Hook ups, let downs, and the quest for a published book.

I’ve been looking into making new business cards for me. Something along the lines of the whole “finding l.a.” blog I used to have:

Finding L.A./Here I am.

But of course, I’d take a better picture, and possibly wear one of those weird gloves with no fingers just because I can say, hey, I wore those weird gloves with no fingers, and I can prove it, it’s on my business card.

But then, I get to the back of the business card and it would say:

L.A.

Blogger

Don’t get me wrong. I love to blog. I love everything about it. I love getting to write and the fact that people are reading it. I love feeling like I might actually be funny or helpful or amusing or well dressed or something to be worthy of having you fabulous peoples read me.

But at the same time, sitting at home on my desk is this 262 page masterpiece that took me 6 years to write.

Hook ups, Letdowns, and the other Nine Inches (C)

By me. About me. Slightly changed to protect the innocent, namely, me. And of course, it is unpublished.

You have absolutely no idea (unless you are also a struggling psuedo-writer like me) what I would do to get this damn book published and be able to print out business cards that say that I am a published writer. I would love to be able to send a book to you, my favorite peoples and be like. Look. You read the blog and you comment, so here’s a copy of my book, and I autographed it for you with a little cartoon of me giving you the peace sign (Recipients of #LettersFromLA will understand that).

Thus. I’ve decided. I’m going to try [again] to get it published. I have a lot of editing to do. Rewriting, scrapping parts, filling in gaps to make my characters feasible as actual people since I hate when people bitch about character development. But it’s doable. I don’t care how many of these query letters I have to send out to get someone to read this thing.

This is a life goal, kids.

Publish me. Or if you know someone who will, put them in contact with me, will ya?

In the meantime, please enjoy this (C)opywrited portion of my book, which is completely unedited for your rough draft pleasure:

October swung in and it was officially freezing. Jack stood outside waiting with me for my ride. My dad picked me up for our choir practice at the dorms on his way downtown. We practiced every Monday since the beginning of the year when we both auditioned for a select choir that sang with the city orchestra. A few months later, and we were just two weeks away from our first concert.

“Hey Dad.” I slid into the car, relishing the warmth of the car.

“That wasn’t Ryan.” He replied as a greeting.

“Nope, that was Jack.” He had met Jack a few weeks ago when Jack and I had hid out at my house.

“Are you with Jack now?”

“No, Ryan and I are still dating.”

“Are you and Jack dating?” He asked.

“Ryan and I are boyfriend-kind of dating, Dad.”

He laughed. “Whichever way that is. I think you should ditch them both and date the cute tenor.

We arrived at the music room to find that snacks were being served. Always a pleasant surprise. I made myself a plate and sat on the window ledge while my dad struck up a conversation with another choir member.

A few minutes later, Danny and Connor came in. They had auditioned just after me. Danny waved and came towards me while Connor bee-lined for the food table.

“Late.” I commented as Danny reached me.
“Early for singing, late for food.” Danny replied. “Anything left?”

I held up my plate and the remainders of a brownie as evidence. “One more bite.” I offered the brownie.

Danny bit the brownie out of my hand, catching my fingers in the process. “Good.” he smiled at me.

I laughed at him, holding up my thumb which he’d coated with frosting. “Messy, more like.”

Danny shrugged and took my hand, licking the frosting off me. ‘Better?”

“Not quite sanitary.” I teased him.

He sat down and patted me on the leg. “At least it tastes good.” He left his hand there. “Sweet.”

“It was a good brownie.” I agreed.

“I mean you.” And with that, Danny squeezed my leg and headed into the music room.

Last Name [comma] First Name

I work in a doctor’s office. I’ve been working in the medical field for a few years now, and one thing I’ve quickly learned and never forgotten is this:

[Last Name, First Name]

If you work anywhere with a large database, you know this. First question you ask of someone is, “what is your last name?” It’s a whole lot easier than trying to match the first name — which there could be millions of. Hi, your name is Tom? WHICH TOM ARE YOU?

Which brings me to my next story.

Rewind, with me, if you will.

It’s the summer of 2009. It’s the summer of drank. Macy and I are out at our favorite bar, McDoucheBarn. She is out on the dance floor with another friend, and I’ve edged my way up to the bar. It pays to be skinny in cases like this.

I’m waiting for the bartender to take my order when this happens.

“Hey.” It’s the guy next to me. I figure he’s just going to get on my case for shoving my way next to the bar, since most likely, the bartender will take my order first. Thus, I ignore him.

“You know,” he continues. “You’re too pretty to frown.”

Oh, I realize. He’s hitting on me. This makes it much more understandable that I didn’t realize a date was a date, right?

“Hi,” I tell him. And small talk commences.

“I’m David.”

“L.A.”

More small talk. He’s nice. He asks for my number and I tell him he can put his in my phone. He does.

“What’s your last name?” I ask.

“Why, will you be adding me on facebook later?” He asks.

“No,” I tell him even though I am planning on facebook stalking later. “I just don’t like having people in my phone without a last name.” I scroll through my contacts to prove it.

“Wow,” He says. “Last name is Allen.”

I enter it into my phone. His name is rubbing me the wrong way already.

My drinks arrive. I wave good bye to [last name, first name/first name, last name] and head towards Macy. I have barely gone three feet when I feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s him.

“By the way, if you do look me up on facebook, my name is David Maxwell* on there. [First name, middle name]. For professional reasons.”

Professional reasons. Granted, I understand that sometimes you want to keep your “personal” life (and by personal, I mean facebook and those photos of you being a less than stellar citizen) and your professional life separate. I get that.

