Bet You Never Had Pho Like This

First of all, I just want to apologize for completely sucking lately with posts. In my own defense, I have about a dozen half-finished entries in my que waiting to be finished - an argument that cannot be proven with evidence as that would break my process as an arteest. Yes, stop laughing, an inability to complete anything and procrastination contribute almost entirely to my status as an unemployed writer. That and dumb ass George Bush. But let's not get political. ANYWAY, hello. I've missed you. I would say I promise to write posts everyday and be a good little blogger, but a promise is only comfort to a fool (a wise man once told me that) and I'm kinda flaky (my own mother told me that).

Since writer's block is thwarting any attempt for me to finish any of the posts I so eagerly started and then so haphazardly abandoned, I give you this: A lunchtime observation....

And people say Oakland is scary. Yesterday, a couple friends and I were in San Francisco and decided to go get pho at a nearby Vietnamese restaurant. As we were in Union Square, the closest authentic restaurant was in the Tenderloin. Now if you're not familiar with San Francisco, the Tenderloin is not where you would take your grandma site-seeing. Hell, it's not even where you would take your half-cousin Thor site-seeing. Not unless Grandma or Thor has a penchant for men who wear blankets on their heads and argue with an invisible leprechaun about who gets to pee on the wall outside of Slippery Hand Massage. I think it's called the Tenderloin because a long time ago, it used to be the where all the meat factories were located. Now it's just sort of an African safari with junkies and angry prostitutes instead of zebras and gazelles. But good pho is good pho and we're all martial artists so into the Tenderloin we went. Fah-la-la-la-la!

Everything was actually pretty uneventful until the end of our meal when some live performers came out to entertain. And by that I mean, the crackheads in the building across the street started leaning out their windows and screaming down to the people in the street below. First, a lovely young toothless woman in a button-down did a jazzy little spread-eagle number sans pants OR underwear while balancing precariously on her sill about four stories up. She would lean back and cackle, kicking her legs up in the air and then swing them separately in circles, intermittently pausing to screech obscenities down to anyone who was watching, looking like one of the drunken pirates on the Caribbean ride at Disneyland. Then her boyfriend (or pimp or inbred brother) came and yanked her back into the room, slamming the window shut.

There was a slight intermission in which we had time to pick our jaws back up from the floor and exchange wide-eyed looks over our nearly empty bowls of soup before the next entertainer appeared. This performer was wearing underwear, but only underwear and they were the kind of pink that you only get from accidentally washing your whites with a red sock and looked like they might have been from Goodwill or picked out of a gutter. She did a little routine of thrashing with the blinds as if they were attacking her and then leaning, almost to the point of falling, out the window to yell and spit at the Asian man pushing the shopping cart on the corner.

And that was lunch. You would think that any sane human beings would rush to pay their bill and get back to an area of the city with a little less needles and vomit on the sidewalk. No. Instead we sat for awhile longer, waiting to see if there would be an Act III. When it seemed all the lunatics from the building across the street had settled in for a long, nap of God-knows-what induced unconsciousness, we wandered outside to continue our adventure. Think Crocodile Hunter goes urban. Anyway we got in another hour or so of thrills and near-brushes with scabies until we were approached and asked if we were holding. When we said no, our hopeful, unrelenting consumer offered his own services in exchange for, well, it wasn't cupcakes.

And that was curtains for me.

