier.
One of the highlights was watching the games along the way. As I was sober I was not participating. One stop had folks, including my good friend S, giving and receiving Jello body shots. Poor S was attempting to hold her Jello shot between her two enhanced breasts when it slipped and ran down her body and skirt. Luckily, M was at the ready and promptly cleaned up the mess with his tongue. Naturally, someone was standing by with a camera so that S's kids can have a nice vision of their mother with a large man in lingerie shoving his head between her legs...
And then there was something to do with holding a banana between your thighs, pouring chocolate on it, and having a contest of who could eat the banana fastest. I don't know who won that one but do recall that I thought it odd the women had the bananas between their thighs and the men were the ones swallowing...That scenario coincides with the noticeable number of men wearing women's lingerie and dresses. This event did not require, nor even suggest that the men should wear women's attire. I always take note of those men than seem to enjoy wearing women's clothing when not required. I'm not sure what it really says about them but I am sure it means something is amiss and when the police come knocking, I will have the list ready.
Yet another vision that will take years of therapy to put past me is that of one man from San Diego. He was wearing a red satin g-string with a vest, chaps and a cowboy hat. What struck me about the costume, other than the obvious, was the fact that he was a hairy man. His legs and back were hairy. Funny thing was that he had clearly shaved his butt, only his butt. It made for an odd sight because he looked kind of like a little orangutan in a cowboy suit. I didn't ask the method to his madness...why bother shaving just the cheeks? Why not do all or nothing?
In the end it was a rare occassion for me not because of the antics and events, rather because I remembered everything I did, which was nothing too out-of-control, remembered what my friends did, which was a bit out-of-control, and felt fine the morning after. I hope this doesn't mean I am growing up.
I am usually enthusiastic about these events but for some reason I just never got into the spirit of things this year. It may have something to do with my recent bout with sobriety. Nevertheless I reluctantly spent Friday evening at the mall looking for an adequate costume to fit the theme of "red and raunchy". At least it is Valentine season so there was plenty of red to choose from in the lingerie departments. In fact, there was almost too much to choose from because, yes, you can have too much red lingerie. Besides, I am a bit averse to red lingerie ever since A, of Catwoman fame (July 2004 archives), asked me to don one particular outfit so many years back. In the end I found something sufficiently trashy yet subtly innocent. Okay, maybe not innocent, but the theme was red and raunchy...
So there I was, sitting in a bar, looking like I ought to be in a saloon with rooms rented by the hour, somewhat sober, watching the events unfold, when I noticed something terrible happening...People were giving out beads left and right and no one was flashing!!! What self-respecting Mardi Gras participant would ever give up a set of beads without seeing some flesh? What is the point of calling something Mardi Gras if you aren't going to keep with the tradition? I was greatly disturbed and disappointed in those folks - especially the ones constantly begging for a flash without reason or beads. This was their opportunity to ask without seeming so lurid. I am, however, proud to say that I earned the one set of beads I coveted most - the set of little pink bunnies - by doing a half-flash (that would amount to one breast) for a recently engaged, highly intoxicated man. The benefit of this bargain for me was 1. The bunny beads, 2. He was too drunk to remember, and 3. He'd never tell even if he did remember because his fiancee would probably kill him. I also learned it's tough to properly flash while constrained in a bustier.
One of the highlights was watching the games along the way. As I was sober I was not participating. One stop had folks, including my good friend S, giving and receiving Jello body shots. Poor S was attempting to hold her Jello shot between her two enhanced breasts when it slipped and ran down her body and skirt. Luckily, M was at the ready and promptly cleaned up the mess with his tongue. Naturally, someone was standing by with a camera so that S's kids can have a nice vision of their mother with a large man in lingerie shoving his head between her legs...
And then there was something to do with holding a banana between your thighs, pouring chocolate on it, and having a contest of who could eat the banana fastest. I don't know who won that one but do recall that I thought it odd the women had the bananas between their thighs and the men were the ones swallowing...That scenario coincides with the noticeable number of men wearing women's lingerie and dresses. This event did not require, nor even suggest that the men should wear women's attire. I always take note of those men than seem to enjoy wearing women's clothing when not required. I'm not sure what it really says about them but I am sure it means something is amiss and when the police come knocking, I will have the list ready.
