Ramona Escobar

New Blog Site: www.3thw.com

2009-12-27T08:28:00.003-05:00

Going to be blogging from a new site with two of my amazing friends. Check it (NOW!!):

www.3thw.com

I'm kinda sad but my hair looks fucking amazing.

2009-03-08T16:42:00.003-04:00

How many post-hangover blogs have I written about losing my phone? Umm...a lot. The only difference is before I had a raggedy-ass cell phone that only worked with the help of super glue and crossed fingers. People returned it to me just to see who would actually carry the thing around. With the iPhone, there is pretty much zero possibility of me ever getting my shit back.

Fuck.

However, I did wake up this morning with perfect hair. It's the kind of hair that makes you want to run into your ex-boyfriend on the street so he can see how fly you are now.

So here I am.

Hungover.

No cell phone.

No date for Gabbi's thing tonight.

Alone, but with really sexy hair.

Brunch

2009-02-14T18:52:00.014-05:00

Rolling Dunes on Lakeshore in Oakland. Cute spot. Locally owned. They serve wine in mason jars and always remember your face. My usual was Pancakes Meets Eggs. His was the Denver Omelet (then the Healthy Start Omelet, post LA).

It was our first day.

She's behind the counter. We're at the coveted corner table next to the window. My back against the exposed brick with S settled across from me. The sun framing him with affection and gently warming my arm.

It's the first of many brunches together. This was our first Good Afternoon, after our first Good Morning, after our first Good Night. He looks like he's on fire and twists his wristwatch as he speaks. I throw my head back to laugh at something simple, but it's genuine. My hair is huge and disheveled and falls everywhere on everything. He doesn't break eye contact and leans in as if he's about to tell me a secret. Grabs a lock of my hair and takes a deep breath right in the middle of conversation. My skin and my hair and every single one of my gestures wreaking of just-been-fucked, and it's like a magnet to everyone around me.

And I'm not even trying.

Then she comes over to refill our glasses.

The first Dominicana I've ever encountered on the west coast since sixth grade. All green eyes and almond skin and hips and grace and confidence and thick curls down her back. Smiles when we order mimosas and coffee and soda and water and tea and pancakes and eggs and salad and an omelet to share and whatever crepe is her favorite.

Whatever is her absolute favorite.

I think it's cute how S is trying so hard not to check her out.

"She's got a nice ass." I say.

And he grins with his mouth full. Smiling so broadly his eyes become slits.

Like clockwork, we're there every other weekend or so. Me starting out 80 miles east, then ending up just on the other side of Lake Merritt on 17th and Madison. Him starting out within walking distance, then ending up over 500 miles south off La Brea.

He can further his career in Los Angeles.

I'm supportive and encouraging.

I'll be fine. Anyway, I can just get cable.

So eventually, instead of playing footsy underneath the coveted corner table next to the window, he's constantly checking his blackberry while I try unsuccessfully to crack the crossword in the Times.

Dammit, I can never get past Six Across.

He has toned up and slimmed down. Tan and athletic and hot as hell. He tells me I'm sexy and means it. I can't thank him or maintain eye contact.

He gets up to use the bathroom. She swings by the table and leans down to refill my coffee. I notice her weight shift from left to right. I also notice one of her curls dipping into my mug, but don't mind. She's lingering longer than is necessary.

I stare at her.

"I think he's cheating on me with some Cambodian girl in LA."

I can feel her face get hot.

"And maybe this hippie bitch on Haight and Ashbury."

She sucks her teeth and ambles back toward the kitchen.

Time passes. Break up. Make up. Seasons change. All that bullshit. Arguments and fights and broken glass. Still, out of loyalty, I never bring the hot bank manager to Brunch. Or the hot tortured artist. Or anyone at all, hot or not.

This time we're at Birds in Hollywood. Talking shit and drinking champagne outside on Franklin. And then, seemingly out of the blue, in an absurd last ditch effort to save us, he asks me to move to LA.

"Yes."

It feels like a reflex. I'm fairly sure I don't mean it.

The waitress gives me an odd look.

Sometimes loneliness trumps reason, but eventually you come to your senses.

A good six months goes by before I'm back at Rolling Dunes. I'm visiting from New York and ask Carlos to join me. We're laughing and catching up and he tells me I'm pretty fucking dope.

And I'm not even trying.

Carlos gets up to use the bathroom. She comes over to refill my coffee.

"This one is in love with you." She says.

I look out the window and count how many people are holding hands on Lakeshore. Notice we're not at the usual coveted corner table.

She turns to walk away and I grab her arm, jerking her back and almost causing her to drop the coffee pot.

"I think you're absolutely beautiful."

She leans down and huddles next to me, her curls brushing against my ear.

"I know." she sighs.

Ciudate.

25 Things , or Ramona's New Tell All Blog, or How to React When White People Start Discussing Wu-Tang

2009-02-05T22:47:00.013-05:00

1. OK, so I'm getting some communications borderlining on hate mail about not posting a new blog. I'm flattered, and also a little afraid for my life at the same time. So I guess I'll use this 25 Things business as a way to put it out there. As I do with most things, I've tweaked the rules to fit my own agenda. This counts as #1, right?

2. Almost busted my ass the other night trying to flip my mattress. What prompted this sudden urge wasn't a desire to prolong the life of my bed, but me discovering that I created an obvious Ramona-sized dent on one side from sleeping alone for three years.

3. I feel like my Myspace blog is on some really fucked-up Dear Abby shit. Why do people ask me for advice? It's like the blind leading the blind. Actually, it's like the blind/deaf/and retarded leading the blind.

4. OK, going through more Myspace mail and get a question about how to be popular. I'm thinking this is from a high-schooler but this chick is a grown ass woman. My thoughts:

5. Despite being very active in the spelling bee and reading Isaac Asimov, I was insanely popular in elementary school. So much so that I run into a few people in my hometown that can't get over it. That means I peaked in 1989, people. What still works to this day:
6. Be a nice person. And if you can't be nice, at least try to recycle or something.
7. Tell funny stories.
8. Self-deprecating humor is better than talking shit about other people. Unless you're unattractive. Then it's just kind of sad and pathetic.
9. Give people stickers. (This worked in 1989, let's test it out as adults).

10. When I was like maybe six or seven years old, I got into an argument with my friend Darren that lived next door. So immense was my outrage that I decided to poison him with Coca Cola and Pop Rocks. I invited him back over, mixed the drink and disguised it as a peace offering. I end up feeling horrible about it and knock it right out of his hand, giving him a bloody nose in the process. Then my mom beats my ass for fucking up the carpet. There's a lesson here somewhere.

11. I hung out with a friend of a friend (now my friend, of course) that read my blogs before we actually talked. During our conversation they were surprised when I said I've never tried coke before. This is about the 10th time I've heard this. People are often surprised that I've never smoked crack/dropped acid/freebased. They're also surprised that I actually have a real job. But...never surprised I don't have a man.

12. I always talk shit about not having a boyfriend but it's probably that I'm just freezing my ass off in New York. I've also stood up three people in the last two weeks with the following excuses:
13. Bachelor 1: His clothes are too tight.
14. Bachelor 2: He doesn't know who Robert Plant is.
15. Bachelor 3: He's one of those people that talk into his phone like a walkie-talkie. You know, when they pull it away from their ear and talk? Ew.

16. Going back to the early years. Once Pops asked me to toss his cigarette when we were in Waldenbooks at the mall. I intentionally decide to throw it in the trash can instead of the smoking receptacle right in front of me. Smoke rises slowly out of the garbage and I'm mesmerized. Then the shit catches on fire and is up in flames in like eight seconds. The whole mall gets evacuated. Pops suspected nothing. I still get a happy meal, a new book, and Prince cassette.

17. Still in the early years, the Karate Kid Soundtrack and Dolly Pardon's Greatest hits were on heavy rotation. Pops didn't mind Dolly, but "Glory of Love" made everyone want to puke.

18. Went to Flatbush Farm and that song Ghostface sampled in Cherchez Laghost comes on. This sparks a conversation from all the hipsters about their favorite Wu-Tang cuts and "real hip hop." Oh. My. Gawd. I looked around for someone to share my horror but of course my pitiful ass was there alone, drinking by myself. "Check please!"

19. Big (still calling him that strictly for the sake of continuity) didn't come to my birthday party because he got too drunk before hand. And I had an amazing time anyway. Good thing he kept his ass at home because my energy was focused elsewhere. I haven't seen his ass in ages. Fuck it. I'm so over it. Welcome to your 30's.

20. Speaking of focusing energy. I've been told I'm focusing it in the wrong place, which is why I stand up nice guys that ask me out on nice dates. It's a recession, so if anything I should be getting all the free dinners I can land. Ugh. This is too much to think about, so right now I'm gonna focus my energy on making a vodka tonic. I'll be back.

21. OK, I'm back. My crush still makes me regress to feeling like I'm in 8th grade. Which is good and also horribly awkward. Sometimes I leave feeling giddy, but most of the time I'm like, D'OH!!!

22. All I have been wanting to do lately is go see live music. I've lucked out and got to see some amazing performances lately. And I miss my San Francisco concert partner, Chelsea. We were like professionals. You wanna see a show, you call me.

23. I've said it once and I'll say it again: NEVER FART WITH HEADPHONES ON!

24. Best advice I ever got was from Pops: If he doesn't have bookshelves with actual books in them and a decent record collection, run. Sorry, I'm on some I-miss-my-Dad shit.

25. I miss California. I miss my West Coast familia and friends. But this move was the best decision I ever made, even if just based on the relationships I've managed to build here. I might try to switch coasts during winter, but for the most part....I ain't leaving. However, I'm in Cali so often that most people in Sac don't even know I've relocated. Coco, Alissa, Alana, Marissa, Ang, Carlos, Chelsea, Val, Siobhan, Nikkisha, K, Raven, Jason, Sarah, Matt, Jeff...WTF BOOK YOUR TICKETS FOR SPRING, DAMMIT!

Boys Part II

2008-12-10T08:17:00.005-05:00

Due to pressure from family and friends, I finally upgraded my cell phone. Sent out a mass text message to inform everyone in my phone book. Let me share the response I received from my Ex-Boyfriend (not to be confused with West Coast Ex). Keep in mind that I haven't seen him in two years or spoken to him in nine months.

Me: It's Ramona. Moms made me get rid of my raggedy cell phone. Here's the new number.

Him: U live in da Bay?

Me: No, still in NY, just got the phone in the bay. How r u?

Him: U comin to LA anytime soon-I wanna plow that sweetstuff. Damn...

Me: Are you fucking serious???

****

Ugh! How did we go from 'how are u' to 'I wanna plow that sweetstuff?'

And who the fuck says 'plow that sweetstuff'?

I'm embarrassed that he was even a part of my life. I swear, hot guys can get away with a lot of bullshit. Seriously, the only good part about my past relationships was my being in shape. I mean I really worked at keeping it together and sex is the best cardio you can ask for. But that's mainly because I was dealing with a selfish, lazy dude that made me do a freakin' quad workout every time we got down.

Since I don't have a man now and get laid rather sporadically, I've been hitting the gym pretty hard. I'm trying to get healthy and look decent for my 30th Birthday party next month. Took a bootcamp class at the Prospect Park YMCA last night that really kicked my ass. Towards the end of the class we had to partner up with someone for sit-ups. I just agreed to partner with the person to my immediate right, which happened to be this old Willie Nelson looking white dude.

I hate partnered sit-ups. I'm always afraid I'll fart in the persons face or something. It happened once in Mrs. Watts' aerobics class in 9th Grade and I still have flashbacks.

So the sit-ups are going fine, he's encouraging me and avoiding eye contact. And pretty much acting how you'd expect someone who resembles Willie Nelson to act.

The only thing is, later on after class I'm in the locker room and discover there's a HUGE rip in the crotch of my leggings. I'm wearing pink panties underneath and I'm sure Willie Nelson thought he was getting some kind of money shot.

D'oh!

And I think I may have gotten stood up this weekend. What's weird is that I'm not really sure if it counts as being stood up. Either way, that shit hasn't happened in like, ten years.

I'm off my A-Game, folks.

Also, cutting the alcohol intake quite a bit. I didn't drink for five days then went to the Manjinga party at the Brooklyn Museum on Saturday night. J. Walder kept the drinks flowing at Soda Bar and I found myself extremely drunk after only two and a half drinks. I mean, it usually takes five or six cocktails. Abstaining rocks!

Friends: The Birthday Party is on Saturday, January 10th. Sake One is being imported all the way from San Fran to spin.

Book your plane tickets. Pencil me in for the 10th. It's goin' down.

Boys

2008-11-13T18:34:00.003-05:00

I guess this is my penance. For all the years of pushing the ignore button on all the phone calls from all the countless Whats-His-Names, I come home to find that my only text message is from Sprint.

Apparently my bill is past due.

Past due, huh?

Having a busy social calendar helps keep the demons away. I need a blackberry to keep up with the cocktails. The shows. The openings. The exhibits.

Tonight I'm out with a friend.

A more-than-friend?

"You wouldn't go out so much if you were single."

But, I am. Single, that is.

Yeah my 401(k) sucks right now but my lip gloss collection is phenomenal.

And anyway, I had a boyfriend in California. I still was out a lot. WE were out a lot.

"That's because he wasn't as smart as you and couldn't converse for shit."

Yeah, well. But he sure was fine!

"It's not like you don't have any prospects. Sometimes the answers are right in front of you."

At least I have marriage pacts with my best friends. Technically I'm engaged thrice over.

"So why are you still single, anyway?"

What exactly is the problem with that? Maybe I'm not ready for all that sharing.

"Why don't you call me anymore?"

Why are you asking so many questions?

It's another lovely night. I decide to edit a couple of names in my cell phone. Now when they call it'll say: He's Not That Into You.

"Ramona, you're not paying attention."

You're right, I'm not. I can't.

It's such a beautiful night. But instead of enjoying it, I just look into his blue eyes and run my fingers through his blond hair.

"You look so amazing." He says.

And you look so...white.

THE END.

Kiss the Sky

2008-11-06T19:25:00.002-05:00

So, this Friday I'll be getting my post-Election boogie on at Diety in BK. Obah and Chris Annibell are spinnin', so it's sure to be a good thing. Last month ObaH did a party at Soda and I had to resist this almost primal urge to dance on top of a table (because that would be sooooo '98). The music is that good.

Also, I'm asking you to come because Big invited me to another party in BK on the same night. The more friends I have around me, the less likely I am to fall under his evil spell. If you go, I'll buy you a drink. Actually scratch that-if you go, I'll get someone else to buy ME a drink, then slip it to you when they're not looking. Times are hard, yo.

What happens when you don't blog for a month? Too much to write about. So I have to resort to bullet points. Let's start with the most recent activities then go back, shall we?

1. Obama

I mean, what more can I say? I went with Erin to a party at Renae's apartment to watch the results. We left early and decided to walk home. Brooklyn was the place to be. Drums, dancing, all kinds of crazy cool shit going down right in the middle of Dekalb Avenue. I made a few drunk/euphoric phone calls, only one of which I regret. I left a voicemail message for my Crush. Don't know what the hell I said. Maybe something along the lines of, "Can you feel it??? Can you????!!!"

Sigh. Please help me.

2. I will never be a pothead.

What is that called when someone kinda kisses you and blows smoke in your mouth? I don't know why I tried to be cool and participate. I get dizzy and disoriented. I feel slightly nauseous. I'm the girl that will ruin your high. It pokes holes in my memory in places where I want it most intact. And trust me, I needed to fully remember these moments because it's so rare that I get any action nowadays, dude. I'm like one of those people the anti-marijuana ads warn you about. As a result of THC I have almost gotten a concussion from falling off a bunkbed, confused several friends and an ex-boyfriend for Justin Timberlake, and read Life of Pi instead of going to a really fun disco in Amsterdam. Among other things. Just say No. From now on I'll just stick to heroin-laced happy pills.

3. Lil' Wayne

When I get drunk I say "A Milli" before every sentence. My apologies to Nicole for putting up with this. And to my other Cali friend, you know I have a crush on Lil Wayne, but please DO NOT TRY TO HOOK ME UP WITH YOUR YOUNGER COUSIN THAT LOOKS LIKE LIL' WAYNE. Only the real Lil Wayne works, feel me? Shit. Same thing with my crush on Dave Grohl. There are a thousand hipsters in Williamsburg that resemble Dave Grohl. I need the real Dave Grohl.

4. To those that voted to 'Protect Marriage.' Fuck you. Sincerely.

Seriously, do I need to re-register to vote in Cali?? I'm friend dumping anyone that voted Yes on Proposition 8. I'm almost 30. Life is short. I can't be associated with the likes of you. This isn't gonna work out. Please continue to preach to me about the sanctity of marriage then go on to have pre-marital sex and post pictures of yourself half naked and/or dry-humping random dudes at your local dive bar.

5. I went speed-dating.

For funny things to blog about, I dragged Gabrielle, Nicole, and Kimmie to a speed-dating event in lower Manhattan. It was fun! The men there were attractive, going well beyond our ridiculously low expectations! I didn't follow up with anyone, though. I'll go again, with plenty of material to blog about.

6. Sooooo much more but I have to submit this blog before 10pm tonight! So here's another empty promise: I'll try to write a blog a week. Ok?

You know I got commitment issues.

120 bpm Part Deux

2008-10-09T08:25:00.007-04:00

I can't be the only girl that constantly runs on three hours of sleep and a mild hangover.

I'd like to blame it on a myriad of social obligations. Nikkisha was in town this week for eight hours. Sekou is in town until Sunday. Louis had tickets to see Beck. And the list goes on. After this weekend I'm back to Hermit mode. Netflix is about to be my best friend.

So last night I went to see Beck at United Palace on 175th and Broadway. I ran into someone I knew on the A train. Told her where I was going and she said, "Oh ok. I was wondering why there were so many white people this far uptown." The venue is really beautiful and surprisingly intimate. My friend Louis is a professional concert-goer, and he scored us seats in the front row center of the balcony, aka some of the best seats in the house.

MGMT opens. I'm excited. They're playing the Music Hall of Williamsburg on the 31st, so I was thinking if I enjoy this show, I'll buy tickets to a show they're actually headlining.

My verdict: MGMT was mediocre. I felt like I walked in on their rehearsal or something. The most the bass player did was shift his weight from one leg to another. I'm not exactly sure what I was expecting, but I would have maybe liked to see a little more passion. Or does the skinny-jean-long hair set not rock the fuck out anymore? If your band tip toes through your set like that, I'm gonna need some back-up dancers, a stripper or two, a bad ass light show, and maybe a magician.

Despite all that, they sounded good. Actually, they sounded pretty fucking amazing. The live show was some bullshit though, if that makes sense. I wonder if it was just a bad day? Did anyone go to see them at McCarren Park pool? They're from BK, so maybe they do a little better across the bridge.

Beck was good. And he had lights. They did this weird electronic thing when the played 'Hell Yes' that I couldn't quite figure out if I liked. Sigh...sometimes I think I should have grew up in the 60's, dropping acid with a firm belief that music can change the world. But if that was the case, by this time I'd turn into an aging accountant with three ungrateful children and a failing marriage.

What makes for a good show? What makes for an amazing show? I used to go to concerts and come out thinking how my life was somehow different. I'd get sweaty. I'd listen and feel like I was floating. I'd feel connected. Shit, I'd come home with unexplained bruises. I want to be MOVED.

I've seen a few awesome shows in NY, and I wonder if the key is small venues and musicians that haven't sold their soul. I'm also thinking I should load up on the synthetic drugs beforehand.

Musicians, get your live show game up. You're up there doing what you love in front of people that might consider you god-like. I'm just asking for a little passion.

DJ's, please continue to save my life.

Gyeah.

2008-10-01T11:30:00.004-04:00

Went out last night, had at least five vodka tonics and absolutely no food, woke up laying next to an egg sandwich. If you saw me, please excuse all erratic behavior and dismiss any inappropriate comments.

And I lost my phone.

The good thing about having an old school raggedy phone is that people are usually willing to return it to you. I had to get on IM and ask Grace to make arrangements for me to pick it up. If I go missing, please tell my mom and the police that I was last seen at 909 3rd Avenue, 29th Floor.