Earwax With a Side of Cat Lady

Oh my God I'm the Cat Lady, and I don't even have any cats.
It all started yesterday. My roomie stayed home sick. I was there too because I am unemployed, hence the title of my blog. (Hey, wouldn't it be cool if my roomie was a dinosaur? Then it would be, like, full circle or...whatever. K, I still love you even though you are clearly not a dinosaur. But if you WERE a dinosaur, it'd be like you were the star of my blog.)
I need to stop drinking coffee.
So. Rooomie, sick. She was complaining that her ears were plugged so I suggested this earwax removal stuff I happened to have. (Slightly gross, I know, but deal with it.) I pretty much forced her to agree and be my patient. I ran into my bathroom to grab my bag of Random and Expired Medicine. I took care of K and proudly sat back on the couch and obtrusively watched the crap drain out of her ears. And then I became the Cat Lady.
It went like this. My eyes drifted over to the coffee table where I had left my bag. It's actually a travel toiletry bag my mom had given me many, many Christmases ago. And it has cats all over it. Creepy, bubbly drawings of cats dressed as fishermen and ballerinas with the words "Cat Lover" stamped all over it.
I sat transfixed, horrified at what I had become. I couldn't stop staring at it, every detail, realizing I had never really looked at it before. I don't have a cat. Okay, that's not entirely true. When I was a teenager, a friend gave me a stray cat, who to this day still lives at my mom's house. (My mom gave me the cat bag that same year so it's not entirely crazy that I own that bag.)
But the whole thing just creeps me out. If you have a kid, you don't wear a shirt that says "Kid Lover" unless you're a freak, right? And this isn't my mom's fault. It was just a silly gift she gave her snot-headed 16 year-old daughter instead of a belly ring.
It's the fact that I still have it and use it that creeps me out and makes me question what image I have been unknowingly projecting all these years.
When I would go to slumber parties, were my friends all, "Who invited freaky Cat Lady?"
When I first arrived at college, did the co-eds in my dorm make a mental note to never speak to me? When I brought it out to "treat" K, was she secretly terrified that I might try to put a flea collar on her and build her a scratching post?
I know I'm not the Cat Lady, but does the world know?
P.S. K is cured!
P.P.S. I threw out the cheese.

Shakespeare Never Got THIS

I just did the dorkiest thing. So I'm sitting on the couch watching Friends re-runs, reading blogs, and browsing job listings (Can you be a rabbi's assistant if you're not Jewish?) when I stumbled upon a comment from Mainland Streel, a wonderfully quirky writer that not only writes a hilarious blog but also (and more importantly) feeds my blog-go (blog-go = your ego in relation to your blog. See what I did there? Thank you very much, Bachelor's in English, my parents can finally be proud. Wait. Never mind. I just re-read it.)

Anyway. Mainland Steel. She's awesome. And not just because she has awarded me with my first ever blog award: THE BEAUTIFUL BLOGGER AWARD! (I added the caps.)

What's the Beautiful Blogger Award? you ask. Well, I'll tell you.

Ta-da! Yes. I know. And it comes with these rules:

1. Thank the person who gave you this award.

2. Share 7 things about yourself.

3. Pass the award along to 5 bloggers you recently discovered and you think are fantastic!

4. Contact the bloggers you picked and let them know about the award.

So, thank you, Mainland Steel. I wish you health, happiness, and lots of bloggers. Oh. The dorky thing I did...When I read that I got an award I actually threw my hands up to my face and went, "Oooooh!" like one of those little cartoon girls from the 50's, except instead of wearing a cute little dress and corkscrew curls I'm wearing a toothpaste-stained sweatshirt and my Don King-bed hair. But I digress. On to rule #2...

...7 things:

1. I'm really short, so when I tell people my height I round up and then round up again (and sometimes again). In reality, I'm almost 4'11", which (of course) rounds up to 4'11", which rounds up to 4'11 1/2" (obviously), which (depending on who I'm talking to) rounds out to an even 5'.

2. When I was about 8, I auditioned for a local production of Annie. When I was about 18, my mom told me that when I would practice The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow, she didn't have the heart to tell me that I had a horrible voice.

3. In college I accidentally stabbed myself in the eye with my tweezers and had to go to the emergency room. And I had to wear a temporary eye patch.

4. I eat brown sugar by the spoonful.

5. Sesame Street irritated me when I was a little kid. I much preferred the mature company of Mr. Rogers. I know. I was a snotty, little shit.

6. I still have to use my fingers when doing addition in my head.

7. I used to have a Furby, and my favorite thing to do would be to put him in the backseat of my car. Whenever I'd drive around, I could hear him making noises and it would entertain me to no end. He sounded like a munchkin on a roller-coaster.

Now. Time to pass the torch...

Sassy at The Sassy Curmudgeon. Her blog is THE SHIT. I'm sure she already has a ton of these, but she's the first blog I started to follow, and her sass and creativity inspire me.

Kate at I Am the Worst Blogger. Kate is awesome because she posts hilarious Internet clips. She's like that friend that keeps sending those damn chain emails about friendship and if you don't email this to 489 people you'll never have any friends. Except she's totally awesome. She also has this really cool link that will take you to one of her older blogs at random. Also, she was my very first follower that was not already someone that I knew and jui-guilt-suied into joining.

My Inflammatory Writ. This girl is a beautiful writer. Sometimes her posts are funny, sometimes they're poetic, sometimes thought-provoking. Love her.

Lucky Punk at Lucky Punk. She's funny and edgy. When I read her blog I wear a leather jacket because she's so bad ass.