Yet another vision that will take years of therapy to put past me is that of one man from San Diego. He was wearing a red satin g-string with a vest, chaps and a cowboy hat. What struck me about the costume, other than the obvious, was the fact that he was a hairy man. His legs and back were hairy. Funny thing was that he had clearly shaved his butt, only his butt. It made for an odd sight because he looked kind of like a little orangutan in a cowboy suit. I didn't ask the method to his madness...why bother shaving just the cheeks? Why not do all or nothing?
In the end it was a rare occassion for me not because of the antics and events, rather because I remembered everything I did, which was nothing too out-of-control, remembered what my friends did, which was a bit out-of-control, and felt fine the morning after. I hope this doesn't mean I am growing up.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Ethics and Rabbit Ears
Thursday night I found myself at the sight of my junior prom surrounded by 80 suited up lawyers and judges grazing at a buffet table under the guise of garnering continuing education credits. No, it wasn't another wild dream, I was a guest at the local Inns of Court meeting.
Inns of Court is basically a group of lawyers and judges who meet once a month and put on skits mocking unethical behavior among lawyers. Art does, after all, imitate life. Oh, and if you join the Inns of Court you get required education credits relating to ethics. I bet you didn't know they require lawyers to continue to take ethics courses throughout their careers. That's because so many lawyers are afflicted with ethics amnesia. Yes, it is amusing. Actually, the group seems like fun and is yet another way to "network" - something I am learning lawyers also must do, even though it's nowhere in the Cartel membership handbook.
Anyhow, B had been hounding me to attend for months and Survivor doesn't start until next Thursday, so I figured "what the heck?" I hoped it would shed some light into the elusive lives of America's most beloved professionals. After all, what do those rich lawyers do with their free time? More importantly, a certain judge that I have a crush on is in the group and I wanted to go harass him a bit. So I met B after work and we carpooled over.
On the drive to the meeting B and I were discussing the crush and made a bet. She bet that the crush would give me a hug when he saw me. I said no way. Her theory was that he likes me and he gives everyone a hug at the meetings so I would most certainly get one. I put my money on the fact that he likes me in the sixth-grade-playground-boy-girl kind of way so he wouldn't dare touch me. In fact, I went so far as to predict some sort of childlike behavior such as a punch in the arm or a wet willy (not that kind!). Hands were shaken and the bet was on.
Upon arrival I headed to the 'new-lawyers-sign-here' desk. I didn't notice the object of my affections but he saw me. Indeed, he approached and said hello. As we stood next to eachother in front of B chatting, I saw his hand come up as if to embrace me. I thought "Oh no! B was right and I am going to lose the bet!" Just as I was considering that a hug from a crush might be more of a win than a loss, I realized he was merely giving me some rabbit ears by placing his hand with two fingers extended behind my head - just like in sixth grade.
The incident reminded me how fun it is to have a crush, a nice, innocuous, never-going-to-go-anywhere-but-still-great-to-see-you-and-oh-here-are-some-rabbit-ears-ha-ha-aren't-we-silly kind of crush. Oh yeah, and B owes me dinner.
Inns of Court is basically a group of lawyers and judges who meet once a month and put on skits mocking unethical behavior among lawyers. Art does, after all, imitate life. Oh, and if you join the Inns of Court you get required education credits relating to ethics. I bet you didn't know they require lawyers to continue to take ethics courses throughout their careers. That's because so many lawyers are afflicted with ethics amnesia. Yes, it is amusing. Actually, the group seems like fun and is yet another way to "network" - something I am learning lawyers also must do, even though it's nowhere in the Cartel membership handbook.
Anyhow, B had been hounding me to attend for months and Survivor doesn't start until next Thursday, so I figured "what the heck?" I hoped it would shed some light into the elusive lives of America's most beloved professionals. After all, what do those rich lawyers do with their free time? More importantly, a certain judge that I have a crush on is in the group and I wanted to go harass him a bit. So I met B after work and we carpooled over.
On the drive to the meeting B and I were discussing the crush and made a bet. She bet that the crush would give me a hug when he saw me. I said no way. Her theory was that he likes me and he gives everyone a hug at the meetings so I would most certainly get one. I put my money on the fact that he likes me in the sixth-grade-playground-boy-girl kind of way so he wouldn't dare touch me. In fact, I went so far as to predict some sort of childlike behavior such as a punch in the arm or a wet willy (not that kind!). Hands were shaken and the bet was on.