I've been leaving my phone a lot lately. But for real, it's not like anyone calls me anyway. Last week I worked all day and came home expecting to find a bunch of missed calls. All I got was one text asking me to lend them $50.

Ok, before I leave I have to purge this from my system.

So this past weekend I let a friend of mine crash at my place after we all went out in BK. I get home so late that I'm there for maybe twenty minutes then dip out. (White friends: that means I left. Haha) When I get home from work I grab my laptop and see that it's open to my inbox on myspace. It's a message from Big (who my friend also knows) from back in 2006, and his blackberry contact info is highlighted.

Hmm. Immediately know what happened. My friend went through my inbox, then cut and pasted Big's shit into his address book. Then I checked the internet history and saw that he went through a bunch of other messages. WHAT THE FUCK.

(By the way, I reeeally wanna stop referring to Big as Big. But now I feel if I stop it'd mess up the continuity. Anyway...)

I call him. He denies it and makes up a bullshit story about thinking he was in his own myspace. Then he tries to flip shit around and says "Like I have time to go through your stuff." Huge breach of trust and invasion of privacy! I've known this friend for like 13 years or something. If I've known you since the 90's and you're still in my life, I think we're on some ride-or-die shit by now. Well maybe not that, but it's some ride-or-get-seriously-injured-then-fully-recover shit.

BUT IF YOU GO THROUGH MY PERSONAL STUFF LIKE THAT AND LIE TO ME, HOW CAN I TRUST YOU!? I'M SO PISSED I'M USING HELLA EXCLAMATION POINTS AND TYPING IN ALL CAPS!!!

Then I tell my roommate Greg about it. Greg had a guest over in the morning and they were watching a movie, and my friend was just hanging out. Hanging out in the living room UNTIL NOON.

Here's my thing:

a) If I let you crash at my crib when I'm not there, I expect you to get your ass up and out in the morning.
b) If you do have to hang out, hang out in my room.
c) Do not walk around my place when my roommate and his guest are home and socialize with them...without your shirt on!

Jeez, you think this all goes without saying. Apparently not.

More blog later today, promise. Must now go uptown and retrieve raggedy cell phone. Cross your fingers.

I'm gonna move to Argentina and smoke crack

2008-09-15T08:45:00.011-04:00

...well, the crack thing, not so much. But I did wake up on Saturday with a strange urge to try cocaine. I didn't act on it, but perhaps in the not-so-near future I'll try it. I keep thinking of that movie, Little Miss Sunshine, where her grandpa decides to do heroin when he's like, 80. At that age, why not? I really can't imagine myself hitting the crack pipe, but when I'm that old it'll be like 2059. I bet there will be even cooler ways to get fucked up by then.

Melissa and I were at Flatbush Farm discussing what would happen if her new job rescinded their offer. She'd move to South America, and of course I would have to go with her. But as I think about it more and more, the idea sounds pretty freaking awesome. No man, no kids, no life-altering career as of yet. Why not?

I AM MOVING TO ARGENTINA IN 2009. But only for two months. I could soooo do without a NY winter. I'll take a Spanish immersion course, churn out a screenplay, and maybe volunteer to walk some Argentinian dogs at a shelter or something. I've already discussed putting a deposit down on a studio in the Recoleta area of Buenos Aires.

It's gonna happen. I'll be blogging from South America in January. This is my plan.

Recap and Random Thoughts:

I've been in a good mood lately BECAUSE STALKING TOTALLY PAYS OFF! Trust me, I'm kind of a professional. I mean, at mild-slighty unintentional-non-restraining order stalking, NOT creepy-call-the-cops stalking.
I had a blast this weekend. Erin let me stay at her loft while she was out of town and I took it as an opportunity to watch cable, dance by myself, and drink champagne straight out of the bottle. I have the most fun popping bottles by myself...which um...is actually a little sad now that I think about it.

I accidentally burned Erin's toilet seat and now I have to go to Lowe's.

Alissa, her nephew, and Anthony are in town from Cali and we went out in Brooklyn on Saturday night. Lots of fun. I think I said something silly or sarcastic, which prompted another friend of mine took the opportunity to tell me (among other things)

-often the timing is off on my stories or jokes or remarks
-my humor is too dry
-some of his friends think I'm corny and have asked him what my problem is
-I'm too sarcastic. Or something is wrong with my sarcasm. I don't remember.

Uh....ok? What the hell am I supposed to do with that information? Is that some kind of constructive criticism? I got upset and asked why he felt the need to tell me this. He apologized for hurting my feelings, said he was just being "the messenger" and I shouldn't fault him for being honest. So here's my thing about honesty. Please tell me if I have a booger in my nose. Tell me if I have body odor. Those are things I can fix. But you might wanna steer clear of things that will only sharpen my neurosis. Like once I overdid it on the bronzer and a friend told me I looked like a 'fucking Academy Award'. That's fine, I can wipe off some of the shimmer. But how am I supposed to take being told his friends think I'm corny? I actually know I'm kind of corny. But corny in the way I like to watch Big Trouble in Little China and act out scenes from Heathers. So now I'm insecure about my personality and will require an excessive and annoying amount of validation from all my friends. Is that what everyone thinks when we hang out? Don't I have friends that like to be around me? Should I stop telling stories? Fuuuuucccck.

I have now invested over $300 in new sheets. May I suggest Macy's Hotel Collection? Amazing. The way things are going it's likely that I'll be spending most of my nights alone, so why not try to make the best of it?
Obah hooked us up with tickets to Black August, with EPMD as the headliners. Thank god it was free, because I am vowing to never go to a hip hop show ever again. I appreciate the Golden Era, but damn. So preachy. And I'm at that age where I need some type of live band. Also, Buckshot or Dres trying to get my number would only matter if it was 1994.

AFRIKA BAMBATAA SUCKS AS A DJ. I hate to be the one to break it to everyone. He played DMX (twice!). He puts on some wack mix then leaves for ten minutes. You have to go through the Zulu Nation just to look at him. The only reason people dance is because they think since it's Afrika, they should be dancing.

Part of being from California is having hot girlfriends that date celebrities and professional athletes. I myself have never been one of those girls. As a perk of having said friends, I got a great seat at the Giants game a few weeks ago. Watching sports is so different when you don't have to use binoculars. Afterwards they had a buffet for the players and their families. I had a raging sinus infection and sneezed pretty violently on the sandwich platter, which made all the players, their families, and the entire staff avoid me and the turkey sandwiches all night long.

So, the sinus infection. I can't get an appointment with my regular doctor so I have to go to some raggedy walk-in practice in South Slope. The doctor calls me into the office and texts someone in the middle of my exam. Then he suggests seeing the gynocologist since I'm due for my annual Pap. Okaaaaay. Why not?

So the gyno is asking me if I'm sexually active. I tell I wouldn't quite call it "active." As much as I'd like to be getting laid on the regular, it's been veeeery sporadic.

She is not amused. She asked what I used for birth control. Condoms.

"Hmmmm. Well condoms are less than 70% effective."

Um...no bitch. ( I didn't say that, but I did say she was wrong.)

She wants me to get on the pill.

I decline. The pill makes me emotional. I don't have a man. I use condoms. I'm good.

She looks at me like I'm some sad little girl then starts going into this speech about how I shouldn't get pregnant before I'm married. A baby is so much responsibility and blah blah blah.

I'm shocked and speechless. Check my birthdate, you prejudiced condescending biatch. It says 1/5/1979, which means I'm less than four months shy of 30! I'm a grown ass woman, not some broke potential teen mom.

Part of the reason why I am still so upset is because I didn't even tell her off. I just looked at her like she was crazy and stormed off. I hate when I do that because then I'm plagued with thinking about things I should have said.

Ugh!

Don't be like me.

When someone deserves a Fuck You, just say Fuck You.

Nor Cal Recap

2008-08-23T03:07:00.009-04:00

I left for Cali without a gameplan. I knew I'd arrive on Tuesday at around noon, with no agenda for the day and no one to pick me up from the airport. I sent out a few strategic text messages before the plane took off at 8am EST and crossed my fingers. When I landed, I managed to secure a ride from Carlos and confirmations for dinner that night.

Because I have some fucking dope ass friends.

Yaaaaaay I'm in San Francisco!!!

If I had written this earlier I'd be able to go into more detail. But my memory is slowly starting to slip away, so I hope you'll settle for a summary:

Social Life: San Francisco

-Carlos rolls up and I demand food.
-I scroll through my phone and realize I have absolutely no potential booty calls.
-Carlos has a weed priority over my food priority. Which is expected and paradoxical, since I'm in California.
-I grab pasta in the Castro while Los is in a meeting.
-I stifle the urge to scream in the middle of street about how much I love the West Coast.
-Los drops me off at Chelsea's house.
-I meet Chelsea's girlfriend Nicholette. She's great. I'm happy for them.
-We get drunk on pink champagne and talk shit.
-K comes over. I love K.
-We head over to Farmer Browns for dinner.
-Dope spot, good times. It's the Bay Area version of my favorite bar in BK, Flatbush Farm.

Here's what I wrote on the evite:

Yeah, I'm hosting my own dinner. So what?

Unless Moms permits me to sneak out of Sac for this Cali trip, looks like I'll only be able to spend ONE NIGHT in SF with my folks! Please join me and the Best of The Best for dinner at Farmer Brown on Tuesday! Farmer Brown's is all about supporting local and African American farmers using biodynamic, organic, and sustainable foods. I'm all about taking a break from my high fructose-corn syrup diet occasionally. We can all dig that, right? Can't wait to see you all!!!! Feel free to bring your friends. However, said friend(s) must be attractive, super cool, and willing to shower me with compliments and praise.

Farmer Brown
7:30pm, yo
25 Mason @ Market SF 94102
415.409.FARM

-Table for 13! K, Carlos, Marissa, Grace, Daphne, Angela, Michael, Anna, Josh....
-After dinner, head to my favorite party on the West Coast. PST every Tuesday, Sake 1 spinning.
-Dancing all night. I sweat my hair out rather quickly. Someone makes a comment about it looking like Chaka Khan's.
-I continue to dwell on the fact that I will not be getting laid on this trip.

Day Two:

-Have ridiculous, delicious, super gluttonous brunch in SF with Carlos and Josh.
-Say goodbye to K at her job.
-Carlos gives me lift to Amtrak.
-Amtrak to Sacramento.....

I prefer taking the train to Sac over driving. It's scenic and I can read the vampire book I scored from the young adult section at Borders.

I'm not quite ready to go home yet, so I call Siobhan and ask her to pick me up so we can go to Happy Hour. May I suggest Bistro 33 on 16th St? $3 cocktails and appetizers til 7!

Damn, I love Happy Hour. I specialize in it in almost every city.

I stumble home at 9pm, hug Moms, hope she doesn't smell the liquor on my breath I tried to cover up with a Tic Tac, throw my suitcase in the corner, and fall asleep before my head hits the pillow.

Happy. Drunk. Tired. HOME.

Sacramento

I took two (unpaid) weeks off to take care of Moms after her eye surgery. Turns out the surgery takes 35 minutes and she just skips out of the doctor's office with a band-aid. She totally played me. The way she described it over the telephone had me debating whether or not to find a subletter on craigslist. Oh well, it was definitely worth it to spend so much quality time with her.

Let me tell you about my mother.

She is The Asian Recycling Lady.

She will pull over to grab a soda can in the middle of the road. She digs through trash bins for bottles. All of that stuff. I've given up trying to stop her. She's far from crazy or broke, but it makes her feel good; she gives the proceeds to her Buddhist temple or donates it to various other charities. My only concern is the friendships she's managed to form with most of the homeless population in town. She brings them food and blankets and knows a lot of them by their first name. I was instructed to take some stew to the guy that lives at the laundromat. I keep worrying that she'll get shanked one day over a bag of plastic bottles.

So I had this idea before I went to Cali. I wanted to do this interview session with Moms, and really get to know about her and my dad's life. I wanted to ask her to give me more details about her life before she was married, about how she felt when she met Pops, life in Vietnam...

But I couldn't do it.

I'm so weak. I was too scared to deal with the slew of emotions that would accompany talking about all that shit. Instead of bonding with my mother in a way I knew would make her happy, I sat quietly by her side and watched The Gameshow Network.

As we're watching TV, my mom pulls me closer and strokes my hair. It feels nice to be next to her, but I am mildly uncomfortable. The closeness reminds me of how far away I live, and I almost want to walk away. There's so much guilt when she tells me how much she misses me. I miss her, too. And Pops. I sense her loneliness.

It's too much for me. I have to excuse myself. Sometimes I have issues with touching. Ex-boyfriends have actually complained about my not being affectionate enough. I even have a hard time dealing with emotional intimacy. I suppose I should try counseling, but it's hard to find a therapist that you don't want to lie to.

"Please try not to be so fucked up." I say this aloud to my reflection.

I'm lounging one day and the doorbell rings. I see this older man outside.

"Hello. Is Del available?"

Del is my dad's name.

I'm frozen. I have to tell him my dad died two years ago. FUCK FUCK FUCK.

I tell him. He gasps and almost falls. I feel slightly nauseous. My mom peeks her head from behind me. She's confused at first and then she smiles.

"Is that you, Lee Miller?"

So, Lee Miller comes in and stays for a few hours. He and his wife lived on base next to my parents in Okinawa. He last saw me when I was about 8, then he and his family moved to Hawaii. He told a story about how my mom and his wife once got arrested for selling stuff on the Japanese black market. I ask him what my dad was like back then. He tells me. I smile. It's a nice visit.

Enough with the sappy stuff.

Social Life: Sacramento

-Ate pizza at Zelda's with Alissa
-Lunch with Dre
-Went with Alissa and Anthony to see Coco's band, Children of Young
-Dre's party at Harlow's
-Phone call from my friend's ex-girlfriend informing me that he is in jail. WTF.
Freak out because it's like five felonies
Oh, OK. A few charges were dropped. Fabulous.
-Happy Hour at Monkey Bar with Nikkisha
-Another Happy Hour at Bistro 33 with Aja and Valaree
-Lunch with Sarah...at Olive Garden!
-This is what happens when I get to watch your kids in Sacramento:

I mean, what else is there to do????

-My last night, met up with Alissa, ate outside at Tower Cafe, then went to a party at The Distillery

I ran into so many people that night downtown. The Distillery has the worst sound system ever. It was like listening to an amped up clock radio. The highlight of the evening was running into old friends-Kellina, Shayla, Blee, Antoine, Gary...

Later that night, I get a phone call at 3am. It woke me up so I was groggy and cranky. The only reason I answer it is because it's a 415 number. Might be a friend in San Francisco.

Dear Unknown Caller with 415 Area Code,

a) Please do not think it's OK to call at 3am, even if you saw me just two hours before.
b) Please do not open conversation with, "I could tell by the way you were looking at me that you were excited to see me again...." Um....HELLMUTHAFUCKINGNO.
c) I still have absolutely no idea who you are.
d) Please go fuck yourself.

I was a little too generous giving out the digits. I was friendly to anyone that I ever ran into while living in Sacramento. I was, however, not able to put aside the grudge I have against a certain former friend/popular local rapper who stole my purse right out of my car back in 1996. I won't put him on blast, but his name may or may not be E-Train. "Progressive" my ass. Don't trust him near your valuables.

And that's Cali for you. I had plans to get my act together and ended up not getting one damn thing on my list accomplished.

Nor Cal folks...I love you dearly. Please visit NY before it gets too cold. See you in November!

My So Called Love Life

2008-08-07T17:59:00.006-04:00

Writing this from Moms house in California. More on that later.

How do I sum up how my summer has been going in a few short paragraphs?

Lots of free concerts in the Park. Dancing. Block Parties. Flea Markets...

As far as my love life goes...pretty pathetic. While everyone is getting their Summer Fling on, I continue to ride the wave of Involuntary Celibacy. I've been on two dead-end dates this season and continue to affirm my reputation as Stalker to the one person I have a crush on. I mean, I know I said I didn't want anything serious this Summer, but I was reeeeally hoping I could book something substantial for the Fall. Mostly I just daydream about Hot Brunch Date with an occasional delusion about West Coast Boyfriend.

Dating Examples:

Date 1:

If you go out with someone that you're attracted to, but have absolutely no intention of ever being with, is it really a date? I've hung out with this dude before. Cool, not exactly my type in that he's a little on the short side and the sneakers aren't fly enough.

(If anyone used the same measure to judge me as I use on the opposite sex, I would be completely and totally screwed.)

He's smart and fun to talk to and we have amusing conversations but...he lives in another state. He also doesn't ask me enough questions. I feel like it's all about him, you know? Whatever, I'm not even really paying attention anyway.

After dinner and drinks, we kiss on the cheek and hug goodbye. I stomp up the stairs (alone) and walk into my apartment with this pathetic look on my face. Disappointment? Confusion?

Gabbi laughs and asks, "What's wrong, Mo?"

I set my keys down. "I totally could have gotten laid tonight."

Bummer.

I look at my cell to check the time. I suppose if he's still in the neighborhood it's not too late?

Date 2:

My roommate Gabbi had a show at the Laurie Beechman theater in midtown, and I invited someone I used to go out with from last year, expecting him not to accept the invitation. Well he did accept, and I was happy because:

a) I really liked him. A lot. Too much. He was VERY unavailable. Happens to me pretty often.

b) I was broke, and couldn't really afford the two drink minimum on my own.

I had three Ketel Tonics during the show and was a little dizzy when we sat down at Ideya in Soho for dinner.

On the drive home, I was informed that he had (guess!) a NEW girlfriend, which I didn't even understand until later when the haze started clearing. I sat up in bed when the realization hit, and felt really lonely. At least we didn't sleep together. And he does live in Jersey. Not Jersey City Jersey, but like...so far in that I'd have to take several types of foreign New Jersey Transit to get to his house. Ewww. I cringe at the thought! I try not to even date people that live too far uptown in Manhattan!

I get an out of the blue text from Big informing me that he's in Northern California. I figure he must have ran into someone that knew I was coming to town. We missed each other, since I'll be in San Francisco while he's a little further east. Why is it such a big deal if we already live in the same city on the East Coast??? I don't get it. Funny, how it seems I only hear from him now when I'm on Pacific Standard Time.

There was what I call the Jay-Z incident.

A few months ago, I get a voicemail alert on my phone, check my messages and am surprised to hear that I have 17 new voicemails piling up over the last three days or so. I hear not one, but TWO messages from TWO different people saying,

"Ramona...got an extra ticket to Jay Z. Holla."

Unfortunately, I receive these messages the day after the show. I called my friend Kim (offer #1) and was utterly devastated that I couldn't take him up on the extra ticket.

And Big must have took my not calling on the day of the show as an insult.

I'm like listen, if you stabbed me and stole my car, I STILL would accept your offer for Jay-Z tickets. I'd be like, FUCK you...and THANK you!

Ok. Guess I'm lucky that I even have people offering me extra concerts tickets.

So that's it. If you have any SINGLE, fly sneaker-owning, good music-loving, witty comment-making friends with mucho swagger, give 'em my info, will ya???

xo ramona

On Black Girls Ruling

2008-08-06T23:02:00.005-04:00

Every year TRACE magazine does a Black Girls Rule issue that I absolutely adore. If you had the privelege of entering my bedroom during my first year in New York, you'd know I had the 2006 issue hanging up above my desk. My dear friend Raven forwarded me her friend's reaction to this year's issue. With her permission, I'm gonna share it with you.

THIS IS NOT SOMETHING I WROTE. Not ME. I'm reposting a bulletin.

*************

Here it is:

From: XXXX

Date: Aug 5, 2008 2:59 PM

subject: I beg to fucking differ!!!

I don't understand why this shit is even acceptable. and Yeah im gonna go ahead and ruffle some fucking feathers and say it...why can a magazine exclaim a fucking bullshit statement like "black girls rule" and its totally acceptable? why can Vogue publish an all black issue?im not saying i dont want that issue (because it looks fierce as shit) and i dont like to see more diversity in fashion let alone the world, but i do believe in reverse racism and i think this shit is really getting out of hand, thanks to obama im sure.

but seriously, how about if a magazine makes a "white girls rule" issue? i bet theyd have farrahkan and sharpton up there asses before it even hits newsstands.

