My Little Van Gogh

In my two bedroom Sherman Oaks apartment, my roommate and I have three cats. It’s sort of crazy-cat-lady like of us, but Becca had two and I had one before we lived together, so together we have three. Yes, the hair is a problem and we have to sweep, dust and vacuum more than most. And sometimes it smells after they use “the facilities,” but for the most part it’s fun to have that many little friends running around.

My cat, Niles, is pretty much my favorite thing on Earth. He is super loveable with his fluffy fur and extra toes. He is super snuggly and huggable too. One little drawback about Niles is that he has too much fur around his….hm, how do I say this…paintbrush.

See, sometimes Niles goes poo poo in his litter box and a little extra gets stuck on the paintbrush, which inspires him to “paint” the floors, carpet and furniture by scooting his little bum along. Becca and I find his artwork from time to time around the apartment.

Who me?

One night last week, I awoke from a sound sleep due to a horrific smell coming from the litter box in my bathroom which is attached to my bedroom. I turned on the lights to go scoop the poo from the box so I could get back to sleep and that’s when I discovered that Niles had painted again. The white bathroom tile, the berber carpet and my black nightstand had all been used as a canvas for his masterpiece. This meant waking myself up even more to go get the carpet cleaner, paper towels and disinfecting spray. And then of course, I had to clean off the paintbrush, which is the worst part.

It’s gross. I know. But maybe it’s good practice for waking up to change poopy diapers? And, whatever, he's so darn cute.

Ugh. I'm so embarrassed now.

Shame: The Ultimate Diet Plan

I work for a country club which has a wait, bus and kitchen staff made up of about 80 Mexican men in their 30s, 40s and 50s. They have taught me some things. Like, sexual harassment isn’t a concept that they even remotely grasp. Many of them are superstitious. If you drink soda from the can, the rat poop (that’s on top of ALL soda cans) will eventually kill you, so you should pour it in a cup. Also, when you are starting to get sick, a freezing cold shower will wash it away. But most importantly, they have helped me to manage my weight.


You see, the office staff is in contrast, all female. And there is something in their culture, I believe, where they feel they have to shame you when you eat. For example, one day I was toasting a bagel in the kitchen (the same one where they do all the cooking for the restaurant) and this dishwasher, who I didn’t even know could speak English said “I hope you like exercise.” You have never spoken to me before and this is what you’re finally going to pipe up and say?

Similarly, one of my coworkers sometimes asks the guy who makes the sandwiches for bread to make toast in the morning. He will only allow her one piece and tells her two will make her fat.

One girl, slightly overweight is called “Big Girl” but in a way that sounds like it’s a term of endearment.

After having a baby 5 months ago, another coworker was able to lose every single pound of her baby weight. But that didn’t stop one of the kitchen guys from telling her she looked pregnant again.

And sometimes they just full on touch your fat. Poke at it or pinch you under your arm to show you that you could really firm up those triceps a little more.

I like to think of it as a built-in weight management system for the club’s female employees.

If I Ever Run Into You, I'll Hope It's Not a Sunday Afternoon

I have come to notice that the more effort I put into my looks, the nicer people treat me. By people I mean men--in public places. I notice an astounding difference, actually, and I can’t help but think I should film my ugly vs. pretty encounters and submit it to 20/20 or something.
I have to admit that I have a really crappy weekend look. After putting in 5 mornings worth of effort into my hair, makeup and clothes for work, by the weekend I just stop caring. Plus, I’m usually hungover one if not two days of the weekend (It’s a terrible habit I’m trying to outgrow). So I have no shame schlepping to the grocery store in sweatpants, last night’s eye makeup remains, and some flip flops. Whatever. I’m hungover…don’t talk to me.

And I don’t have the best weekend wardrobe even if I tried. When I shop I usually just buy work clothes so my casual selection is kind of stretched out and faded.

But today I thought I’d do things differently since I went to an energizing outdoor yoga class this morning, I didn’t go out last night and I had no plans for the day. First I took a real shower with leg shaving and all. All women know that Sundays are NOT for shaving your legs. Then I decided to get ready as if I were going out on a Saturday night. I did my hair and makeup perfectly and put on a fancier shirt that requires a strapless bra be worn with it (strapless bras are also NOT Sunday appropriate). I even put on perfume and red, lip-plumping gloss. Now…where to go?

Well it’s not very glamorous, but here I am at Starbucks sitting outside in the 80 degree sun with my laptop and a 50 something year old guy just asked me if I needed anything else to drink. Not making this up!

When I first arrived I ordered a grande tea from the guy behind the counter who had those black plug things in his earlobes.

First he asked me if I would like two teabags in a sly way like he was breaking the rules and “hooking me up.” Oh, um, just one is fine.

Then he charged me for a tall instead of a grande and asked if I would need an icecube in there to cool it down.

If I ever have to run into a store or to the gas station while I’m on my way to a bar, I seem to get this same special treatment. So, it’s official. If I would like to be treated nicer by men in public places, I will need to begin putting two hours of work into my looks before leaving the house. Oh and it won’t work at bars- you’re expected to look decent there. I will be the most put-together errand runner in town!

Nah. Too much effort. I’ll just stick to shoddy service, grande prices, one teabag and a burnt tongue.

Drinking for the Cure

One night last week I did some charity work. For one, I went on a date with a guy who is not attractive…like at all. I thought his personality might make up for his honking big schnoz, but he proved to be nothing more than a boring (but polite) lawyer.

Dull date aside, I did something really spectacular that night. I drank for the cure. You see, on the way to meet Schnoz, I told myself I should order a good, stiff drink. Some sort of martini would do the trick. So when the waitress took our drink order, I asked for a Kettle One cosmopolitan. To my complete surprise and amazement she delivered the drink with one of those pink, rubber “cause” bracelets around the stem of the glass. The bracelet read “Cause-mo for the Cure” and she told me 1 dollar of my drink purchase would be donated to breast cancer research. This delighted me for a few reasons.

1) I never allowed myself to wear one of rubber charity bracelet things because I didn’t like how they had become a trend for a little while. It started with the Livestrong stuff but then they started to pop up everywhere. They even had them at Gap with messages like “INSPIRE” or “DESTINY” in place of a charity’s name. But now, the fad expired 4 years ago, so it was cool again in my mind. Also, it was a pretty bubblegum pink.

2) If you’ve ever drank a martini you know that it’s best to keep the glass on the table and bring your mouth to the liquid, rather than pick it up. You may look silly but even the slightest tilt of a martini causes you to lose a precious splash over the edge. This made for a fun challenge. How much did I need to drink to make it safe to tilt the glass enough to remove the bracelet from around the stem? It was a trial and error process that encouraged me to drink quickly and also kept me entertained as we talked about the rising price of air travel. Blah.

3) Money (his money) well spent! Good cause and good drink!

4) I didn’t feel bad ordering a couple more drinks. (Not that I’d ever feel bad doing that.) Cancer bracelets for all my friends!