Allie at Hyperbole and A Half. Following this blog reminds me how to spell "hyperbole". She's hilarious and needs her own show.

Okay. Done. My right ass cheek is asleep so I have to get up from the couch.

Ball-Scratching: A Contemplation

I don't have balls, and I have nothing against those who do, but what I do not understand is why those that do feel the need to scratch them in public. I mean REALLY all-up-in-there, poison-ivy kind of scratching.

Just the other day, I was walking home. I was waiting on the corner (yeah, very funny) at an intersection waiting for the light to change. Directly across from me stood a young man, decently dressed. It's important for me to mention that he was decently dressed so it is not confused that he a) was wearing an overcoat and ONLY an overcoat b) was wearing Tevas and a shirt that read: F.B.I.: Female Body Inspector or c) a garbage bag.

So we're standing there. The street was empty and there wasn't really anyone else around so I know he can see me, right? And - despite what is commonly learned in standard Peek-A-Boo drills and assuming his social awareness extends beyond that of a 2 year-old - he knows I can see him, right?

Decently Dressed Young Man then reaches into his pants, grabs a big wad of ballage, and scratches himself. And it wasn't for just a second. No. It was like he was re-arranging furniture in there or something. Then, when his right hand got tired, he switched! Inappropriate AND lazy! Man, if you're gonna have the balls to scratch your balls in public, at least build some stamina. You know people are gonna stare at you, so be impressive!

Oh yes, I stared. And I'm one of those people whose face reflects exactly what she's thinking. If someone had been watching me, I'm sure they would have thought I was trying to convert Mandarin to Russian in my head. (Or maybe they would have just thought I was a pervert watching some guy scratch himself.) My expression probably followed along something similar to this timeline: curiosity to inquisition to recognition to "What the fuck?!" to disgust to unimpressed (at the stamina, among other things) to "I'm soooo going to blog about this."
Finally, the little tweet, tweet of the pedestrian signal snapped me out of my little, ball-scratching world. We crossed paths, avoiding eye contact, and (me) making SURE to avoid any hand contact.

I walked the rest of the way home like a little snob. I had just had an interview that seemed to go pretty well, so I added a little swagger to my stride. Whenever I'm dressed in business attire and walking downtown, I like to pretend I'm very important. Nevermind the fact that it was the middle of the afternoon and I was walking home and not to Starbucks on my lunch break and I was surrounded by joggers and moms with strollers.

My mind wandered about human behavior and why particular humans seem to have no distintion between private behavior and public behavior. Drawing an analogy of the picking-your-nose-in-the-car syndrome, I was feeling quite proud of myself. I got home, threw my stuff down, and checked my business-savy self out in the mirror - to realize that the crotch of my pants had slouched down creating a faux weiner. Yes. Gross. I turned to the side. Hmmmm. Business-savy? No. Hot shit? No. Expert on managing private parts (real or fake) in public? No.

Moral of the story: Let he who has not sinned cast the first stone because you might have a fake penis.

I used to be a crack whore.

I was looking for jobs this morning, when all of a sudden my computer forced me to abc.com where I had to watch a mandatory episode of Modern Family. In the Delgado-Pritchett storyline, Manny's father comes for a visit. There's a semi-endearing scene (I say "semi" as a compliment. The show is hilarious and never ventures into Full House-let's-learn-a-lesson-about-love-and-ignore-the-fact-that-the-living-situation-with-"Uncle"-Joey-is-weird. Side note: Totally watched Full House as a kid, but maybe Danny Tanner should add Megan's Law as a favorite on his Mac. Just sayin'.)

So. This semi-endearing scene. Jay and Manny's father are playing pool, and Jay mentions how he used to ride motorcycles and used to play baseball.

"Used to," Manny's father says. "Saddest phrase in any language."

For a sappy moment, I thought to my little gullible self, Wow. He is so right. People should never give up. They should always continue to do what they love. Why, Oprah, why?!

But then I thought of more endings to the phrase "used to."

"I used to be a crack whore."

"I used to shit myself as a baby."

"I used to drink Listerine when there was no alcohol in the house and then dance naked to Debbie Gibson on my balcony."

See? All "used to"s aren't sad. (Que bittersweet piano music.) In conclusion, DJ, it's good to continue loving your sisters, but you should really stop hanging out with that skank Kimmy Gibbler. She's only gonna bring you down.

Aaaand scene.