On that note, I'll make my own exclaimation just to even the fucking score....PERSIAN GIRLS RULE. (Specifically me) And the rest of you can suck it.

*********

I read this and my jaw dropped.

There's way too much to go over here, and so little time.

How is being proud about your heritage reverse racism? Saying 'Black Girls Rule' does not equal 'Other Girls Suck.' And anyway, it seems like every issue of almost every fashion publication out right now tends to have a subliminal 'White Girls Rule' message.

The Obama reference???? WHAT THE FUCK.

What kind of ignorant shit is this? This chick posted this as a Myspace Bulletin to all of her friends!

I swear I'm gonna have a freaking heart attack trying to deal with this bullshit.

Please feel free to post your opinions. I wanna hear feedback from EVERYBODY. Call me, text me, email, post a comment. Right now I'm exhausted. I'm not doing this blog justice by keeping it short, but I have to put it out there, like tonight.

Raven just Friend-Dumped this girl. (For this was one violation too many)

All in agreement, say Ay.........

On Unintentional Stalking, Oprah, and Being A Good Person

2008-06-27T17:11:00.004-04:00

So if you read my last blog, you know that I have this new crush and that I kinda struck out on making a first impression. I'm a little bummed by that. I think I'll have a better shot getting by on my personality more than my looks.

*Hey. I don't want to hear any 'But you're cute!' comments. I see myself as a maybe a 7. With the help of dim lighting and empire waist dresses...maybe 7.25. And that's not really such a horrible way to go through life. Again, it's the Low Self-Esteem/Superiority Complex thing.*

So I see The Crush for the first time at a party last week.
See him at a concert in Prospect Park. (not really coincidental)
We officially meet.
I think he's aware that I'm mildly and safely infatuated.

No biggie.

I also run into him at a party on Saturday night. (coincidence)
And another spot in Manhattan on Monday night. (another coincidence).

Hhmmm. This may not be a good thing.

I'm sure he thinks I'm fucking psycho.

I am unintentionally stalking this dude! How is it that I've never seen this person in my life but then I run into him four times in one week? It's borderine restraining-order material.

Is writing about it feeding into the stalker-profile?

If you were said Crush and you came to find this blog that I've written, how creeped out would you be?

Anyway, so right now I'm watching Oprah. It seems like every episode is just some further evolved version of The Secret. Or it's something with Dr. Oz. Or Suze Orman.

Oprah is such a good person. She is such a good person that compared to her, I begin to see myself as almost apathetic.

And I have these weird things that annoy me about people.

Like when people sign their emails with 'Peace and Light'

Or when people use the word 'manifest' in any way.

Oprah would never have such horrible thoughts.

When I was about 10, Do The Right Thing came out and Pops and I used to talk about it a lot. During one of our discussions, he suggested I try to do something nice for someone every day. We'd discuss it when I got home from school.

He inquired about it after dinner one day.

"Do any good deeds?" He asks.

"Yeah. I ate lunch with Krista."

"And...?"

"Well, Krista's a huge nerd. So you know...I sat with her."

Pops let out a defeated sigh. This is following his discovery of The LA Gears Club.

Truth be told, my lifetime popularity meter peaked in the 6th Grade. Everyone wanted to be my friend in 1990 for some strange reason. I think it had to do with my amazing sticker collection and the fact that sometimes one of my parents would come up to the school sometimes and bring pizzas for me and my friends.

I was well liked, but I never had really cool clothes. Moms and Pops refused to buy me these expensive Nikes, so I decided to start the exclusive LA Gears Club. You had to have LA Gears to get in, and membership had it's benefits. You were one of the Cool Kids.

One day, Krista came up to me.

"Ramona! Look what I got!"

I look down.
Brand new pink LA Gears.

"Ohhhhh. You didn't get the memo? We just changed it to the British Knights Club."

Yeah.

What a little bitch.

And here I am today, still trying to repent for breaking poor Krista's heart.

I'm having a problem tying this all together here....

The Deli Guy asked me out.

It's not just any Deli. It's open all night and they'll fire up the grill for you at 3a.m. They've seen me cranky before work getting coffee, drunk and ordering an egg sandwich, or grabbing a cookie after dinner. I can order a shitload of food and my order will miraculously come up to less than $4.

I strolled in there the other day, ordered an omelet and got asked out by Hector (yeah).

I stood there, blinking. Slowly put a five dollar bill on the counter.

I think I muttered something about having to check my schedule, then backed away.

I haven't been there since.

Sigh. I feel like such a snob for not agreeing to dinner with Hector, who is really sweet. There's no spark though, except for the slight giddiness I feel when he gives me a free pastry.

Gdot says I should say Yes. Give Hector a chance.

I can't. I'd be wholly motivated by the potential loss of my donut discount.

And you know....I'm trying to do the right thing.

Naked and Betrayed

2008-06-01T04:20:00.008-04:00

A while ago, Kimmie and I were at Chuck's house hanging out and watching cable on his big screen TV. We're scrolling through the channels and land on some soft porn action on Cinemax. The title of the movie?

Naked and Betrayed.

Since then I've always wanted to use it in a sentence.

Like, how are you feeling today?

I'm naked and betrayed!

See?

The situation has never come up, but I figure I can at least use it as a title to a blog.

Haven't written in a while. I have to start churning out at least a blog every week, because the stories have piled up to a point where I don't even know where to begin. It's like the reason I don't call some of my really close friends in California. After a while there's just too much to talk about, and as I'm about to dial I imagine it taking over six hours for both of us to revel in our emotional turmoil. So instead of calling, I just hang up and walk to the bodega for lunch.

I especially need to blog about yesterday.

Me and Grace started Free Week on Monday. All activities should cost absolutely nada all week. Good idea, but when you factor in taxis and Manhattan drink prices, it still put a dent in my wallet. I keep forgetting to bring my flask! Actually, I don't even own a flask. I just pour vodka in a Poland Springs bottle and call it a day.

Monday we head out to this after-work party at the Hudson Hotel. It's really nice to drink and dance at like, 7pm. I think I might begin a Start Early/End Early revolution. It's safer to take the train home and prevents hangovers at work the following day.

Anyway, I see this guy there that I think is hot but just can't talk to him. I find out his name I have to say...Google is a girl's best friend.

I send him an email and hope to God he finds it to be funny and not stalker-esque.

Yep. I totally put myself out there.

So Thursday I go to a concert in Prospect Park, where I know for sure he'll be.

(OK, some might call my detective work scary. I call it being pro-active. )

At the park, Grace calls me and says something like,

"We're here! And we're like twenty feet away from your man!"

And...still can't talk to him.

In fact, I end up HIDING BEHIND A TREE trying to work up the nerve to say something.

Finally, after seeing him about to disappear into this huge crowd, I go up to him when he's in line for food and finally say hello.

He asks me what I'm doing later and suggests I go to this bar in Williamsburg.

"Hhm, sounds cool. We might be able to make it out there."

Um....might???? I don't care if he told me he was going to some gay bar in Staten Island. You know my ass would've been there.

So we get to this bar after midnight, and he's sitting next to me. There's a band playing so it's hard to talk, but I can barely think of anything to say! I finally made some progress with my crush and I feel like a complete idiot. I can't focus on much else besides the fact that we're kinda touching elbows.

On the way home I realize that not only was I being a boring ass mute, but we also didn't exchange numbers!

ARRRRGH!!

I'm silent and boring. And I fell down a flight of stairs this morning so now I'm limping.

What happened to my game??? I used to have it! Now I hide behind trees!

I need practice. Which is why I'm working on a plan to have each and every friend of mine introduce me to someone new that they think I'd get along with (and maybe one day at least have the faintest desire to let feel me up.)

I'll have lots of material to blog about soon.

1999

2008-05-19T23:31:00.002-04:00

There are whole chunks of my adolescent life that I can barely remember or understand.

1999 was the year I moved out of my parents' house, but I remember it as being more significant in reference to the Prince song. Not that I did very much partying then, but if I did, I could really be partying like it's 1999. Because it is 1999.

So began my odd thought process as I stumbled through the mundane routine of being an adult. Things that would make me laugh mingled with things that would make me numb. Slowly, everything about life seemed complacent and routine. The things I used to find amusing started to lose its luster, and it became almost a chore just to get through a whole day.

Then, all I wanted to do was sleep.

Sleeping was like fast-forwarding to the likelihood of something better. Being around people became exhausting. Pretending was even more exhausting. I'd almost always prefer to be unconscious.

Oddly enough, my 20 hour sleep marathons would be followed by intense bouts of insomnia. I tried everything to combat it. I rented almost every single movie at Blockbuster. I tried to read the classics. I eventually found solace by sneaking into my dad's medicine cabinet, but Percoset only helps to prolong the lucid dream. When I finally did fall asleep I'd only find myself deeper into the hole.

How insignificant I've become.

I'm like background noise.

Popping a pill before every meal allowed me to sleepwalk through my days. The phone became a nuisance. My friends became a chore. Logic went out the window. Eventually, I just really didn't give a fuck.

On New Year's Eve that year I decide to go to my parents' house. I walk in the door and sit next to my mother on the sofa.

"It's the end of the world."

She doesn't hear me. Or maybe I never even said it out loud.

She touches my hair and looks at me.

"You look so beautiful tonight." she says.

I love you, mom.

Again, not sure if I say this out loud.

Part of my mother's explicit Y2K emergency readiness list included filling the bathtub with fresh water. I find this to be amusing and volunteer for the job.

As the water is running, I push the bathmat aside and lay on the floor to feel the cool tile.

I'm not quite 21 years old.

My mother thought I was beautiful.

But I am just background noise.

All I want to do is sleep.

I glance at my watch.

Thirteen minutes before midnight.

My eyes are closed.

The tub starts to overflow and I can feel my hair getting wet.
I take comfort in being able to feel something tangible.
I can feel my hair getting wet.

My serene moment is interrupted by a ringing cell phone. I pick up and it's my dad. He works the night shift at the hospital.

"Happy New Year." he says, out of breath.

Surprised, I look at my watch. It's already past midnight. I don't say anything.

"Hello? I felt like I had to call you. I ran from the staff party and now I'm in the nurse's station."

Still no reply from me.

"It's the year 2000." he says.

More silence.

"Honey..."

I think I make some sort of sound.

"It's the year 2000 and I'm....I'm so glad you're still there." he says.

I get up to turn the faucet off.

"Me too, Dad."

Happy New Year.

Pre/Post ATL

2008-05-10T10:29:00.004-04:00

Every once in a while, a friend of mine will start our conversation with the following phrase,

"I have a confession!"

So with her permission, let me share this NC-17 rated story with you.

She's about to get it on with this new guy she's dating and they're doing some sort of mutual masturbation thing. He then grabs a cup on the nightstand and proceeds to ejaculate into the cup.

Okaaaay.

So then they decide to saran wrap the cup and put it into the refrigerator.

(Yes.)

And then, the next time they have sex later that evening, he makes her drink it.

Ahhhhh!!!!

I was like, "He wanted you to drink his chilled semen? Like straight, or on the rocks?"

Suddenly my own sexual adventures seem rather prudish.

Just thought I'd throw that story in there before I vent on my own dull life.

I took Airtran to Atlanta for Shavaun's wedding, and while it's not exactly my favorite airline, it was the cheapest way to fly there. My friend Jason is on the same flight and I manage to talk my way into sitting next to him.

Jason is in finance, and I don't get why he doesn't spend an extra $50 to upgrade to business class, especially since his dad is meeting him there via private jet. But it's cool, because even high in the sky at 10 a.m. I can count on him to buy a round of drinks. We both order a Bloody Mary, a drink I detest but is really the only socially acceptable thing to get before noon.

I'm in the middle of telling J a story complete with elaborate hand gestures and accidentally flip my tray table, sending my half-finished Bloody Mary flying. Luckily it misses J and the girl asleep in the window seat and just lands all over my blouse. I look towards the bathroom but hesitate as I see this lady exit.

Why?

Because she comes out of the restroom with about three months of reading material.

Isn't it universally known that you are not to take any books and magazines in with you to a public restroom? Oh, the downsides of forever flying coach.

Shavaun's house is huge, and her life now completely blissful and suburban. There's plenty of room for me, her mom, step dad, grandmother, her sister Angie, Angie's boyfriend, and Angie's three kids. I've grown so accustomed to New York's cramped living arrangements.

I can't tell you how good it felt to be there. All the noise and chaos and love mixed in with the smell of food cooking.

Damn, I miss California. And barbecues and family and a house full of people.

Another reason I kind of suck? My aunt and cousins live in Atlanta, and I find it hard to be around them without my mother as the buffer. I saw my aunt for maybe ten minutes before it felt awkward. They're just super-Vietnamese, if that makes any sense. We haven't bonded enough. Instead of embracing the opportunity, I end up running from it. So fucked up.

Shavuan and Boubacar are getting hitched on Sunday. The night before I help her with last minute wedding stuff. I love that I'm here with her. We're sitting on her bed preparing flowers, and I think about how we have almost twenty years of memories spent in each other's rooms.

And now here we are.
It's the end of an era.
She's married and about to have a baby!

I'm in the wedding stuffed into this canary yellow bridesmaid dress and watch my friend come down the aisle. She's more like my sister.

I look around and become completely aware of how I've never yearned for any of this. Never dreamed of a white dress and perfect husband. Or of a big house and 2.5 kids. It all seems ideal, and I feel some sort shame for not wanting it. I wonder if I've been wired correctly. Will I get left behind?

It'd be nice to be in love. I don't know how that possibility suddenly became so improbable.

As far as the nightlife goes, I didn't do too much partying. I went to this place called Halo with a new friend of mine, and it was OK. These two chicks that met us there were grinding on each other to horrible music and it was getting a little too Girls Gone Wild. I'm sorry, but I can't do that as a grown ass woman.

The next day I found myself eating breakfast with a direct descendant of a very prominent leader of The Nation of Islam. He's a friend of a friend, and I've been informed that he likes white girls. Such internal conflict.

Many people tend to pour their hearts out to me and ask for advice. I wonder why? I'm not the person that is able to find encouraging words to make you feel better. Like, if you told me you lost your job and your cat died, I'd just respond with 'Damn, that sucks dude.' and try to buy you a drink or make you laugh, probably both.

So he's asking me if I think he's an attractive dude, and what would I rate him on a scale of 1-10.

"I don't rate people." I reply.

Well, I would have until about two weeks ago, when I felt insulted that West Coast Ex-Boyfriend ranked me in his Top 3. But say I were to rank him, I'd give him maybe a 5 or 6.

Oops.

Here's the thing. Even though you're a guy and we're friends, I really really really need you to NOT appear to have low self-esteem. A dude with a little self-defacing humor is great, but not low self-esteem. I can't constantly be trying to make you feel better about yourself when I'm too busy trying to convince my damn self that I'm a decent person.

So he's not having a great love life. Maybe because you're 36 and just went on a date with a 20 year old girl. And then wonder why she hasn't seen Scarface? Maybe because she was born in 1988. As a rule, date someone that understands the same pop culture references.

I was there from Friday to Wednesday, and I thought that such a long trip was going to be torture. But it went by fast, and I ended up yearning for more time with Shavaun and Andrea while I was on the plane.

Now I'm back in New York.

And feeling kind of....

Lonely.

Tragedy, Friendship, and The Injustices of The Opposite Sex

2008-05-02T00:41:00.006-04:00

If this is your first time reading one of my blogs, please exit this page and click on a different one. PLEASE. Come back to this later.

West Coast Ex-Boyfriend and I had a conversation that transgressed from IM to the telephone and back to IM. I'm so thankful that it happened, because it's put me much more at ease with our relationship. My last thoughts before I went to bed were,

He doesn't even fucking know me.

I woke up the next morning feeling like I just came out of a fog. Has it taken something like this for me to realize how much I've been completely delusional about this whole thing? We had a relationship? Not really. A connection? Sure. We dropped the ball.

I played myself a long time ago by seeing him when he had a girlfriend. His argument was that he was completely honest with me about it. Yeah, OK. But how about lying to her? If she found out he probably would have been like, 'I don't even know that chick.' And I'm not even gonna go over The Hotel Incident, in which the emotional scars will manifest throughout all of my future relationships. How are we supposed to build when all possibility of trust just flew out the window?

Last year when Moms had a stroke, I tried to reach out. I suck at asking for help, but I tried. I thought that since I was going to be in Cali for a whole month, I could really get to know him better. He disappeared. I know he was going through a lot with his family, too. But dude, Moms had a stroke eight months after Pops died, which was eight months after my 15 year old nephew died. I think I had it worse.

You know what though, I get it. It's cool. I may have misunderstood something. I guess we're not as close as I thought we were. I don't have a clear understanding of what happened with him, since he didn't feel he could share it with me. People handle things differently. But my thoughts as of that moment,

Note to Self: Don't depend on West Coast Boyfriend for emotional support.

When Pops died, I called maybe three people, and even that was hard. How do I deal with tragic events? Withdrawal. I blogged about it then crawled into a hole. The three people I called told everyone else, and a few days later in California Sarah and Rena pull up in my parent's driveway. Sarah said something to me that I don't think she even remembers.

"Ramona, we just had to come get you."

I made her leave before I started to cry. I love you, Sarah. I love love love love you.

Here's to friends that will come get you.

I've been letting him berate me because I thought I deserved it. It's punishment for making such an horrible decision. I still feel absolutely awful for what I did. I thought I was a better person than that, and I have to take this experience and use it as a lesson. One mistake doesn't define me. I know this, I keep telling myself this, but I'm still finding it difficult to completely move on and forgive myself.

A quote from West Coast Ex's IM:

You were top 3. #1 in NY....

Did he really just openly rank me?? And it wasn't even meant to be insulting! Like hey, before you fucked up you were high on the totem pole. And the highest on the East Coast! Now you have to join general population.

Nicole and I were sitting out on the patio today at Flatbush Farm. She says,

"OK girl, you fucked up. But at least you fucked up on something worthless. It's like practicing on a broken bike before you get your Huffy!"

I'd hate to think of it as worthless. But I don't know anymore.

So here it is, folks.

The catalyst for change.

Finally.

Kalifornia

2008-04-29T10:52:00.007-04:00

*LONG RECAP WARNING. I should have split it in two parts.*

My feelings about this trip are a bit unclear. I'm glad I went, but I can not shake this empty feeling it's left me with. So many things to get out, but I can't reveal everything. This blog has been a blessing and a curse. It used to be cathartic, but now since I have to censor myself, I'm not quite sure what to do. I used to be able to feel better by just journaling my feelings, but now to achieve the same affect I have to post it to the world. What kind of fucked up shit is that??? I'm glad that people are reading, but it's also kicking me in the ass. I mean, it's OK to put my own shit out there, but not everyone else's. And now I've found that people are trying to connect the dots on both coasts now. I guess I should be flattered. My friend Jason said he likes reading because it's like Sex and the City, but like, blacker. Yeah...a black, broke version of SATC. Carrie rocks Manolos, I rock Nine West.

FRIDAY

My instructions from Erin for Friday night was to be super fly before I even de-plane at LAX. Instead I wake up drooling and disoriented. As soon as I walk off the plane I wish I had at least put on a little mascara. I'm like, Jeeeez! All of a sudden I'm fat and ugly in this zip code.

*By the way, speaking of mascara...a huge chunk of my eyelashes are missing. MISSING! Like someone cut them in half! Wtf??? The result of a drunken moment? Or the janky Vietnamese eyelash curler my aunt gave me???*

Erin and her friend pull up in his Porsche. Already, this is sooo LA, and I love it for its novelty. We head over to this pan-Asian restaurant called Katana on Sunset in West Hollywood . So fucking delicious. Erin's friend is a director and has a lot of pull here, apparently. All types of people are kissing his ass. I'm thinking, hmmm....I only have pull at the dive bar up the street.

Me and Erin can't stop making fun of the girls there. Despite my infinite number of imperfections, I can always manage to talk shit. It's just a lot of skin tight short dresses (it's not even hot out!), too much make-up, high pitched shrieking, and the same hairstyle. All of these chicks are interchangeable. Phil called them "Corolla Girls." He was like, they've been given expensive jewelry and a Fendi purse, but still drive home in their Toyota Corollas.