Upon arrival I headed to the 'new-lawyers-sign-here' desk. I didn't notice the object of my affections but he saw me. Indeed, he approached and said hello. As we stood next to eachother in front of B chatting, I saw his hand come up as if to embrace me. I thought "Oh no! B was right and I am going to lose the bet!" Just as I was considering that a hug from a crush might be more of a win than a loss, I realized he was merely giving me some rabbit ears by placing his hand with two fingers extended behind my head - just like in sixth grade.
The incident reminded me how fun it is to have a crush, a nice, innocuous, never-going-to-go-anywhere-but-still-great-to-see-you-and-oh-here-are-some-rabbit-ears-ha-ha-aren't-we-silly kind of crush. Oh yeah, and B owes me dinner.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Would you stop for a girl with a big strap-on?
I don't know what is more surprising about today: the fact the CalTrans was doing work on my road, or the fact that I was doing work in my yard.
Wednesday is normally my day off and today I was at home attempting to regain control of the yard. It's a big yard. Over the past six or seven years I have gone through three lawn mowers and four or five weed whackers. This year I decided to get an industrial strength 4-cycle, needs-a-harness-to-handle-it, brushcutter/weed whacker super deluxe. I should have known better. It only weighs about 35 lbs. and it has a shoulder strap and all that, but it is almost too much for me to handle (keep in mind that I would never admit to anything being too much for me to handle).
So today I strapped the monstrosity on and began whacking away. That sounds more fun than it really is, but keep your mind in that place if it is happier there. I must have been quite a site because someone from CalTrans (highway department) actually stopped to make sure I was okay. I can't imagine what I looked like - all 5'5" of me wielding a 6 foot pole with a motor on one end and a brushcutter on the other. And the whole time those useless goats of mine were just laughing at me. You see, I have the only two goats on the planet that won't eat grass. Actually, it turns out they like cut grass - kind of like people who like sandwiches without the crust. Ridiculous.
All that whacking got me thinking about hiring a gardener. Last year I broke down and hired a pool man because his son works out at my gym and they gave me a heck of a deal. And I absolutely hate cleaning the pool in the off-season. It's like having a convertible in Seattle, you don't want to deal with it unless the weather is perfect and you can play with it. I can justify the pool man, but a gardener? It seems so bourgeois to me. California is full of people who pay other people to do everything for them. I love how people in tract housing communities pay gardeners $200 a month to mow and weed a 10 foot swath of plugged lawn that turns your feet green when you walk on it barefoot. I think those folks just like saying, "My gardener was at the house last week and left the hose off the reel. That darned Juan, I had to go out there and reel it up myself. I don't know what I'm paying him for." Funny, neither do I.
Next time I'll try have some cold beer ready for the CalTrans guys. They are always on break anyhow.
Wednesday is normally my day off and today I was at home attempting to regain control of the yard. It's a big yard. Over the past six or seven years I have gone through three lawn mowers and four or five weed whackers. This year I decided to get an industrial strength 4-cycle, needs-a-harness-to-handle-it, brushcutter/weed whacker super deluxe. I should have known better. It only weighs about 35 lbs. and it has a shoulder strap and all that, but it is almost too much for me to handle (keep in mind that I would never admit to anything being too much for me to handle).
So today I strapped the monstrosity on and began whacking away. That sounds more fun than it really is, but keep your mind in that place if it is happier there. I must have been quite a site because someone from CalTrans (highway department) actually stopped to make sure I was okay. I can't imagine what I looked like - all 5'5" of me wielding a 6 foot pole with a motor on one end and a brushcutter on the other. And the whole time those useless goats of mine were just laughing at me. You see, I have the only two goats on the planet that won't eat grass. Actually, it turns out they like cut grass - kind of like people who like sandwiches without the crust. Ridiculous.
All that whacking got me thinking about hiring a gardener. Last year I broke down and hired a pool man because his son works out at my gym and they gave me a heck of a deal. And I absolutely hate cleaning the pool in the off-season. It's like having a convertible in Seattle, you don't want to deal with it unless the weather is perfect and you can play with it. I can justify the pool man, but a gardener? It seems so bourgeois to me. California is full of people who pay other people to do everything for them. I love how people in tract housing communities pay gardeners $200 a month to mow and weed a 10 foot swath of plugged lawn that turns your feet green when you walk on it barefoot. I think those folks just like saying, "My gardener was at the house last week and left the hose off the reel. That darned Juan, I had to go out there and reel it up myself. I don't know what I'm paying him for." Funny, neither do I.
Next time I'll try have some cold beer ready for the CalTrans guys. They are always on break anyhow.
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