I would never make a comment like that, nor did I know how to respond to it. Because shit, I have a Honda. A Honda sans Fendi purse.

We have plans to go to the Kiss n Grind party, but me and Erin are practically falling asleep before dessert. I crash with her at her sister's house in Baldwin Hills.

Oh yeah, every time I told people that I was staying in Baldwin Hills, they responded with, "Oh the black area." I guess? Erin called it Black Brady Bunch Land.

SATURDAY

Nikkisha and Siobhan fly in from Sacramento. They're staying at a hotel on Hollywood and Highland. Unbeknownst to us, it's kind of a cheesy area. Like the equivalent of your friends coming to visit and saying, "Hey! We're staying in Times Square!"

They pick me up in their rental car. And guess what? It's a white Toyota Corolla.

Gas is over $4 a gallon in Cali!! I feel bad for complaining about the $5 Metrocard hike.

This is when I start trying to work up enough nerve to call West Coast (ex)Boyfriend. I keep hitting the call button then canceling. Finally I sent him a text that said:

So...I'm in LA. I wanted to call you earlier but I was afraid you'd be like, so?

His response: So....?

It feels like someone punched me in the stomach. But he texts a "lol Jk. How's your trip so far?"

Thank god. I am now admitting to being completely, totally, irrationally and inappropriately obsessed with him. Given my location in his territory, I know I am a part of a huge fan club. I flash back to something he said a while ago..

"I really thought you were dope, Ramona. But I mean, how are you gonna do some average shit like this??"

Ouch. To be called average is the absolute worst.

You know you've got it when your swagger stays steady in your insults and scolding. In my head I was like, he's saying all kinds of (valid) fucked up shit to me, I'm trying to fight tears, but...it's still kinda hot.

I'm so seriously damaged and flawed.

I wanted to catch up with my real ex-boyfriend, but I think his version of catching up wasn't about getting dinner, it was about getting naked. I flaked on him. It's just not that kind of weekend. I haven't seen him in over a year and I guess it can stay that way.

We get our nails done up the street from their hotel. I always have to over-tip because once the Nail Techs find out I'm half-Vietnamese, they put a little extra effort into my pedicure.

That was kind of random. Sorry.

Sunday

I end up staying with Siobhan and Nikkisha. I realize that I don't have my phone charger here and it's traumatizing enough to mention in a blog. I wake up early and want to hit the beach before 11 am, but when you have three girls in one hotel room recovering from a long night out you end up not leaving the room until 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Ugh, pathetic.

My friend Doug happens to be in NY the same weekend I'm in LA, and we're flying back on the same day.

"Why don't you just stay another week? You can crash here."

Because the place falls apart if I'm gone for more than four days, dude.

"Wait...you're working?"

I have found that a huge number of people don't think I work for a living. It's just that I can always manipulate things so I have time to take trips and hang with people visiting from out of town. As far as the writing goes, I haven't managed to really get paid for this shit. More like, reimbursed. I'll get my writing hustle on this year. Until then blog readers, feel free to send me anything via Paypal in exchange for reading about my miserable life.

Totally unrelated, but there are also a huge number of people that think I can supply them with prescription drugs. I don't know how many times I've had to swear that I don't have any extra Xanax or Percoset.

Does this kind of stuff happen to anyone else?

We meet Saundria, who lives in Long Beach, in Santa Monica. It's just nice being with old friends and catching up, especially with the Pacific Ocean as your backdrop.

I also got to hang out with my friend Sam at this yummy Brazilian restaurant called Bossa Nova. More good times. I swear I've laughed more on this trip than I have in a long time. We have plans to hit up a party together after dinner where I know West Coast Ex will be attending. Um, yeah.

The Party

Big mistake to attend this party. I am constantly aware of West Coast Ex's location in vicinity to mine, and I wish I had a few of those Xanax that I'm notoriously linked to. I sit down with Sam at one of those sofas in the VIP and want to leave, as I don't think I'm really welcome to sit there, but I'm frozen. It's all really inappropriate. I mean, what exactly is the ettiquette when you're at a party and you've slept with someone's friend, and they're both there? I'm very sure that I'm the only one that's even stressing Hey, I'm a chick-I can't help the over-analyzing. I whisper the following to Siobhan:

I think I'm going to have a nervous breakdown.
I think I need a few shots of Patron.
I don't think I want to be here.

Once we leave that area I'm fine. I'm actually unclear if it was voluntary or if I was ousted by higher ranking officials. I'm pretty sure I was ousted. I should note that I did strategically wait for the bottle of Grey Goose to come so I could have Sam (who is an actual Very Important Person) make me (not at all a Very Important Person) a really strong free drink. I downed it in about three seconds. So at least I got something before I was kicked out to dance with my fellow peasants.

Am I getting too old to party? I don't know half of the new songs that come on. I'm dancing with this guy, and he's like, who sings this?

Um...A Tribe Called Quest. (Jesus, kid!)

I ask the same thing later, and a different kid is like,

Um...Cassidy. (Jesus, old hag!)

Once intoxicated and away from West Coast Ex, I can be my normal silly self. However, I look around the room and secretly wish I was 20 lbs lighter. All the women are so scantily clad! And rightfully so, because they're pretty fucking hot. I am not exaggerating when I say, hands down, that I have on THE MOST CLOTHES at the club. I'm practically Amish up in here. I did have a lot of cleavage going on, but I can't help it anymore. I've gained some weight since I moved to NY, and now I manage to have cleavage in a crew neck t-shirt. I debate going to the bathroom to take my leggings off permanently.

Ratio of females to males at the party: 5:1
Ratio of tacky bitches to stylish bitches: 15:1

I need a private moment and go into the bathroom before I start hyper-ventilating. I share the full length mirror with a few model-slash-waitresses. I definitely have Low Self-Esteem coupled with a Superiority Complex- it's all kicking in again.

I can't let these shiny girls get me down. I need to quickly think of some places where I shine before I have a heart attack.

I don't hang with a group of beautiful models/actresses/Fendi Bag Hustlers.
I hang with a beautiful group of teachers/social workers/activists/all around dope individuals.

I may not be able to work that spandex dress,
But you know what I can work? A dinner party.

I can tell a good joke and a good story.
I have a penchant for witty comebacks, both in person and via IM.
My personality can compensate for my looks.

Take that, you boring ass skinny bitches.

Whoa. I have to check myself on sooo many levels.

Am I just being a Hater? Probably.

And seriously, why am I sweating West Coast Ex so much? I can almost guarantee that I am not even given a passing thought.

I can't do LA, y'all. Yeah, I think it's evil and shallow, but I also can't deny how susceptible I am to all of it. I'm weak. I like guys with social power and swag. I like that they like me back sometimes even though I'm not the baddest bitch. I could easily move here, get skinny, start wearing bikinis to the Library, and just slowly transform into one of these girls I make funny jokes about.

I'm conflicted. Is it OK to want nice things? Is it OK to want to be beautiful? My upbringing had an emphasis on character and being anti-capitalist. This is why I'm broke because of a trip to Europe, not a trip to Prada. And my actions lately haven't been very admirable.

I need to do some volunteer work when I get home to repent for all these impure shallow thoughts.

OK, so I had this moment in the bathroom. Back to the party.

I have the most fun just hanging out with the girls. This guy plops down next to me drinking a bottle of champagne straight from the bottle, and the waiter brings another bottle to chill in a bucket on the table. I smile and say Hey. He smiles and says he just got drafted into the NFL.

Not the best line to lead with me, 'cause I could really give a fuck. And I misunderstood and think he just got drafted into the military.

"Drafted??? Nikkisha, he just got drafted!"

She says, "Really? What branch?"

I finally get that he just got drafted to the Redskins. He must think I'm retarded. I'm trying to figure out what sport that is. I tell him congratulations and go back to talking with my girls. He's almost insulted that I have not given enough attention to his announcement. So I humor him and feign some interest. He asks what I like to do. I like to write, first thing that comes out of my mouth. Maybe because this is Los Angeles, he assumes I'm an entertainment writer and asks me to ask him some interview questions. In humoring him I find that he's a complete and total idiot. I excuse myself to the bathroom. He says he has to go too, and takes my hand and leads me back in the party. Then he gets a little confused when I try to part ways to go to the Ladies Room.

Dude. I'm not one of these girls that will give you head in a bathroom stall because you just got drafted to the Redskins.

Well, maybe if you were actually already playing.

JUST KIDDING, promise.

I say so much stupid shit that I forget that people sometimes don't know if I'm joking.

Later he asks for my number and I laugh and say, "Really hun, what's the point?" (I'm drunk but serious).

He gives me a look that reads, I would slap the shit out of you if I didn't think it was gonna ruin my contract.

Time to go.

Monday

Siobhan leaves for the airport early, and me and Nikkisha have lunch with my friend J out in Santa Monica by the beach. He takes us to eat on the patio at the Viceroy Hotel, which is really fabulous. Money can get you such incredible customer service. I'm telling him about how the weekend went down and bring him up to speed on a few other things, and he's almost appalled. I need to start asking for advice BEFORE I do stupid shit, not AFTER.

He takes me on a little tour of Venice. California is truly amazing. I'm almost shocked by how good it feels to be back.

After I leave LAX I have a layover in SFO, which would normally be extremely annoying, but I have plans to meet with Chelsea at the airport. Damn, I have some amazing friends! We try to get everything out in an hour. It's impossible.

I'm sad and reluctant to go back to Brooklyn. I have thoughts of moving back to Cali, like immediately. I end up chatting with Chelsea too long and almost miss my plane.

It's crunch time because I can hear on the intercom that my flight has been boarding. I get through security check and have to sprint to get on the plane.

Why am I always late?

I'm clumsy and flailing.

My bags are always too heavy and awkward.

This is me running through another airport.

This is me running back to normal life.

I'm the last one on the plane.

Again.

I Dream of Martini

2008-04-14T18:21:00.006-04:00

Haven't written in a while. Just thought I'd post some random bullshit.

Having a day off during the week has its advantages. I can shop at a fully stocked Target and there's not much of a line at the Post Office. The problem is, there aren't that many people to enjoy the day with. I find myself scrolling through the contact list on my phone, desperately trying to find someone willing to grab lunch in Brooklyn with me. After a few failed attempts I just give up and decide to spend the day cleaning my room. Seems like lately I can't get a date, platonic or otherwise.

I'm pretty calm right now, but only because I've obsessed myself into serenity. This whole week I've been acting like a 13 year old girl, agonizing over when I should call someone. Totally out of character. Well, after a brief text convo and me leaving a message on his voicemail, I have not heard back. I'm secretly relieved, as these are some of the thoughts that went through my head:

-Maybe he thinks I'm lame because after he asked me where I lived, I said 'Brooklyn Yo.' I shouldn't have said yo!!!

-When should I call him? Should I wait 24 hours? 48 hours? Wait until he calls me? Should I text? Shouldn't he have texted back???

-If I want to go out with him on Wednesday, should I ask him on Monday?

-I can't have sex with him on the first date. If there even is a date. Wait, it's not really a date, right? It's a friendly dinner for his birthday. A dinner that hasn't been planned or discussed...

-Oh shit! If he ever reads this blog, I'm toast. (Briefly considered turning all blog posts to private or deleting them completely into oblivion).

In my twisted logic, it's better that he chooses never to contact me. I've already worked out a scenario that we've become friends, had sex, got together, broke up, continued to have sex despite our lack of commitment, then I read about his engagement in The Post to some Rocket Scientist that has been chosen as Woman of the Year for both Newsweek and King Magazine, followed by a restraining order addressed to me and an email saying I should stay away from his friends and family.

Glad I saved us both the trouble! Whew!

Other noteworthy things.....

-Went with my co-worker to see this Italian violinist at Carnegie Hall.
Maria and I were asleep before intermission. All that culture is exhausting.

-I can't stop watching CSI.

But has anyone been watching CSI Miami? Wtf is going on? A friend already warned me about how outrageous it's getting. Horatio killed like ten Brazilians in Rio? And Elizabeth Berkley's cleavage is out of control.

-Made out with a white boy.

My White Boy criteria differs greatly from my usual type. Usually they're nerdy and painfully sarcastic. It's a whole other kind of swagger. Afterwards I hoped to God I would never run into him again. That's the way it usually is with them, minus a few exceptions. They're fun, but I'm just way too racist to actually take things seriously.

Most of the white guys I've messed with have been named Mike. I am officially discontinuing the 'White Mike' policy. The policy is changing to 'White J.' I will only make out with white guys whose names begin with J. Or who look like Brad Pitt, Jared Leto, that guy on Lost, or the young hipster that works at the used bookstore on 7th Avenue.

-Never fart with headphones on!

Just an FYI.

-Aspired to make Dandelion Wine with Greg.

Well, he would have done all the wine-making, I just would have observed. It was a beautiful day and we walked to Prospect Park to pick bushels of dandelions. But...do you know that in ALL of Prospect Park, there is only ONE dandelion? And we nabbed it folks, sorry.

-Went five straight days without carbs and liquor.

I haven't gone that long without a drink in a year and half. Sad, but true. As for the carbs, I had Arroz con Pollo on the 6th day and felt like I was in Heaven. Fuck it, LA can kiss my fat ass.

JFK-LAX-SFO

2008-03-31T17:32:00.002-04:00

It's spring, but it's still cold. I can't take it. So when Erin told me she was going to Cali in a few weeks to visit her sister in LA, I decided to go along for the ride.

LA is something I've never been able to handle for more than a long weekend. There's only so much blatant fakeness I can take. I mean, NY has blatant fakeness, but at least we have the opera. Even a trip to Whole Foods in LA can chip away at your self-esteem. I think about some of the places we plan on going and have to thank god for dim lighting. I was only half joking when I sent Raven a text that said,

"How much weight do you think I can lose if I start shooting heroin tomorrow?"

Dieting in preparation for this trip may turn me into a cranky bitch, so the hermit mode is definitely in effect. And not being able to touch any Ketel One is already starting to worry me. I was telling someone about how I'm not sure how well I can handle social situations without the assistance of alcohol. How sad. Even sadder? I'm not even sure how well I can handle checking my email without the assistance of alcohol.

You know you have a cool group of friends if they can meet you in different cities. So Raven is coming fresh from Italy. K plans on catching a flight from Oakland. And Erin is picking me up from the airport. I have a brief layover in San Francisco, which will allow for any truly devoted friend to drive to SFO and meet me for an over-priced dinner at a chain restaurant near baggage claim.

Siobhan asked me if I'm gonna see West Coast Ex-Boyfriend. I doubt it, given that part of what he said to me during our last phone conversation was,

"If this had happened ten years ago I might have tried to push you down some stairs."

So maybe with the help of a beautiful yet intelligent and witty entourage, I can let go of my belief that LA is the mecca of all things shiny and evil.

Ramona Does Los Angeles, coming soon....

Last Weekend

2008-03-23T22:44:00.004-04:00

I'm on the N train going home from work on Friday when this lady starts asking for change. She used that door that lets you walk from between cars. (What are those things called, anyway?) As soon as I see her I begin to dig through my purse for my wallet.

I'm one of those people that gives change when I can. Although since I've moved to NY, I often have to dig in the sofa for loose change myself, so can't afford to do it all the time. And I only give to women and minorities. I have a No Change for White Men rule that I follow religiously.

Anyway, so I see her entering my subway car and reach for my wallet. She sees me and makes her way over. Just as she's about four feet away she starts to pick her nose. Actually, not just picking, I mean she's staring me straight in the eyes and digging really passionately up in her nose cavity! I had never seen such a thing! I was stunned and traumatized, and rendered completely motionless! I swear I could not move. So here I am in this stare-off with this homeless lady with my hand halfway into my purse, suspended in the universal I-Am-About-To-Give-You-Change motion that all pan-handlers recognize. There are absolutely no words exchanged between us, but I can tell by the look in her eyes that she was saying,

"So....why the fuck did you make me come over here if you're not giving me money?!!"

and I believe my look conveyed,

"Did you really just dig in your nose like that in front of everybody?!!!"

Luckily my stop was next and I got to scurry up out of there. I kinda felt bad about not giving her any change, so to free me of any guilt, I donated $25 online to Sol Collective in Sacramento as soon as I got in.

Other things to note: my completely un-Hermit-like behavior on both Friday night and Saturday. Here's what we did, just on Friday:

-Congee Village in Chinatown/LES for Cantonese. The decor is so completely tacky, but in a good way. It reminds me of my auntie's house. All Asians with FOB-y relatives will know what I mean.
-Fat Baby in LES to watch my friend's band, I Am The Heat
-Hotel Rivington for ambiance and beer with high alcohol content
-Label Lounge for dope music
-Back to Brooklyn for this Afrokinetic sponsored party at Royale in Park Slope

So the Brooklyn party is about 10 blocks from my house and afterwards Melissa drops us off in her cab. It's maybe 3am. Kimmie didn't realize I lived so close, and wanted to go back to the bar. It was a really fun party, so I go along with it. I notice the B63 coming up 5th Avenue, so we end up taking the bus back to the party. Only in New York is it acceptable to do this. I stumble off the bus and immediately pass out in one of the booths. Too much to drink, apparently.

What happens next isn't too clear. I drooled on some one's jacket. I sent a text with booty call intentions. I was clutching a sausage egg and cheese sandwich. I dunno what else. I woke up the next morning with a mild hangover. I called Kimmie while on the train to work and asked her,

"Um...did we really take the BUS back to the party??? We went back?"

"We sure did."

Good times.

A blog for blog's sake

2008-03-17T00:00:00.004-04:00

In the morning before work, I'll check the weather for New York then immediately check the weather for California. It gives me something else to bitch about as I clumsily make my way out of my apartment. Once off the train, I'll see all the doormen hosing down the sidewalks on 5th Avenue. I notice the smell, or rather lack of smell, and think about how it would be nice to smell a freshly cut and watered lawn.

This is the time of year when my suburban roots begin to show. I get nostalgic. I wanna see Mom watching Dynasty in the living room. Dad mowing the lawn. Fight with Coco over the front seat of the minivan.

I might be booking a ticket to Cali soon. Just a short visit to keep me sane.

So I had this crazy dream recently involving West Coast Boyfriend. Since we're not exactly on speaking terms I can't share it with him. I wonder how he'd feel about it? I woke up and grabbed my cell to call him the morning it happened, then hung up when I remember how he thinks I'm a sneaky malicious bitch.

In the dream we're in a grassy area of an outdoor concert. The first thing that comes to my head is Grant Park in Chicago (there must be a bit of symbolism in that fact, I know it). We're completely happy and blissful, and it feels natural to dance close and put my head on his shoulder. It strikes me as a little odd that his shoulders are bare, but I just admire how muscular and smooth his back is. I look up and see that quite a few people are giving us these strange looks. That's when I notice that he's wearing a dress. Not just any dress, but this really beautiful silver strapless Chloe dress that I saw in French Vogue a few months ago. It doesn't even bother me that he's wearing it. What does bother me is that people are being rude about it. So I yell, "So what? Do you own a $5000 Chloe dress??? I don't think so!" He smiles and thinks it cute and touches my face. But my face feels textured and hot. I break out my compact and my reflection scares me. One side of my face is covered in Acne and burn marks, but the other half is perfectly made-up. As I'm about to start crying, WCBF leans in and kisses the hideous side of my face. Then all is well in the universe.

Weird, right? Please email me with your dream interpretations.

So crazy these last couple of weeks! Things that stick out:

-Unrequited Declaration of Love to me from someone else. Melissa and Carlos said maybe he'll continue to write letters and we'll start dating when we're 80, like 'Love in the Time of Cholera.' Except that our book would be called 'Love in the Time of Chlamydia.'

-Lou and Val visited from Cali. They were here a week and we still have so much more to see. I took them to all my favorite night spots. Having friends visit is such a great excuse to drink during the day, since people on vacation start ordering alcohol before noon.

-I saw someone I used to be close to when I was out with Lou and Val. We kissed, and it occurs to me that I think this is the only person I've ever really made out with at a club in front of other people. I'll flirt, I'll whisper some crazy shit, but I'm not so great at steamy PDA. He's also the only person I can hug goodbye and say, 'I hate you' with glowing affection.

-I called 911. Twice. I dialed it and felt a guilty bit of excitement, as one does not get to call emergency services everyday. This crazy dude started acting up at work and refused to leave. He didn't look particularly menacing, but I just couldn't shake this weird feeling that he might slit all of our throats. I haven't had that feeling since I was at a house party in 1992. Back then I called my cousin, who showed up with a bag of guns and saved the day. This time I thought of a few people I would have liked to call, but they were too far away. And it's not like I would want them to go down with me. I called the cops, and all I have to say is that 911 really and truly is a joke.

-After being shocked and appalled by the amount of money I've spent on taxis and drinks, I have officially started Hermit Mode. However, I'm making exceptions for free cultural events, dinner parties, open bar, and anything that will allow me to take the train home without carrying a weapon. This seems like a good idea, except that I've already spent over $100 on used books and my cocktails are being replaced by expensive lattes.

-Speaking of Hermit-approved Open Bar, went to a Yelp.com elite party with Melissa. It was kind of a nerd-fest, but I see how there's a fine line between cool and spazzy. I just arranged for my friend to go to a party in LA. (Cool) I also just read and researched the character bios of every single person on CSI, CSI NY, and CSI Miami. (spazzy)

-I have become envious of all the dog owners in Park Slope. I pet people's dogs so long that it becomes awkward. I decided to call an animal shelter in Brooklyn to volunteer as a dog walker a couple of times a week. After a series of questions, the person on the line is quiet and I hear a shuffling of papers.

"So, um....we'll get back to you."

It's been five weeks! Nothing chips at your self esteem more than getting rejected for volunteer work at a kennel.

Except for, maybe...

Hermit Aspirations

2008-03-01T16:08:00.005-05:00

So I'm in a strange mood today.

Woke up with a slight hangover. I haven't really gone out much this week, but last night I was determined to have some fun. While I was getting ready at Brandon's place, I dropped the curling iron on my face while trying to do my hair and sip my pre-party cocktail at the same time. Then while trying to nurse my second-degree burn, fell down the stairs of his Brownstone. But I'll be damned if a sprained ankle and a burned cheek will stop us!

Sometimes I get these odd images in my head. They'll make perfect sense in my mind, but when I try to express myself something gets lost in translation. Like for instance, last night when I felt like saying to someone,

'I like you a lot, which scares me a little. And I'm really glad I have you as a friend.'

came out as:

'If I had a fork I would stab you in the shoulder.'

Sigh. Call it emotional dyslexia.

If I threaten to hurt you with sharp objects, then that means I really, truly care.

My roommates, who I adore, are out of town this weekend. It's nice to have the house to myself, if only to enjoy a post-workout rum and coke virtually guilt-free.

Hey, it's Diet Coke, aight?

I'm gonna enjoy myself before I try to get into some kind of self-detox. I tried to start last week but absolutely could not refuse the $19 cocktails from my cousin's offer to take me to a belated birthday lunch at the Mandarin Oriental. The drinking has gotten entirely out of hand. While I'm not getting the shakes if I don't have a few drinks for breakfast, I am salivating at beer commercials and reaching for a wine glass as soon as I walk in the door. So gonna ease off the liquor and become a hermit for the next few weeks. I'll just stay home, catch up with distant relatives, read Kafka, and learn a second language.

Wait. I just got a text from Sekou. He's in town! Yay!!!!
Hmmm....and Louie and Val are coming from Cali on Thursday....
What's up with the out-of-towners spoiling my Hermit Mission???

Dammit, OK full self-detox will start in two weeks. I'll just do a mini-detox starting this evening.

So, maybe instead of Ketel One Tonics I'll just stick to a glass of red wine. Or maybe just a couple of Ketel One Tonics instead of like, seven?

Instead of Kafka I'll read Augusten Burroughs.

Instead of learning Spanish I'll watch Univison.

Baby steps, my friends. Baby steps.

Any man with a microphone can tell you what he loves the most...

2008-02-18T15:27:00.005-05:00

There are a few benefits of not having a traditional 9-5. You should have seen me this weekend hosting a Spa Party at my job, annoyingly bubbly and following my speeches with a shot of Ketel One.

And now it's 3pm on President's Day. I'm drinking yesterday's bottle of red wine in the hopes that it will ease some of the anxiety I've been feeling as of late. I keep thinking about the fiasco with West Coast Boyfriend (er...EX-Boyfriend) at least daily, and it's causing me to break a light sweat. It also causes a sort of cramp in my side and I have to excuse myself from conversation.

Lately it's all love songs and rock music. I'm going Ipod schizo on the subway, switching from Zero 7 to The White Stripes and dreaming up ways to get my hands on some Xanax.

Ok, it's a bit of an exaggeration, but as the L-O-V-E season begins to build up, so does the urge to self-medicate. I was over at Chuck's place keeping him company while he recuperated from his wisdom teeth being pulled, and I hated myself for having the ulterior motive of popping some of his recentlfy prescribed vicotin.

Oh laaawwd. It's not that bad. And anyway, I'm a big hit at dinner parties for my chronic lack of boyfriend. They say I have commitment issues, but it's not that at all. It's just that I haven't found anyone that I wanna commit to, ya know? It's always something.

Proximity.
Availability.
Intimacy.
Vulnerability.

So if I get home before 4pm during the weekdays I get to watch some lame ass episode of Oprah (it's only good on the days I don't catch it). The relationship expert said you need to make a list of the qualities of your potential significant other. I've been told my list is too shallow, but let's call it a rough draft. Some of the things I've decided I can not live without:

Swagger (Quite possibly my downfall, but I can't let it go yet)
Must truly love Flight of the Conchords (ok...negotiable)
Don't be corny. Cheesy is OK. Please know the difference.
Fly sneakers
Please be happy
Must have insanely vast knowledge of music
Not having a girlfriend is kinda important
Favorite Movie Fight Scene can't be lame
Must love to dance
And uh...I could go on forever.

This is exhausting. And maybe even a little false, since I'm adding and subtracting from those that I already know.

It's more like,

Do you know what I mean when I say Che Guevara with Bling On?

Do you, really?

If so, we can go from there.

Chuc Mung Nam Moi, bitches...

2008-02-07T20:45:00.001-05:00

Let's start with the mundane then get into some really fucked up shit.

Recap of the last 1.5 weeks:

Went to the New York Philharmonic open rehearsal with Grace. The first half, Sinfonia, made me turn while Grace was sleeping and mouth the words WHAT THE FUCK??? to this old white man next to me. And he just laughed and shook his shoulders like, Hell, I don't even know. Brahms was beautiful after intermission, as it should be.

Went to meet Nicole and her teacher friends in the Lower East Side. I have a funny flirting relationship with one of her cute co-workers. It's all good until he tries to kiss me.

I'm like, why would he think that was OK?

Then I think to myself, one day you're gonna hurt someone with all this bullshit.

And um...what else that week? I went to some party and thought, hey...I bet Big would make an appearance at something like this. And he did.

I went to another party and thought, hey...I'd love it if they played Everything She Wants by Wham! at this place. And they did.

That's two for two in the same night.
I should buy a lottery ticket.

Got chewed out for not voting in the primaries. Dude, I'm registered in Cali and dropped the ball this year, OK? Why do muthafuckers that have never voted in their entire life wanna act super righteous about Obama??? I've been voting for over ten years. It's not even something to brag about, it's something that you just do. Jeez.

After work today I went to go see Gabbi's performance at The New Dramatists Theater in Hell's Kitchen. Amazing. And now I just walked in the door and I'm about to get ready for Maria and Jamin's dinner party...

There are so many ways to distract yourself.

Do you ever think about the experiences and people that shaped you?

I do all the time. And I can't figure it out.

I don't have Daddy Issues. I mean, Pops was pretty fucking dope.

And yet, why can't I think of one other healthy relationship I've had with the opposite sex besides my 9th grade boyfriend?

I wasn't raised like this.

I fucked up.

Actually, a series of about uh, i dunno...TEN huge lapses in judgement led to The Ultimate Fuck-Up.

I can't think past 20 minutes.

I am definitely defective.

Hmm.

Blogging is strange, isn't it? I reached over 100,000 hits and kind of got off on it. I mean really, who am I trying to be? Tila Tequila or something?

This started off as some kind of huge confessional, but I just deleted about ten paragraphs after I read over it and saw that it was just a bunch of excuses. Why is it easier for me to tell everything to a bunch of strangers than it is to tell those that are close to me? Something goes down and my communication preference is email.

I either over-simplify things or try to get all deep about it.

Drunk?
Yes.
Very.
But for me, sobriety isn't exactly a normal way of functioning.

My friends say it was unhealthy anyway. But I'm like, unhealthy or not, at least it was honest.

Ok. Here it goes.

To most, these things would be self-evident, but here's what I finally managed to figure out:

*Don't run away from things by pretending they didn't happen.
*Don't behave in such a manor that causes you to lie or cover up your actions.
*Tell people how you feel instead of sending them vague instant messages, blogging on Myspace, or writing Haikus in your journal (I'm a fucking weirdo)
*If you care about someone, don't fuck one of their best friends.

The benefit of being half-Asian is that if you act like an idiot in January, you can at least try to redeem yourself for Lunar New Year just one short month later.

I'm still holding my breath.

Happy Year 4706.

Insomiac Censured Recap

2008-01-30T00:12:00.000-05:00

It's after midnight and I'm up eating raisins and drinking a Corona.

So check this out.

I invited a new acquaintance out to lunch with me tomorrow (via text) because I thought I'd be in his area. Do you know what he said?

Him: I'm flattered, but I'll have to pass. My girlfriend wouldn't appreciate it.

D'oh!!!

Seriously, there was no underlying I-wanna-bone-you intention in my invitation! Even though now that I think about it, I have been known to have such intentions.

But not this time! You should have seen me. My jaw just dropped like, Aaaahhhhh!

I replied:

Wait, did I say eat lunch or eat me? LOL. I feel you. It's just you're the only person I know that lives further uptown than 73rd st.

Oh lawd. Now I'm embarrassed. Was I in the wrong? I've been told I need to work on my boundaries.

Yes. DEFINITELY MUST WORK ON MY BOUNDARIES.

Another thing I feel I must blog about?

The Throwback.

A Throwback in my own dating terms defines someone that you dated (in any sense of the word) a while ago and it just didn't work out. You retired them. You no longer care to see them. Ever. Finito. Game over, it's been real. I wouldn't call anyone I'm still friends with a Throwback, though.

So I ended up seeing a Throwback at APT.

Fuck it, he's still cute and has really fly kicks.

But here is why the Throwback is a Throwback.

Here's our text convo:

Him: What's up?
Me: Getting my nails did.
Him: Can I lick em

What. The. Fuck. Lick my...nails? Is that supposed to be funny? Or sexy? Or silly? Whatever it was, it made me wanna throw up.

Busy week. Actually, I'm always busy. Not complaining, but living in New York gives one an awful lot of social obligations. It's always some one's birthday or performance or grand opening or house warming, etc. And I think I've had more than four friends visiting from out of town in the last month or so. If I'm not working, I'm mapping out shopping routes for friends or walking the Brooklyn Bridge for the eighth time.

So last Sunday was the Freedom Friday Anniversary Party. It was dope. Lisa Lisa, Chubb Rock, Slick Rick, Biz Markie, Nice and Smooth. Kool Herc was there and gave some kind of speech that made absolutely no sense. He's like your creepy uncle that tries to pimp Pre-Paid Legal at your family reunion.

I should also tell you that we waited an hour and a half in line on one of the coldest days of winter for the doors to open. I cursed the whole Freedom Friday crew and vowed never to go to one of their parties again. I seriously thought I was gonna lose a toe to frostbite.

Another thing, earlier that evening Melissa's building got evacuated. The fire department showed up at her loft and told them they had six hours to pack their shit before the building gets padlocked until further notice. Fucked up! She asked if she could crash at my place until things get straightened out.

Of course! But girl, we are still going to see Lisa Lisa tonight!

I mean, come on. It's Lisa Lisa. The homeless situation will have to wait.

Very emotional this week, as well. I almost cried watching the Ice Skating Championships! Nicole said something to me at Lotus and I got teary-eyed.

After a long night of us all hanging out, I felt like I was floating.

I feel like such a Lucky Girl.

Because I have such amazing friends.

These were the thoughts that inspired a slew of really horrible cheesy poetry that I'm almost embarrassed to have on my hard drive.

Friday, my friend drops off some tickets for a Knicks game. He's working and can't make it. These are the best seats I have ever had in my life, as I'm used to the $10 nosebleed tickets. Even though a ton of my girlfriends are screwing professional ball players, I have never managed to score better seats than this. We're damn near court side.

The only celebrity in the house was Robert Plant. Nobody anywhere around us even knows who Led Zeppelin is.

Afterwards we went to get a Free drink at the Freedom Friday Party (which I swore earlier that I would never go to again) then the Manjinga party at Sputnik in Brooklyn.

In an effort to balance out my nights of loud music and liquor, I feel the need to squeeze in at least a few cultural activities. Me and Grace are going to the NY Philharmonic tomorrow for Open Rehearsal. Valerie hipped me to this. You can save so much money by watching them rehearse for the week's show.

Also, this week I met the most amazing person. She's a military journalist. Nordic heritage, born in Moscow during the Bolshevik revolution because her parents couldn't leave the country. She speaks like three languages and knows how to drive a tank but not a car. Anyway, turns out her husband was in the Air Force and stationed in Okinawa just after the Vietnam war, just like my Pops.

I've had 27 years with my father, and I'm so thankful for that. But I'm dying for some insight on how he was when he was younger. There's no one left to tell me that besides Moms, and her views seem more than a bit skewed at times.

Maybe her husband knew my dad????

Cross your fingers.

Text Sex

2008-01-28T14:42:00.000-05:00

Real quick, let me tell you.

Sometimes, during a session with one of my clients, I'll tell them a story to take their mind off of the pain. Here's something I shared with a client today that happened last year.

I had this crazy romance with this guy a while ago, and we were constantly text messaging each other. You know, I don't have a Blackberry or a Sidekick, but I'm pretty quick with the T9 function on my cell phone. You know how you can just type in the letters of the word and it automatically knows what you're talking about?

One day I get this text during a slow period at my Aveda store:

Him: Yeah, babe. Stressful day, not feeling so well.
Me: Awww. If I were there I'd definitely cheer you up. ;-)

He's usually pretty quick with the responses, but I don't hear from him.

Hm? What did I do?

I break out my cell and scroll through the Sent Box.

Apparently I didn't choose the right word using T9. So the text convo actually went like this:

Him: Yeah, babe. Stressful day, not feeling so well.
Me: Awww. If I were there I'd definitely AIDES you up. ;-)

Do not trust T9, people!
Proof read all your messages before you hit send!

I blame this for the downfall of our relationship.

If the silence takes you, then I hope it takes me too...

2008-01-18T20:18:00.000-05:00

Still high off the fumes of my own birthday, I almost failed to notice another looming date.

January 17th.

That's Pops birthday.

This isn't a feel-sorry-for me blog. And when I write about my father, it never is.

I almost kind of feel sorry for you, since you may have never met him.

Last year I got drunk off cheap wine and passed out on the living room sofa, puffy-eyed and clutching his old passport.

This year I got up, went to work, nothing really unusual. Heineken was the drink of choice, but instead of downing the whole six-pack, I popped two open. One for Pops and one for myself.

Salud.
Feliz cumpleaños.

Last year I felt worthless.

This year...
I don't.

I didn't call Moms.
I've been avoiding her all week and she had to hunt me down at work.
We got disconnected.
I didn't call her back.
I'll call her tomorrow.
I promise.

I remember talking to Pops about my Death and Dying class. The professor said that atheists and the extremely religious cope with death and loss the best. Those that fall in the middle have it the hardest.

I'm in the middle.

He was not, and I should take comfort in that.

We were very close, but do you think that if he were still alive I'd be sharing a Heineken with him right now?

Yeah right.

I'd call and we'd talk for about three minutes, before I had to go back to instant messaging some stupid boy and he'd go back to watching CSI.

Hindsight is 20/20.

I gotta go call my Moms.
Like, now.

Party and Bullshit

2008-01-12T11:50:00.000-05:00

My computer is busted. Let me just tell you how hard it is to write this with the N key on my keyboard missing. I have to press hella hard on the space where the button was. All this week I've been trying to avoid using words with the letter N. Not easy, my friends.

On top of that, my computer crashed again. Will someone reach out and get me a hard drive for my birthday???? I can't seem to do it myself.

So this is part recap, part random shit that's on my mind.

I've been missing and thinking about West Coast Boyfriend a lot lately. I saw him over Thanksgiving weekend in Cali, and I noticed a brand new tube of Kiehls lip balm in his car. He knows I'm a skincare product whore, so he goes on about how fresh this Kiehls stuff is. I read the ingredients:

Petrolatum.

Sigh. Fancy packaging, lots of hype, but no substance. That shit is just $14 Vaseline.

At least my lip balm has a mission statement.

I'm soooo over my I-Miss-California stage.

I turned 29 last Saturday, and you'd think that would be some sort of catalyst for change, but not really. Well, not yet. And I've decided to pimp this whole birthday thing out until the end of the month so I can get my fair share of free drinks and dinner.

Friday Jan 4

Synitta flies into town from Atlanta and I have a full agenda for us. Lorraine's birthday dinner at Flatbush Farm. Then off to see Tondrae perform in the Lower East Side. Then to a lounge around the corner. My phone stays in the LES while I head home to Brooklyn.

I am the the girl that loses things.

Saturday Jan 5-My Birthday

I wake up with a slight hangover.
I'm 29.
I make a mental note to invest in anti-aging products.
Liz gets here from Maryland at 1pm.
Got it.

Hot Brunch Date offers to take me out to brunch. How fitting. Sometimes it's hard to focus when I'm around him. Since he has a girlfriend, we are strictly hanging out on the We're-Just-Friends tip. I find this to be difficult, considering that I'm always resisting the urge to unbutton his jeans.

Can you be friends with someone you constantly want to jump on top of?

Well I guess if I can't get sex I'll settle for sexual tension.

West Coast Boyfriend called from Cali and sang Happy Birthday on my voicemail. I saved it. If I'm not feelings so great I'll replay my Happy Birthday messages. It helps cheer me up.

What did Big do for my birthday? SENT ME AN EMAIL.

I've gotta drop Big. When I need him to be there he'd rather write me a check.

Had my party at this awesome spot in Williamsburg called Monkeytown. DJ Cosi was fabulous . I almost busted my ass dancing on tables. All I wanted was to dance all night with people I absolutely adore and I got my birthday wish. Robyn blogged about it.

I can't believe I have so many great friends. If I'm surrounded by such great people, that must mean I'm not a bad person, right?

Right????

I totally tried to molest Hot Brunch Date after my party. But...HE WOULD NOT GIVE IT UP! Even after I tried to reason that not only is it my birthday, but sex would also clear up my sinuses.

Wednesday Jan 9

How do you have an awesome time in New York City? Just play it by ear.

Melissa treats me to a birthday dinner at my favorite restaurant-My Moon in Williamsburg. I thought that maybe we'd just catch up and I'd be back in bed by 11pm.

Yeah right.

Before I know it it's 3am and I'm dancing to Brazilian music at Bembe. I've had a few too many Ketel Tonics and the really cute guy across the room looks totally different when he's 18 inches away from me. Melissa's guy was like, 'Why is Ramona dancing with that chemo patient?' Ok, cancer is not funny, but you should have seen the guy. Yikes.

Thurs Jan 10

Melissa IMs me on AOL in the morning.

Her: OMG OMG OMG

Me: what happened???

Her: I was giving **** head last night and threw up on his dick!

Me: AAAHHHHH!!!!!!

(I totally got Melissa's permission to blog about this.)

All my girls are getting action, but it's kind of a dry spell for me right now. Big is an asshole. West Coast Boyfriend lives in a different time zone. Hot Brunch Date won't put out.

Must continue with my involuntary celibacy.

Friday Jan 11

Alissa's birthday. We went to Grimaldi's and ate the best freakin' pizza ever. Then ask happy shiny couples at the Brooklyn Promenade to take pics of us.

Later that night we meet up with Melissa at Spike Hill in Williamsburg. Alissa made friends with this chick on the plane that bar tends there. Her and Melissa get along famously, as I should have known. It's the California Filipino Connection.

We walk up the street for the Me'shell Ndegeocello concert. She was amazing. And the show was not the Lesbian Festival I thought it was gonna be.

So here's my thing. If your ass is NOT going to wild the hell out at a concert, stay out of the first three rows. This six foot guy stood absolutely still right in front of me. Dude, I'm five feet tall and I dance crazy when I hear live music. Get the fuck out of our way please.

Turns out there's this loft party in Melissa's building. The music is so loud we can hear it two blocks away.

We hit that up, then bounce at the first mediocre song the DJ plays. I get a text that Rich Medina is spinnin' at Southpaw, and we cab it over there.

It's all about the multi-destination night out. I like variety.

Saturday Jan 12

Alissa's still in town, which is why I can still justify all this alcohol and madness.

Our destinations:

Chuck's house for pizza, beer, guitar hero, and cute white boys.

Chanto in the West Village.

SOBs for dancing and live music. Pimps of Joytown, happened to be the same band that opened for Meshell the previous day. Gabbi knows the bassist. They're pretty nice.

Sunday Jan 13

After shopping, we have dinner at Rosa Mexicana. We get full off the appetizers and send our entree back like some cheap ghetto bitches that don't want to pay.

Then we have drinks at the Mandarin Oriental. Chimay is $16 there. How can you justify selling beer for $16? The fantastic view I guess.

And now it's Tuesday. I just got yelled at by Moms.

Productive things that I've done recently:

Ordered transcripts from five different schools. Looks like I'll have to sweet talk my way into a reputable University. Again. I think I can do it.

Considering internship offer at overly-cynical Brooklyn based weekly publication.

I think I want to write a screenplay. But being from California, I think it's totally uncool to say that you want to write a screenplay. Everyone and their Korean neighbor in Cali is trying to write a screenplay.

Sigh. Until next time...

California Stream of Consciousness

2007-12-25T14:50:00.000-05:00

What exactly is normal? I look around and I can't find it anywhere.

I miss home when I'm gone, and then when I get here I'm constantly annoyed. Am I being cold? It's just the conversations around here constantly revolve around how low I am on the Totem Pole of Life Accomplishments and I have to refrain myself from throwing the coffee mug across the room and yelling,

PLEASE.
SHUT.
THE FUCK.
UP.

But instead I pretend to listen and sip from the coffee mug calmly. The coffee mug spiked with Bailey's.

And by noon I realized I've also already managed to down two Screwdrivers concealed in a AM/PM to-go mug.

It's Christmas. My phone has beeping since 7am. When did mass texting become the new Holiday Card? I hate it.

I accompany my mother to my Auntie Gioi's house to bring her a present. A brand new microwave. Something to add to the myriad of domestic bliss. As I'm hauling the thing out of the car, I think:

a) Where the fuck is Coco? He should be doing this shit.
b) I don't have a microwave. In fact, I don't have much of anything. Just enough to fill my shared three bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. In my adult life, I have managed to move about nine times. On each occasion, I leave behind almost everything. Most of my friends have grown accustomed to the generous fallout of this madness. At Chelsea's house in SF, I spotted the Aveda Soothing Aqua Therapy Bath Salts I gave her last year after the half-assed job of packing for my move to NY.

Here.
Take my silverware.
Take my IKEA dresser. Bed. Lillehammer. Bjorden. Heldsvik.
Whatever.
Free me of these belongings.
These reminders of something stable.

On the way back home, I notice we're in back of someone with about a thousand bumper stickers. Her license plate cover says, FEMALE VETERAN. DISABLED AMERICAN.

Isn't that odd? And then comes that wondrous chain reaction of thought.

The bumper sticker on my own car says, SMART WOMEN VOTE!

I haven't voted since I moved from Oakland. Partly because of shameful indifference, but mostly because it reminds me of Pops. That was our thing ever since I became old enough to fill out a ballot. Talk about the issues and the candidates. Compare notes. Drive to the polls together. Follow it up with a trip to Kim's Chinese II on Olson Drive.

Part of the reason why it's so hard here is because he's not around to act as a buffer. Who else is going to take my side? And I can still see the evidence of his being almost all around the house. Open up a drawer and there's a half-finished Letter To The Editor. Or one of his wrist watches. Or a roll of undeveloped film from his trip to Southeast Asia (treasure!). His handwriting was always in block capital letters, and when writing cursive always slanted to the left. This morning, I trace my finger around the narrow loops in his O's and think what a shame to not fully know your child as an adult. This is only the beginning of what I will become. But fuck it, the end result might not be as compelling as the start.

I think about being back on the N train at 7a.m. I'm simultaneously filled with longing and dread for my trip back tonight. I love New York so passionately, but driving up and down the hills of San Francisco make me want to sing.

Where am I gonna be when my lease is up this summer?

Another year (or two, or five, or forever?) in New York?
Can't do Sacramento.
Already did The Bay.
Haven't done LA...
I'm actually debating this, as it plays into my contradictory nature.
Close enough to Moms but far enough to get the hell outta Dodge.
Smart Women Vote.
Smart Women that secretly covet Stella McCartney's winter collection.
Well, If I end up in LA I'm gonna start a revolution.
I'm not committing to any of this.

x ,
ramona

This is a long ass recap.

2007-12-16T23:17:00.000-05:00

The key word for this month is inappropriate. Not scandalous, but inappropriate. I just can't say when or how or why, so it's staying in my own personal journal. This is when blogging kicks you in the ass. I have this unrelenting need for confession, so I've been emailing, texting, and calling my friends to confess my impure thoughts. Oh well, I'm a woman of nontraditional morals.

Anyway. I'll try to stifle my intense cynism as of late in this Weekly Recap. You can tell I'm in a bad mood by my overuse of the word fuck.

Tuesday-Chicago

If you can read an MTA Subway map, you can find your way on public transportation anywhere in the world. I took the train from O'Hare to our hotel room downtown. Downtown Chicago is absolutely stunning. Such a gorgeous city. I paused on every corner to gawk at the beautiful architecture, and at least three people asked if I was OK or needed help. Different from NY, in that no one would ever ask you if you needed help while gawking.

Before I put my bags down at the hotel, I get a text from West Coast Boyfriend.

Him: I'm in NY. Tomorrow-Fri
Me: You asshole. I'm in Chicago.

He's there til Friday so I'll still have one day to play house.

Wednesday-still in Chicago

During lunch with friends in the city, I think I my sense of humor may have offended my friend's friend. One of those situations where I can't tell if they think I'm really funny or just an asshole. Lately I've been kind of an asshole, so I'm leaning towards the latter.

Afterwards, me and Siobhan go to the Art Institute. So many famous paintings are there-Jackson Pollock, Frida Kahlo, Monet, Seurat... I was particularly excited about that picture of that hillbilly couple with the pitchfork. Why is that so fascinating? We spent hours there and didn't get through the whole museum. Then we go to our hotel for drinks before she has to get to the airport and I have my concert.

And the concert was great. Sekou hooked up four tickets courtesy of Xbox. Me, Val, and Mikey are at The Sax Hotel afterwards having a drink when I get a text from Big. He wants hang out. I text:

You asshole. I'm in Chicago. (Am I detecting a pattern???)

He reeeeeaallly should already know this. I'd rather he be more attentive than to have access to his frequent flyer miles. Well actually, I'd rather have both.

Thursday

Free booze from the Tranny flight attendant on Jetblue on the way back to NY. That evening, meet with Nicole for a drink at The W in Times Square to catch up and wait for West Coast Boyfriend to get done with his meetings.

WCBF makes me all flustered and giddy like a 14 year old girl. When I think about him in the cab on the way to work the next morning my hands start to hurt. I find that my hands are hurting pretty often.

I had a dream about him last night. It was so vivid that I reached for him when I woke up. In the dream, I'm visiting him in LA, but the street looks like midtown Manhattan. He's in the Penthouse of this really beautiful building; it was almost intimidating. I grow impatient waiting for the elevator so I start to walk up the stairs to his place. I have about one more flight to go when I start to get really disoriented and dizzy. I have to stop to take a breath and realize I can't go any further or I'll fall. WCBF calls up and says I went the wrong way and has to come up and carry me to his place. When we get there, I look at him and say, "I forgot my purse."

Friday

Tried to meet up with Nicole (unsuccessfully) for her birthday kickoff at Freedom Fridays. She's in a cab headed up there, and I'm waiting in line like an asshole. I hate waiting in crazy long ass lines, unless it's a Beatles Reunion or something. It's because I'm with my friend from London's non-bottle buying, over-sized ultra-hip-hop-brand-wearing guy friends that we're being held up. When it's a sausage-fest and you don't have pull, you have to break bread, dude. I actually said that out loud. What a bitch, right? But damn, I didn't make the rules, and I was down with going to the low key lounge around the corner. It was freezing cold and I'd have more fun reading the dictionary or studying quadratic equations or something.

Oh god, I was such an asshole. Sorry guys. It's been a week filled with mood swings.

Saturday

Nicole's birthday and we've assembled a crew at The Cabanas at The Maritime Hotel. Instead of paying $14 for Ketel Tonics, I just refill everyone's glass from this huge ass bottle of Svedka I snuck in my purse. Gheeeetttooooo. Manhattan drink prices are insane! That $13 bottle of vodka made about $300 worth of drinks. And I only had it because earlier I went to Jameson's birthday party in Williamsburg. Since they had so much left over liquor, they insisted I take home the bottle I brought.

Head over to Cafeteria to eat at like 4am. Kahlil and Atif almost get assaulted by this broad in a chinchilla coat.

If I didn't do a Sherlock Holmes on our check I would've been stuck paying $30 for my $11 pancakes. Sigh. It's never taken so long to settle a check EVER. Blame the non-tipping British.

Sunday

I was sad on Sunday.

Monday

Same as Sunday, but at least I left the house.

Tuesday

Went to Daoud's party at Mannahatta. Saw at least three guys that were my type, which NEVER happens. Too lazy to act on it. My friend Eli is town, and he is such a great lead. Ate the most delicious oatmeal cookie ever.

Me and Kimmie are in the bathroom and run into this girl. She says she reads my blogs and it totally made my day.

I mention this good experience to point out one that weirded me out last week. This chick sat next to me at a bar and grills me about the real names of Big and West Coast Boyfriend. WTF dude. However, one of her suspects was pretty flattering. No, I'm not fucking with (famous rapper). This is my pathetic blog, not Us Weekly.

And the Cali trip is a sure thing!!! I'm in California Friday to Tuesday.

White Christmas? Fuck that, I'm rocking flip flops next week.

Actually...no. It's kinda cold in Northern Cali right now.

Holla.

Blogging Under The Influence

2007-12-08T15:52:00.000-05:00

I love office holiday parties. Free food and booze, and at least one of your co-workers does something so embarrassing they have to call in sick on Monday. I was Melissa's date last night, and after waking up this morning with leftover smoky eye-shadow and one earring, I'm glad I don't work for her company. She had it worse, though. She woke up on the floor of her bedroom...topless with just her fishnets on.

Good lawd! I have a hangover and a toothache, and I hope they are totally unrelated.

I do my quick post-drinking binge assessment:

Where are you?
HOME. Couldn't have been that bad.

Do you have wallet/phone/ID/purse?
Yes. And it looks like I have an extra phone as well?

Are you alone?
Yep.
(This question derives from a sole incident quite a few years ago)

Did you do anything you will have to apologize for later?
NO.
Urr...maybe.

Melissa's company party was at Cipriani's on 23rd and 5th. The food was fantastic. Wait, it was actually fucking fantastic. Her co-workers would come by our table to introduce themselves, and I couldn't help but be annoyed with them for interrupting my food consumption.

I remember that. And the endless champagne and vodka tonics. And yelling "Woooohoooo!!!" excessively at the Blackjack tables.

The second part of the evening is pretty hazy. We left and went dancing across the street, although I don't remember entering or exiting this place. I think I practiced some salsa moves (to a Britney Spears song) with her co-worker's fraternal twin brother. Melissa and I left before our extreme intoxication became visibly apparent. Always leave before others see that you are sloppy drunk.

Dammit. The holidays are ruining my plan to fully realize my Dime Piece Potential. I'm countering my intense work-outs with cocktails and artichoke dip. Sometimes I wish I wasn't too old to develop an eating disorder. If only bulimia was cool and healthy!

Joking! Jeesh. And I'm not fishing for compliments, so no emails about how I'm fine the way I am, blah blah blah. It's more that I can't really afford to buy a whole new wardrobe in a bigger size.

Erin invited me to a friend's birthday party on Thursday. There's this guy there that I see around pretty often, and every time I see him I change my opinion on whether he is hot or not. This time, hot. Perhaps because of his introverted behaviour and the girl that was hovering in his general area. In my fucked up world, you are way more attractive if you aren't interested in me at the moment. We didn't say much, but I also didn't feel like talking about anything deeper than kung-fu movies and Cool Ranch Doritos vs. Spicy Nacho Doritos.

I'm in shallow mode right now. Kahlil sent me this text recently:

what r u doin? Want to check out a doc about brasil? Got last minute invite to see film about drugs, favela's and hip hop w/ director @ an apt on clinton and fulton.

To which I basically replied:

Dude. Too deep for me. Let's drink wine and watch soccer.

No intellectual activities for me for the rest of the year, please. I'm going to continue my two-year stint of professional slacking-off until my birthday next month. Then it's time to hustle.

So I'm turning 29 soon. Yikes. Haven't sent out invites yet, but I'm having this party in Williamsburg. I figure I'll know who my real friends are if they're willing to come to Brooklyn on a possibly snowy day in January to celebrate. Questlove is DJing!!! Well...uh, not really so sure about that, but I'm lucky when it comes to this stuff. Even if I can only pay him with the promise of my undying friendship, free skincare products and access to my fabulous Estee Lauder discount.

I'm going to Chicago on Tuesday. Sekou, my true kindred spirit and favorite XY chromosome holder, hooked me up with tickets to a sold-out show and VIP passes to see my favorite band at the House of Blues. Silversun Pickups, check 'em out. Big hooked up some other shit, so I'm good to go. Siobhan is flying from Cali and we're going to have a nice fancy schmancy dinner. She has an interview the next morning, so we can't get too crazy.

But you know how that goes.

It's All Relative

2007-12-05T16:42:00.000-05:00

I am The Non-Conspiracy-Theorist. I make fun of people who quote The Secret. I'm half-Buddhist and half-Atheist. I'm like Ferris Bueller in that I don't condone "-isms" in my opinion (except for Ramona-ism, Raven). I like Myspace because it gives me a socially acceptable way to bask in my narcissism.

NarcissISM.

I'm also a walking contradiction.

I had the best dream the other night.

My dad and I were hanging out on a beach in Italy with Clarence Williams III. Weird, right? But he and Pops went to school together. They talk about jazz while I sip my club soda.

I'm six in this dream. And we're repeating a conversation we had back in 1985.

I had just watched Apocalypse Now.
I like the scene with the helicopters.
I'm crying about war.
Pops is a history buff. He tells me about conflict. He summarizes Vietnam in three beautiful and tragic minutes and makes his experience sound like violent poetry.

I met your mother there.
And had you.
This beautiful thing.
This product of war.

Now I'm crying about getting old. About getting married.

It's OK if you don't do either of those things.

And that makes me calm enough to stop.

I scoot next to him on the sofa while he reads a sci-fi book and John Coltrane plays in the background. And all of a sudden I believe in forever. I am filled with Love.

This is how I felt when I woke up from my dream.
Me. Pops. Clarence Williams III.
Talking shit and listening to jazz with our feet in the Mediterranean Sea.

How are things on the Fresh Coast?

2007-11-30T02:19:00.000-05:00

This trip to California over Thanksgiving has me questioning where I'll be next year. I can't figure out if I belong in Cali or just belong somewhere that doesn't get below freezing?

Wednesday before Thanksgiving

Chelsea and I hung out in San Francisco. Walked, talked, shopped, did the Golden Gate bridge. We park a few blocks up from where I think one of my old co-workers manages a bank. We walk in to say hi and get change for the parking meter, but my main purpose was to say, "Hey, remember when you went down on me in the break room?"

That night we all went out to a club, and I'm not really feeling the place. The fact that I don't know any of the songs makes me feel pretty old. But all the girls are wearing $10 dresses from Rave, so it's not such a bad thing that I feel out of place. I immediately perk up when I see West Coast Boyfriend. A loud ass club isn't the ideal place to hang out with someone that you only see four times a year, but I figure we do enough talking. Actually we don't do enough talking at all. My conversations with the opposite sex have been reduced to texting and IMing. Welcome to dating in 2007.

Later we're alone in his car and he says he has a friend from the East Coast visiting his family in Sacramento and he may be driving up to see him, and that would mean he would also get to hang out with me more. I just look at him. He smells good and has beautiful skin and his arm feels good around me. If I focus on how fine he is maybe I can force myself to stop thinking that it's all bullshit.

My life is an optical illusion.

Saturday after Thanksgiving

Louie comes over to help with some heavy lifting around our place in Sacramento. He makes my Mom giddy and she comments on how handsome he is. I love it.

We head over to Siobhan's place. Her family is having Thansgiving: The Sequel. Her dad is passing out personality tests and I find out I'm an ENFP. Makes sense. Siobhan is excited about this cute guy she met at Apple Hill with her family. (Apple Hill is an apple orchard about 45 minutes northeast of Sacramento). He visiting from the East Coast and has never gone out in Sacramento. We make plans to all link up later that night.

Louie notices that I'm not my normal self. I'm sluggish, tired, and inappropriately complaining about how my boobs hurt.

You're not pregnant, are you? (This is the third time someone has asked me that)

Oh lawd, I hope not. I'd have to go on Maury. (uh...Joke. And I'm NOT, by the way)

With verbal confirmation that I am not with child, he hands me a pill. I take it.

So later, me and Siobhan are waiting for her Apple Hill Guy and I'm freaking out and noticing how bright the lights are and getting dizzy and thirsty as hell and I telling myself that maybe that was a vitamin C tablet.

We all head in separate cars to Bistro 33 where we're meeting Louie, Val, and Nikkisha. Apple Hill Guy gets out of the car and he looks veeeeerrrry familiar. I realize where I know him from, and before I can think about how weird it sounds, I say:

"This is gonna sound lame, but I recognize you from West Coast Boyfriend's Myspace page."

So Apple Hill Guy is who West Coast Boyfriend was talking about visiting!! Crazy, right? The fact that I can link my circle of friends in less than two degrees is pretty freaky. It's also more likely to get me in trouble, because I think everyone I've messed with in the past 24 months knows each other.

Fuck it.

We're in Bistro 33 for maybe five minutes and the waitress brings Apple Hill Guy a drink.

"The bartender says thank you."

I look over at the bar. She's a cute curly haired brunette. Siobhan gets up to go to the bathroom. I point to the drink like, Hmmmm???

"You know how we do."

HA!

He's one of my kind.

However, not exhibiting behaviour that I would want for my girl. Oh well, not like she's gonna marry the guy.

I have to end this because K is visiting NY from Cali and wants me to hurry and finish so we can eat breakfast. So blame her for the incomplete re-cap.

I miss California more than ever.

And my time out with Siobhan, Louie, Val, Nikkisha and Apple Hill Guy is now on my Top Ten Nights Out in Sacramento. I am thankful for good friends, good friends-of-friends, and the occasional chemical mood enhancement.

Dear You, Love Me.

2007-11-27T12:25:00.000-05:00

I don't know if it's the weather, but I wasn't so excited about coming back to NY after this trip to Cali. I had a pounding headache the whole way, and when we touched down it only increased. Fast forward to today and something is still not quite right.

"You're not getting any younger." You say. (just now).

No, I'm not.
And it's making my stomach hurt.
And I'd rather not talk about me and you. Or what I plan on doing (in general). Or what I did in the past.

What I'd like to do is keep this idealized version of us alive. It's so nice to acknowledge potential. Or is that another way of saying dream?
Yes, I am a dreamer.
I think I can confide in you. (?)
It's hard, dude. I'd rather write an essay about it.
But I'm trying to talk.
You know, talk.
And it's late here and I'm drunk on lack of sleep.
So even if I stutter...
And precede the inevitable with a bunch of bullshit that barely makes sense...
I might finally say something significant.

SO CAN YOU PLEASE NOT INSTANT MSG SOMEONE WHILE YOU'RE ON THE PHONE WITH ME???

'Cause you might miss something.
And I have this fear of being boring.
I'll keep this little break through to myself.
That is all.
Thank you.

Saturday Nights All Right

2007-11-18T09:03:00.000-05:00

There are so many benefits to getting up early. Despite consuming at least four Vodka Tonics the previous night, I woke up feeling energized and fully rested. The contents of my purse are strewn all over the room, and I pick up my camera and check out the pics from last night. I'm thinking, awww...I love all my friends. Then I think I look like a little midget piglet compared to the tall beautiful people I'm in all the pictures with. I know I said I'd quit the negative self-talk, but this thought jump starts my morning as I throw on some sweats and hit the streets to jog off some of that Ketel One. I'd also jog more if I had cable. Something about watching video hoes on MTV makes me wanna do more squats.

Last night was fun. Grace has friends in town and asked me what was going on. The options last night were the Wonder-Full party or Samba Soul at SOBs. Erin and Keisha already have plans to go to SOBs, and there's always good music and a guaranteed good time whenever Cato is spinnin'. I go so far as to bring my travel deodorant in my tiny-ass clutch because I know I'll probably sweat it out on the dance floor. It's like that. I am in no way considered a great dancer, but I often have the need to get down. Feel me?

I think I need music to feel alive. Makes me think of Pops, whose constant necessity to have music playing almost caused a divorce.

Anyway.

I actually invited Big out with us and added his name to the list. He's texting me because he's around the corner in his car but doesn't feel like coming in. He wants me to leave and come over. I text him back,

I can't. I'm dancing.

Erin and Keisha left, but I stayed behind to catch up with Grace and to check out this cute guy dancing next to us. I thought he was kinda cool, but he has this really strange way of speaking and I get this super sleazy vibe from him.
And he has funny chest hair.
And he smelled like Lysol.
Three strikes, but somehow I got bullied into giving him my number. How does that happen?

It was pretty difficult finding a taxi afterwards. We finally hail one and I share one with one of Grace's friends. We'll drop him off in the Lower East Side then head over to Brooklyn. We're almost at his house and he asks me,

"Do you mostly date black guys?" (he's Chinese)

I'm taken aback. I realize I'm drunk, tired, and kind of whiny. Surprisingly, guys find my drunk-whiny voice kind of flirtatious. Or maybe they just want to shut me up. Am I flirting?

"I'm an equal-opportunity employer, currently looking for Che Guevara With Bling On."

He gets out and I'm thinking, damn, Asian guys get the short end of the stick. All my Asian friends date outside the race. Shit, so did Moms. My guy cousins don't have a problem though? But then again they are also part of the exclusive and elitist Tall Asian Guy Club.

I become a little panic-stricken as we're crossing the bridge and can't wait to get home. I have to write in my journal to calm myself down. Then I look at everything I've actually posted online and I'm like FUCK! If my future Che Guevara With Bling On sees this shit, is he gonna run for the hills? Blogging keeps me sane; I need to do this. But am I risking scaring away my future ex-husband?

Oh god, even that statement makes me suck.

So this is what I'm thinking about while I'm jogging.

I like the weather lately. It's brisk. I feel healthy.

Then I realize I ate McDonalds fries after the club last night.

Fuck.

Time to hit another block.

Life, The Universe, and Everything

2007-11-14T00:22:00.000-05:00

A hurried weekly recap, more so for documentation purposes than great prose. Sorry.

Jueves

My roommate Gabbi had a performance at the Rachel Beechman Theater, complete with three piece band. She was absolutely amazing. The theater is downstairs inside of the West Bank Cafe near Times Square. I do not suggest eating upstairs at the West Bank Cafe. It was like dinner time at a convalescent hospital. Totally geriatric. I get nervous around too many old people. But downstairs is cool, and you can catch again this Saturday at the same venue.

Afterwards, we went to this after-work party sponsored by Nuvo vodka. Upon walking in, I noticed that my friends Colleen and Kelly stuck out like glow in the dark night sticks.

"Hope this isn't too black for you guys."

It wasn't, but you know how nervous white people can get. I'm like hey, now you know how we feel.

And then I saw Him.
I don't usually lose my breath like this.
Slow motion.
A vision!
I swear there was a fog machine.
My friends say this was not the case.
Oh, you're my Che Guevara with bling on!
I imagine his parents were in love.
Bookshelves with actual books in them and a decent record collection.
Intelligent swagger.
Not above getting his the fast way/the ski mask way.
He'll dance with me to The Strokes.
He has good grammar.
He still says "mixtapes."
He likes violent indie movies.

I need to make this more than a daydream!

I couldn't bring myself to say even one single word to him.

Give me six weeks.

Viernes

Joe Styles was celebrating his birthday at Strata and I had to come out to celebrate. Gotta say that the only reason I stepped foot in this place was because of Joe. It's one of those places that make you wait outside in the freezing rain to make the place appear like it's packed when it's not even near capacity. The line was around the corner and I have no pull, so I have to wait for Joe to roll up so I can attach myself to his posse. Can't say I was the most pleasant party guest. I really needed to take a picture with Joe but forgot my camera, so I try to waive over one of those party photographers. The photographer ignores me.

Why?

Because Joe has club photographer enemies.

This is how much bottle-popping he does.

Gotta love it.

I decide to crash at Big's place since my room looks like a tornado just hit it. I wanted to fall asleep next to a warm body for once instead of the heap of clean clothes I dumped on my bed two days ago. And he has 800 thread count sheets.

But then I get frustrated because he's snoring so loud I can barely clothes my eyes.

I wake him up.
"What???!"
You're snoring.
"I'm sorry."
Two minutes later, snoring again. I shove him.
You're still snoring.
"Sorry, I'll stop."
Repeat three more times.
"Ramona! What do you want me to do???"
What do I want? I want the whole fucking world. And if you can't give it to me you can at least stop subjecting me to your muthafucking loud ass snoring!

Well. I didn't say that, but I did almost smother him with my pillow.

Note to self: fed-ex Big some Breathe Right strips.

Sabado

My cousin and her fam were visiting from New Hampshire, and we went out to my favorite restaurant in Williamsburg called My Moon. I absolutely adore her son, Ramon. We are both named after his grandmother, my aunt. After dinner we headed to this place called Monkey Wrench or Monkey Bar. Very Williamsburg-y, and I felt ultra-hip just walking in. Especially with Ramon at my side. Cute kids are this season's hottest accessory. Make that cute kids that aren't yours.

I had plans to meet up with my homegirl Raven after dinner. Actually this was the first time I met her in person, but I feel comfortable giving her the homegirl title already. We have mutual myspace friends and she emailed me once about my blogs. Another example of Myspace being used for good and not evil!

The snobby New Yorker side of me is beginning to come out as I relay to her that the weekends aren't the best night to go out in Manhattan. Even though since I live in Brooklyn I'm part of the bridge and tunnel crowd. The only place I can think of that is guaranteed to have good music is the Cabanas at The Maritime Hotel.

Hey, what did we do without cell phones? People must have been really on point with their plans, cause I'm texting her every two minutes, like

Where are you guys?
What's the cross street again?
I'll be by the bathroom.
OK I'm here.

Raven, as I intuited, is hella cool and we get along great. So yaaaayy, new real life friend.

Domingo

Woke up and couldn't find my cell phone. I don't have an alarm clock, and ever since daylight savings last week I have absolutely no concept of time. I turn on my laptop and couldn't figure out if it's set to Pacific or Central time. My room is so hideous that I figure my cell phone must be hidden somewhere beneath the pile of clothes on my bed or in one of the many dresser drawers that have been left open.

I contemplate going to Bobbito's Happy Feet party, but nix the idea since I'm tired and my cell phone is nowhere to be found. I fall into a wine-induced coma and go to bed early.

Lunes

Call my cell phone and some guy picks up.

Hello??? You have my phone!

Uh...no habla ingles.

Oh? Well tienes mi telefono!!! Dame mi telefono!!!

He hangs up.

Fuck. This asshole has probably used all my minutes to call Panama or something.

Good news: I have insurance on my cell.

Bad news: $50 deductible and 3-5 business days sans cell phone.

At least this is a way of purging myself of the 400 people that I never hear from.

So it's a throwback to 1995 until my new phone arrives in the mail. I have to make plans with Raven on the landline at work. But with some careful planning it works out and I meet her The Empire Hotel at Lincoln Center. Since Mike works there, I can get all the $25 glasses Veuve Cliquot I can manage to ingest.

But Mike's not working, so I'm out after paying for my Coors Light, which is the only thing I can really afford on the menu while I wait for Raven.

We eat dinner at Sushi Samba. I go there with Big all the time, and I somehow think he might be there on a date with another chick. Seeing Big out is like seeing your math teacher at the mall. It's weird. And I'm always constantly aware of his location. He's not here. Whew.

After dinner we head over to APT where Prince Paul is spinnin'. I emailed one of the other dj's earlier with the following message:

I'm coming to APT tonight with my homegirl from AZ. Uh...I know you don't know me, but is there any way I can get guestlist love? It's a great way to impress my girls and pretend I'm really cool, even just for one night. thanks...ramona

His reply:

Aiiight...at least you were honest & not frontin like some cats do!!Hit me with a text with the name & last initial for the list.I can list you with a plus two at most (sorry). If ya make it pass thru & say what up....Cooool, A.

My advice: Reach out, keep it real, and save yourself from a $7 cover charge.

Got really tipsy at APT.

I think I did something questionable in the bathroom.

Actually, I'm sure I did something questionable in the bathroom.

Got bored then headed to Le Souk in the LES.

Le Souk is super smoky, with hookah pipes and Eastern Europeans snorting coke in the dim corners. I danced with some guy with a really creepy voice. I thought he was Ukranian or something but turns out he's just from Jersey. Raven got her groove on, too. We stay out til 4am. Good times.

Martes

No work today. Roommates are gone. Perfect time to crank up the music and dance violently. I love being in my apartment in the afternoon, because the sun shines through the windows in such a way that makes everything inside look mythical. It only lasts about ten minutes, proof that beauty truly is fleeting. I love swinging my hair when I dance. Makes me feel like I'm in a Whitesnake video.

Miercoles

Blogging at work between clients. All I can think about is California. So much so that you can catching me talking to myself and jumping for joy in the streets right after I get off the subway.

I miss Moms and Coco and K and Louie and Val and Chelsea and Gdot and Angie and Alyssa and Charlie Brown and Siobhan and Carlito and the Rancho Cordova Target. And West Coast Boyfriend supposedly broke up with his girl via text message, so....

I'll be there Monday!!!

It's because she can't focus...

2007-11-11T23:53:00.000-05:00

I love being in my apartment in the afternoon, because the sun shines through the windows in such a way that makes everything inside look mythical. It only lasts about ten minutes, proof that beauty truly is fleeting.

About me:

I wish there were more opportunities to turn the music up and dance alone in my pajamas and wool socks.

I'm a product of War.

I'm not a girl that ever pictured herself in a wedding dress.
Or of getting old.
When I was about six I resigned myself to the fact that both of those things may never happen.

I'm supposed to be doing a list of very productive things but instead I'm writing this blog that is all over the place.

My current daydream: the guy I saw walk in to this party at Manor last week.
I don't usually lose my breath like this.
Slow motion.
A vision.
I swear there was a fog machine.
My friends say this was not the case.

Oh, you're my Che Guevarra with bling on!
Parents were in love.
Bookshelves with actual books in them and a decent record collection.
Intelligent swagger.
Not above getting his the fast way/the ski mask way.
He'll dance with me to The Strokes.
He has good grammar.
He still says "mixtapes."
He likes violent indie movies.

He was too perfect. I couldn't bring myself to say one single word to him.

Give me six weeks.

Huong Thu

2007-11-06T20:56:00.000-05:00

Moms doesn't smell like vanilla
she's green medicine/tiger balm/eucalyptus
tall asian lady
proud/beautiful/dangerous

She's why i take a deep breath when i give hugs
better to share/give/take
this is how we show love where i come from
where i/you/we come from

Scolded me for always reading
she's the subject of countless haikus/stories/love poems
Warmly accepted but never quite understood,
used later for scratch paper/shopping list/dust pans

it's not that i don't want you to learn
but isn't it better to talk/play/feel? Now?
I will not have your life be a work of fiction
Like how your father sees in shades of grey/red/green

We speak a different language
literally/figuratively/definitely
But maturity brings the solid realization
That I love Pho/dancing/living passionately

Kids came over to listen to Pops' stories
Individualized for each child, door 1/2/3
but they also came to be next to you
My mother proud/beautiful/dangerous

We're more alike than you think,
Tall asian lady.

Everyone looks good in dim lighting.

2007-11-04T10:21:00.000-05:00

Have you ever found that when seeking out advice, you are actually just looking for someone to see it your way? Sometimes I'll ask, knowing I won't follow it. And like my friend Charlie Brown says, it gives you more time to talk about yourself and your problems.

Caught up with one of my guy friends to discuss a few things that happened to me this week. Fresh off a particularly grimy 6 train, I'm waiting for him to get out of the bathroom so I can wash my hands. Being the germ-phobe that he is, he has this little bottle of hand sanitizer sitting by the kitchen sink. He waltzes out from the hallway and looks at me funny.

"What are you doing?" he asks.
"I knew you'd have hand sanitizer." I say as I squirt it into my palm.
"Dude, that's not Purell. It's KY."

Aaacckkkkk!!! Why do you have lube in your kitchen???

Just wanted to share my agony.

This was a week filled with self-induced agony, mini-epiphanies, and ambushed interventions. It's all good, even though sometimes I still end up in contradictory situations.

So I have this problem.

I'm almost incapable of any relationship talk. I get sweaty. I hyper-ventilate. I feel claustrophobic. I want to leave immediately. So, trying to work on expressing my thoughts and feelings as I feel them, not writing them in blog three days later.

It's tough, man.

I've questioned my ride-or-die status.
Analyzed my views on love.
Made plans of starting a clean-slate.
Well, cleanish slate.

And I'm going back to California for Thanksgiving. I can only spend about 18 hours in the Bay Area, which I have to split between San Francisco, San Jose, and Oakland/Berkeley. I figure my friends can bring their ass to Sacramento if they really love me.

Moms and Auntie Ngoc are making Pho instead of the usual.
Just to make the Turkey Day house hopping a little more interesting.
Holla.

Mission=Accomplished?

2007-10-30T12:39:00.000-04:00

Sekou always says when it comes to guys, I get what I want.

The thing is, I don't know what I really want.

I saw him last night.
Could barely look him in the eye.
If I had said I love you I would have meant it.
But I didn't say it.

Despite waking up with a slight hangover, I felt the need for endorphins and took a jog around the block. My Ipod is automatically set to my new playlist, the same one I had on last night.

We started on Broken Social Scene.
He left on Jane's addiction.
He's the only one that could understand my playlists.

I am such a fucking idiot.
I forgot my credit card at the club.
Damn.

Real quick...

2007-10-26T22:56:00.000-04:00

Lejla asked if the reason I haven't blogged in a while was due to my achieving ultimate happiness. The answer is...nope. While I have experienced short periods of bliss, there are still a few days where I contemplate not even getting out of bed. I blame my westward facing bedroom window for tricking me into thinking that the sun never rises.

It's taking forever to post something since I haven't really blogged in like a month. So while my monthly recap sits in draft-limbo on Microsoft Word, here are a few things on my mind right now:

Once Melissa and I went out to dinner with Carlos and his two other homegirls. I've seen one of the chicks out around town since then and she's always a little stank towards me. I asked him about it and he confirmed my suspicions: she doesn't like me. This bothers me for some reason. Why doesn't she like me, you ask? Because I was not appreciate enough when Carlos picked up the check. Jeez, I said thank you. What the hell am I supposed to do, lick his ass?

But here's a valid reason not to like me. After drinking margaritas for four hours (which I absolutely could not refuse as they were being served by the hot Orlando Bloom look-alike bartender) I met up with these same people at a party. As soon as I get there I immediately change into this visibly drunk mega-bitch. (I swear, totally out of character). Some of the things I said:

"Ugh. This party is soooo LA. I kinda hate it."
"If this is a Playboy party, why are there so many unattractive people?"

When I finally realized I was being an asshole, I immediately hailed a cab for Brooklyn.

So last night Brandon and I headed out to this listening party in the Lower East Side. I really hope it's not blatantly obvious that I have a huge crush on the lead singer. As I'm texting Maria the directions to the spot, I notice that Big has walked in. I think he saw me, but I'm do the I-noticed-you-but-I'm-pretending-I didn't-see-you thing. Pathetic. I walk outside to flag down Maria, keenly aware of Big's location in the room. When we get back inside, he's at the bar and I head over.

Hug.
It's warm and nice.
Gets a drink for me and Maria.
Thank you. (wouldn't want to appear unappreciative)
Lead Singer of band walks over.
Big introduces me to Lead Singer.
Lead Singer and I acknowledge that we have quite a few mutual friends.
He asks about one such mutual friend.
I feel a little faint.
Small talk over very loud music.
I feel weird.
Big gives disclaimer about maybe having to disappear because he has other events to go to.
This translates into: Don't wild out if I don't get a chance to say goodbye.
I get it.
Big has to leave.
But he comes over to say goodbye.
Hug.
It feels warm and nice.
I feel weird again.

Something totally unrelated:

Who crank called me??!!! I normally don't pick up calls that say private on my cell as I have recently acquired an "issue" with my student loans, but I figured since it was after 9pm it couldn't have possibly been a bill collector. It's this eerily cheery guy whose voice I didn't recognize. He knows my name. He asked me about my trip to Europe.

"Who is this??" I ask.
"Mike!"
"Mike who???"
"MY COCK!!"

Ew.

Kudos to you, prank caller. I kinda felt violated. Hope you're happy, asshole.

HBO is the new Chloe

2007-10-11T11:11:00.000-04:00

A great way to avoid disappointment is to have little or no expectations.

But sometimes you just can’t help it.

“We should have made out more.” I say as I spot her make-up bag on the dresser.

This doesn’t feel so good.

I have a headache.

“I might be able to stay ‘til Friday…”

Yeah right.

“I’ll take you shopping. I’ll buy you a coat.”

Whatever.

Last year I needed a coat.

This year I’m getting cable.

2007-09-16T10:19:00.000-04:00

Anxiety has a way of manifesting itself physcally. With me, I'm all sweaty palms and stomach aches. This morning however, is a mix of apprehension and a slight hangover. Actually, it may be more than slight, depending on how I feel when I'm not horizontal.

The anxiety has to do with this Europe trip. A friend pointed out last night that I may need to watch how much I drink because my hangover might make me miss out on a whole country. True. The thought of violently puking at some foreign hostel makes me shudder. And the itinerary is insane. Five countries in ten days? It's chaotic, but I secretly like it that way. Or is that really a secret?

Sometimes I feel like a walking contradiction. Order is nice at first, but I usually have a way of turning things upside down. Spontaniety is so much fun. Chaos is exciting. I associate routine with complacency and that is how I always end up on the wrong path. Hmmm...I wouldn't exactly say wrong path. Maybe the scenic route.

Am I a girl with no ambition? I haven't made any long term goals in a while. Or short term ones. I mean, I'm still a bit hazy about what part of the world I'll be living in in the next year.

Today I will clean my room, plan for Europe, and find a way to do Hot Brunch Date again before I leave.

Not necessarily in that order.

Seasonal Psychosis

2007-09-16T10:10:00.000-04:00

At home, the beginning of September always made me a little uneasy. I loved summer for all its simplicity, each listless day bringing about a renewed sense of immortality. If only we could be like this forever, suspended in lazy, contented bliss. The shift in weather, however slight, always feels like a betrayal. When I actually notice the day getting shorter, I feel myself ushering in reality.

Despite the gray skies and damp sidewalks, I still head out in my Brooklyn tank top and worn flip flops. I defend it as clinging to my California roots, but it's just a very small piece of the puzzle. Last night I felt it creeping in. The feeling of trying to rationalize and hold on to what is only temporary. A sense of belonging, but not quite fitting in. Walking home from the subway at one o'clock in the morning, I tried to drown out my thoughts and soak up the city and all of its tragic beauty. My steps get more pronounced as I begin to process where I am. Who I am. And then, against my will, my head is flooded with memories. And even though nobody is watching, I try to gather up all the energy I can muster to prevent myself from sobbing. Then from laughing.

Denial has a way of seeping into every aspect of your life sometimes. My stride gets longer. Faster. Before I know it I'm in a full on sprint. I'm running past my house. Past everything that feels familiar. And I'm weightless again; comforted by the feeling of uncertainty.

I end up on my front stoop, out of breath and in a bit of daze. I can't calculate how far I've gone and how I ended up back where I started. My shirt is soaking wet and I'm groggy as if just waking up from a dream. I place my hand on my chest to feel my heartbeat and am surprised at how good the dampness feels on my collarbone and breasts. I turn my keys over in my palm, which I had been clutching so tight my hand ached. It's the third set I've had to make since I've moved here. I'm amazed at how people can accumulate so many keys over time, when I usually never have more than a couple. I think of only this as I walk up the stairs to my apartment.

I have trouble getting the lock to turn and briefly consider not even going inside. The panic slowly works itself out as I let myself in.

Perhaps I'll stay.

Monday Ramblings

2007-09-10T10:09:00.000-04:00

Have you ever stopped, took a look around, and wondered how you ended up at a bar with a bunch of Hasidic Jews singing Hebrew love songs?

Maybe that just happens to me.

Actually, my whole experience in NY has me wondering how I ended up in this filthy, beautiful, disgusting, poetic, excessive, exciting city.

Last Friday at Hustlenomics, I was in Mikey 1Soul's fashion show. Probably the last time I'll ever do anything like that ever again because the whole time I was picturing myself falling flat on my ass. I had to do this catwalk thing holding up a political sign, as if I was picketing. Although I understand the concept, the thought of models protesting kinda makes me cringe. The girls in the show were cool, but I seriously doubt that some of the chicks could even point out where Iraq is on a map. But there were two dope make-up artists there that made me feel fierce for a few hours, and that's really all that matters. Especially since I could have called the past couple of days Low Self-Esteem Week.

So this guy comes up to me and says pretty sincerely that he lost my number. It took a moment to realize who he was. I remembered him from a while ago at the Afro-Punk festival. He was the cutest guy there. The music was too loud to go over and talk to him (and I was lazy) so I just slipped him my digits right before we left. Sometimes I'll just dare myself to do shit like that for kicks, but that time I actually wrote down my correct phone number. Normally I would have preferred to have never run into him again, but he was cool.

Had to work all day Saturday and missed the Ft. Greene Festival, where all the cool Brooklynites were this weekend. Erin called me today and filled me in on all the fun I missed out on. But I did do something really cool that night after work. Kimmie invited me on a three hour party cruise to see this band called John Brown's Body. We had a beautiful view of the NY skyline and the Statue of Liberty, and the band was awesome. We were part of only a handful of brown people there, and I thought that even if the show sucks, it'll be fun to watch how everyone dances offbeat.

So my first real venture out of North America is official! The trip to Europe is all set, with less than two weeks to go! I'm hitting up the library for a crash course in German, French, and Italian.

This is the itinerary thus far:

Munich 9/22-9/23 –Oktoberfest! Can't wait for all that beer!!!
Cinque Terre 9/24-9/25
Rome 9/26-9/27
Amsterdam 9/27-9/28
London 9/29-9/30
Paris 10/1-10/3

It's like a taste of Europe for people with ADHD.

The rest of the crew is leaving early to go to Berlin and I have to meet them in Munich. Let's hope I'll learn enough German phrases to avoid taking the wrong train and ending up in some other country. My mom thinks I'll get arrested on accident or something. I had to promise that I will make every effort to avoid foreign prison.

Cross your fingers

Sho Nuff

2007-09-06T15:28:00.000-04:00

So it's my day off, and I just got back from a quick lunch with a friend of mine. He called me up because he was in the neighborhood. Amazing how someone that lives in Washington Heights happens to always be "in the neighborhood" on my days off. Anyway, we go up the street for a sandwich and sit down to eat in the garden.

"I'm so happy you agreed to go on a date with me." He says.
"Dude. This isn't a date. You were downstairs and I was hungry."

Oops, didn't mean to say that out loud. This is awkward.

I should have kept my mouth shut, because now we're definitely gonna have to go dutch when the check comes.

And so the story goes. The guys you don't like end up stalking you as you wait anxiously for the guys you do like to return text messages.

I've been thinking a lot about six degrees and funny coincidences. Last night I went to get drinks with Melissa, Tondrae, and Nelson. As we were talking, turns out Tondrae and Melissa are currently living in the same building, with Melissa's apartment directly beneath his. Crazy, right?

I know Nelson through Melissa. I know Melissa through Crazy Joe. I know Tondrae through Erin. I know Erin through Carlos…

New York is a city filled with millions of people, all doing their own thing. If you're not proactive in cultivating friendships, you can start to feel like a grain of sand.

Actually, sometimes you can feel like that no matter what you do.

I'm in the process of planning a trip to Europe. If all goes well, I'll be leaving at the end of this month for a few weeks to Rome, Berlin, Munich, Amsterdam, Paris, and London. If all does not go well I'll be leaving in October instead.

Five Countries + 1 Backpack + No Blowdryer = Me looking like a hot mess.

My passport only has one stamp in it. A lot of my few friends are surprised when I tell them I've barely been out of the continental United States. So here are some tips for appearing worldlier than you actually are:

a) Buy at least one Afrobeat album
b) Watch Run Lola Run, La Haine, and/or any really violent Korean movie
c) Learn how to say Cheers in at least three different languages

Other news:

My roommate Gabbi spotted Barack Obama this weekend. But more importantly, I spotted BRUCE LEROY from The Last Dragon right up the street on Flatbush!!!

Kimmie and I were on our way to the West Indian Parade when we stopped at a vendor on the street. You know, one of those tables that sell African Black Seed soap, cheap costume jewelry, elephant figurines, and incense. Turns out the vendor is Bruce Leroy's dad! I got three pairs of cheap earrings and his autograph all at the same place!

This was truly one of the highlights of my year here in NYC. I immediately called Coco and Andrea, because Kimmie wasn't nearly as excited as I needed her to be about this celebrity sighting. Thank god she was with me because I was this close to breaking out in song. I desperately wanted to start singing part of my favorite song from the movie, Suki Yaki Hot Sake Sue.

I had big plans to write something mildly poetic, but this is all I can manage to churn out.

Sigh…

I need help today.

Wish me luck.

Missed Connection with 17 Year Old Spanish Kid on the D Train (Throwback)

2007-09-01T22:13:00.000-04:00

11/16/2006

Remember me? I almost molested you on the D train today, around 8am. Tall, lanky, about 6'2" with dark olive skin and long eyelashes. Couldn't be more than a few weeks shy of 18? Thick, long, wavy black hair pulled back, strong jaw line, cocky smirk, clumsy stance. Rocking a (fly) green and white track jacket and air force ones. Lupe Fiasco blaring on your Ipod. No cologne, but I did detect a hint of Ivory soap. Good lawd! You were talking to the shy brown skinned girl with the white button up and black blazer. Her hair was frozen and pressed just so, and I could tell that she styled it like that every day without much variation. I imagine her in AP classes and Model UN. You're probably too inexperienced to notice how she was twirling her hair, blushing, and choking on her words. She kept looking down at her feet because she couldn't quite hold eye contact for more than a second. You all were talking about scholarships, getting into college, the punk ass calculus teacher that's been hating on you since last semester. She wants to go to a university in California. You wanna go to school in Massachusetts. You wanna get paid to write rhymes. You wanna backpack across Europe. You wanna start a revolution. The train jerked violently, as it does every morning when it hits a bend and passes Dekalb, so you had to grab onto the railing above me to keep your balance. And so there I stood facing you, with your arm bent and clutching the metal bar that I can never reach. Oblivious to my blatant staring. The top of my head reaching the top of your shoulders. If you moved your arm about an inch further south we'd be embracing. I leaned in just so you might feel my breath on your neck. I looked straight ahead and inhaled deeply. You smelled like falling asleep on the phone. You smelled like skipping third period. You smelled like ignorant bravery and relentless optimism. When you got off on Grand the brown-skinned girl leaned back against the closed subway doors, looked up and closed her eyes. I could feel her sigh. I watched you go up the escalator and pull a pen out of your backpack.

Oh Jesus kid, if you only knew.

Lookout Weekend

2007-09-01T19:13:00.000-04:00

It's Saturday. Beautiful day out. Shiny happy people outside rollerblading and being merry.

I'm at work alone. Talking to myself and reading Wikipedia. I have a job fit for sadists and it's draining all my energy.

Pops said to choose your words carefully. I haven't mastered that art yet. Nicole accurately calls it "word vomit." Lately it's been more about what I didn't say than what I did.

Mikael writes long ass myspace messages that often overwhelm me, but he's always good for a few words of wisdom. The lastest:

Umar bin Hassan : "Hard laughter disguising softer fears."

Feelin' that dude.

Kimmie and I shared a cab uptown with someone from the party. We wouldn't have let him in if it wasn't for his cool hat. How good does flirting feel?

It's hard being genuine and coy at the same time.

I get in these moods where I think the future is bleak but then I wonder how I got so lucky.

Crashed at Kimmie's. Got ready to write on the laptop, dozed off then thought I heard Big.

I did.
On TV.
There's no escape.

I need a new book for the subway.
I need a hug.

Last night, she said...

2007-09-01T12:20:00.000-04:00

I need good music and enough room to be silly. Such was the case at Turntables on the Hudson.

Me and Kimmie are sitting here cracking up at the events of last night. If you are Kimmie, Kelly, Colleen, Grace N., Melissa, Daphne, Grace, or Christine you will understand these infamous quotes:

***"So, um...let me know if I need to fight this bitch."
***"I think I just got a bikini wax for nothing."
***"Hell no. It's a fucking wild animal!"
***"We are The Misfits. Our songs are better."
***"Will someone please make sure the Pakistani dude doesn't hump my leg again?"

Grace is a fucking investigative reporter with a photographic memory. She brings news that has me question what I've been talking about all week. Or more so, why I've been talking about it because the first thing out of my mouth is "Guess I'm not getting laid tonight."

I love laughing at myself.
I love how my friends see through my exterior.

I know exactly what to say to get me in the door but no idea what to do once I'm inside. Or if I even want to be there.

To keep my game up and make myself feel better, I'll practice on a few unsuspecting strangers.

Oh, my dear Unsuspecting Stranger. You think I'm really cool because I just sang the theme song from Ducktales. You are so easy. I'll do you a favor and throw away your number. Trust me, because I'll just use you as a way to balance things in my fucked up universe.

And I'm so tired of doing that.

Colleen and Kimmie ask me, "What do you want to do?"

I think it's time to go home.

Make it fit.

2007-08-30T05:33:00.001-04:00

I've been heading out to Williamsburg more times in the last two weeks than I have in the whole time I've been in New York. The energy there is unique; it's growing on me. The neighborhood is a little too cool for it's own good though, and the reputation of being Hipster-ville is duly earned. All residents must show proof of skinny jeans and vintage t-shirt ownership. When I'm there I feel good, but never properly accessorized.

Wednesday brought me there again, because Melissa got us tickets to see Fiest at McCarren Park Pool. I had never really heard any of their albums, but I'm always down for live music. And I trust Melissa's taste in music. She's into Kasabian and that right there makes you cool in my book.

Before the show we ate at this restaurant called My Moon. I love this place. They've seen me every two months or so on a date with a different person, though. I doubt they remember me, but I associate the place with failed attempts at connecting with the opposite sex. I go there because I can bank on the food and atmosphere being fabulous, even if the company I keep turns out to be lame.

Anyway, we walk to McCarren park after dinner and catch the tail end of Broken Social Scene. They're good background music as we wait twenty minutes in line to get some beer. Fiest comes on and rocks. Wonderful live show, even though some of their down-tempo stuff made me wanna slit my wrists. The only single I've heard prior to this was My Moon My Man, and when the song comes on I cheer. I get a few sneers from some high-ranking hipster, which I attribute to my only knowing their most commercial song. I did the same thing at Lollapalooza when Silversun Pickups was on and the crowd went wild when Lazy Eye came on. Like, this is my band. I knew them when they were playing dive bars in Silver Lake. So yeah, apparently I'm the big nerd that doesn't know any of their other stuff.

I found myself a little jealous of some of the couples there. I was thinking about how good it would feel to have someone hug me from behind and sway with me to the music.

I haven't been close to someone for a long time.

Close.

Like so close I don't want to leave.

I didn't even have that with the Ex. That whole relationship was: I don't love you, but I sure do love this song. So many terrible things can happen when you're with someone for the wrong reasons. We could party and go to concerts but in hindsight, never had a real conversation. Sheer loneliness can only keep you together for only so long before you realize it's all a daydream.

It also helped that he was reeeeally good looking.

It always helps.

Another Recap

2007-08-29T14:49:00.000-04:00

I’ve been having some trouble finding the time to write. And when I do, my mind wanders and I just stare at the blinking cursor for ten minutes. So again, another quick re-cap.

I just listened to a voicemail message from Moms. It’s five minutes long, and she’s giving me major shit about my life decisions. Listening to her is making me wince. I suppose I could just have just stopped listening, but there’s this fear inside of me of getting some kind of long-distance ninja backhand. My mother has mastered the art of whooping ass with stealth. You think everything is OK, and then all of a sudden you’ll be stunned with a handprint on your cheek like, uh…did I just get slapped? Moms brings up old grudges and injustices and simultaneously tells me I should go to Temple and meditate. She is only religious when I am on the other side of the country.

I did go to Temple on Vietnamese New Year. Chinatown was a mass of people and I just wandered into the first place with a Buddha outside. I find it hard to clear my head of all thoughts, and I figure so do most people. Look what happened with Ghostbusters and the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. To get my head in the right place, I’ll listen to my favorite song over and over. Each time, tuning into and singling out a different instrument: vocals, drums, keys, bass. Pretty soon the music drowns out your thoughts, and it’s the closest you’ll ever come to Nirvana.

Last week, Carlos invites me to attend a listening party for Little Brother. I’ve heard of them, but wouldn’t be able to recognize them on the street. This is how out of touch I am with hip hop I am. If this had been ten years ago, I would have assaulted the artists with questions on production, concept, influence, etc. I kinda felt bad, because I know so many people that would love to be there, but instead I’m there just bobbing my head and eyeing the free turkey sandwiches. I’m grateful to Melissa for coming with me and chucking her plans of doing laundry. While we’re listening, she leans over to me and says, “Is that Little Big Brother?” We are so clueless.

Afterwards, we went to dinner then ended up at APT. Nicole and Dominique join us, and our Cali crew is now about eight deep and growing.

It’s a West Coast take-over, y’all.

I took one for the team on Friday and went with Grace to China 1. I was in a bad mood because I had something in my eye for like, three hours. My make-up was too nice to flush it out with water. Pathetic, right? After China 1, we decided to hit up Turntables on The Hudson.

Beautiful place, great music, and plenty of room to sit and catch up and enjoy the view. I tell Grace that I’m thinking about giving up Ketel One for a month. (Karlie read one of my blogs and was concerned)

Grace says, “What?! Uh, no. Why don’t you try giving up something else? Like…Hello Kitty?”

And I agreed. From now on, no more Hello Kitty. Bring on the Ketel One, though.

Saturday I met Kimmie in Union Square. We diverted from our original plans and headed out to Williamsburg. We chill at a lounge for a minute, then bounce out when the music gets lame. As I’m trying to haggle a cab about the price to Park Slope, I hear my name being shouted. It’s Kahlil, Eli, Mikey, and Rolando. Again, it’s a West Coast Take-over! Kimmie and I pile into the car and we all head to Bembe. It’s hot, it’s sweaty, it’s sticky, and I love it. I try not to make out a fool of myself on the dance floor and manage to put a spin on my usual two-step. But my friends are all excellent leads, so it appears like I might know what I’m doing.

I love living here. The best nights are the ones that you don’t really plan. It’s a huge city, but you still end up crossing paths with the same great people. I wandered into this little shop by my house and ran into Colleen. We got caught up, talked about our love lives (or lack thereof).

I tell her about the potential of my going from Lust to Like. There’s an emotional safety net that I try very hard to cling to. If there’s a chemistry that has potential to become something more than physical, I usually find a way to sub-consciously shut it down. Like maybe not giving too much of myself. Because I mean, shit. To know me is to love me, knowwhatI’msaying?

Just kidding! Jeez. It’s more than likely the opposite.

Moms, Pops, Coco, Thuy, and Indian

2006-08-15T11:18:00.000-04:00

2/4/2006

Moms is this fierce, proud Vietnamese woman. The opposite of dainty, she stands tall at 5'7" and can really knock a muthafucka out. Although she doesn't bust out her moves anymore, it is rumored that she has mastered several different forms of martial art. She can beat up ten men with two chopsticks. She can eat ten pies in ten days and still maintain her figure. She is immortal, despite her tendency to watch the health channel and claim to have symptoms of every disease mentioned. Recent self-diagnoses include SARS, West Nile, and bird flu. This has become a source of amusement for me, as it's not unusual for members of our family to reach triple digits, agewise. Moms has got connections in 'Nam, Hong Kong, and Sydney, and gives orders to her two best henchmen via carrier pigeon. She calls her henchmen Right Hand and Left Hand. She's a stealthy little minx and I believe those skills have helped her to become a better Ninja. They used to call her High Pockets.

Pops is an old school cat with an appreciation for jazz, literature, dark beer, and Led Zeppelin. His heart belongs to Moms and New York City. He thinks Brazil is beautiful. He will always beat you at Jeopardy. He will always be available to discuss Mozart, the Musuem of Modern Art, and time travel with you. He will always welcome an opportunity to tell Right Wing Idiots to eat shit. He will NOT, however, be able to help you with your Trig homework. He does not use spell check, which angers me to great extent.

It's been said that Coco was born on a full moon. He is the leader of a slightly fictitious rap group called Philly Condo. He'd prefer that you call him V.C. Charlie during their performances. He's an easy going fellow that drinks what's on tap. His sense of humor parallels his sister, SNL in the 80's, Cheech, and The Man. You will find that you often do not understand the jokes between him and his sister, or Philly Condo. You may become upset and slightly annoyed when this happens. Coco has a pattern of falling in love fast and hard, but that is changing due to the theraputic effects of Blackjack, Booze, and Brunettes. The secret to his success lies in his strict diet of scrambled eggs and pizza. He always knows what song you're talking about. While his taste in music is broad and quite spectacular, his political views are almost blasphemous.

Thuy has a patient ear and a sharp tongue. She gives advice but can talk you out of your own shoes. She has mastered the Jedi Mind Trick. You will look into her eyes and do exactly as she tells you. She knows football better than me, you, and everyone. She was a Con Artist in her previous life, as well as a direct descendent of Ghangis Khan.

Moi? I am known by the name of Indian in priveleged, exclusive circles. Those that know the source of this name shall consider it an honor. I don't eat anything that swims. I enjoy broccoli, the color pink, and the word VICARIOUSLY. People are often amazed and somewhat saddened by my extensive knowledge of movie trivia. I love Emma, my boyfriend, and my all girl band, among other things. My all girl band is called Everybody Needs a Nemesis. You may NOT shorten it and just say Nemesis. Chela Picante does the lead vocals on our greatest hits album. My super powers include x-ray vision and the ability to forget what you were just talking about. Please do not ask me to use these powers unless you know me by the name of Indian. If you do not know me by the name of Indian, I may just demonstrate only one of my super powers. I have a tendency to scoff at stupid people, as well as a tendency to write blogs that don't make much sense at 3 in the morning.