But when your middle name can sub as your last name, and your last name can sub as your first name, and your first name can sub as either your last name OR your middle name…it’s so much to take in.

Hi, my name is first name, first name, first name.

I know that you can’t really help what your name is. My actually first name and last name are kind of a tongue twister in that sense. Thanks, parental units. But then do you really have to make it more difficult by being one name here, and a different name on facebook, and everything is so interchangable??

This is one of those weird pet peeves that I know I shouldn’t have (see comment about being unable to help what your name is) but bothers me anyway.

Case in point:

I am very good at remembering who all my patients are. I don’t need to ask for names 95% of the time, because I’ve already greeted them by name and talked about what’s new and gotten their file.

But there was one patient at an office I used to work at. He was an interchangable name man.

“Oh hey…” I’d say and trail off, realizing that I can’t remember which was his first name and which was his last name. If I say ‘hey [name],’ I could be saying the last name and it’d get weird. If I say ‘Mr. [name],’ I could be saying the first name and it’d get weird. “…you. Hey…you.”

I’m so glad my last name is actually a last name.

*David Maxwell Allen is not actually this man’s name. Or it might be, and maybe I just intermixed the names**.

**Now you’ll never know.

To bring a date, or not bring a date: that is the question

So now that GoldDust is single… I get to enjoy all of the wonderful awkward moments it brings.

Most awkward… Wedding season.

This weekend I will be in a wedding for the first friend I met at college. The bride-to-be we will call Mary Anne like from Gilligan’s Island. Yes, she is completely like the character from the show. She wears cut-offs and is always quoting what her father or family would do in a situation. I love her dearly for her down-to-earth-nature even though her upcoming nuptials are making me very aware that am I very much single.

The first observance was the invitation. I got excited when I opened the mail box to find a very pretty green thick envelope addressed to me. I ripped it open like a Christmas present, but my excitement was short lived when I saw the RSVP box.

“GoldDust +___”

If I didn’t need the invitation for the church’s address I would have puked all over it.

“Thanks! Parents of the bride for reminding that I am very much single.”

I nicely wrote, “GoldDust +0″ and mailed my RSVP.

Now, I could have put +1 and found a date. GoldDust is far from desperate to get a perfectly good suitor, but there is Pros and Cons to bringing a date to a wedding especially when you’re single.

Shall we list the Pros, first.

1.You don’t have the dodge the Groom’s distant drunk uncle who wants to take you to his van down by the river and show you “his sticker collection”. (This actually hasn’t happen to me, but I wouldn’t be surprise if it could.)

2.You and your date can take hott photos in the photo-booth making the bride and groom jealous.

3.You don’t have to be that single girl who dances with the other single bridesmaid when they play a slow dance song.

Now to the Cons of having a date

1. The worst of all cons is explaining to others at the wedding if you and your date are together or not together. There is judgement lurking all over this. Either, people think you were desperate and found your date in the parking lot. Or they want to know when the two of you are getting married. Just because I’m at a wedding with someone from the opposite sex doesn’t mean I want to marry them.

2.Having to babysit your date if they don’t know others. I want to get drunk not hold someone’s hand the whole time.

3. Having to make your date match the ugly bridesmaid dress you are forced to wear. No, any color David’s Bridal produces will ever look good on anyone. There is no reason to torture two souls with that challenge.

This weekend I have decided that I will take part in this wedding as lone wolf. Please pray that a creepy uncle doesn’t attack me, or I won’t have to dance with the other single girl at the party.

I wonder if I will catch the bouquet. How ironic would that be?

Hashtag: Alternapurse

I was having a conversation with a friend the other day. She’s previously from NYC, and was pretty much a Queen at going out. She and her friends would partake in “shortest skirt” competitions, get vodka in water bottles from club owners after closing, and wear shirts that rival, or just plain blow GoldDust’s latest fashions out of the water on controversial.

GoldDust’s Controversial yet Awesome Fashion Statement

The other day, when I told her about my #AlternaPurse hashtag, and in effect, my storing of personal effects in my sock, she told me this tidbit:

“Bars in New York are so different. You could get searched more intensely than when you were in line to board a plane. Girls would get up to bouncers and be asked to pull their bras away from their bodies.”

I must have a questioning look on my face.

“Well,” she explains. “That’s a popular place to store like drugs and things.”

Hmm. Talk about padding.

After thinking more about it, I realize that she’s right and not only that, I’ve done it. You probably have too [if you have boobs, and they're the kind of boobs that need a bra]. Granted, I’ve never stored drugs in there, but I’ve stuck my credit card in there, and my phone when I’ve needed both hands for other things…

• Dancing
• Double-Fisting
• Breaking the seal
• Etc.

If I had done this on that particular night when I was robbed out of my back pocket, maybe I’d never have lost that $43.11.

One other night in fact:

Macy and I are heading downtown. We’ve dolled up to end all dolling up. I look adorable, if I do say so myself. We park the car and are touching up make up when it happens.

This is my idea of putting in a large amount of effort for going out.

“Want me to hold your license and stuff?” I ask Macy. The shorts I’m rocking don’t have a back pocket, so I’ve been forced to carry a purse.

“That’d be great,” Macy replies. She’s wearing a dress — even less chance of having pockets. She goes to grab her id and — “Shit. I can’t find it.”

We search. We search like there is no tomorrow. I am pulling Boo’s car seat and toys out of my car and setting them on the curb in the quest for the lost license. Finally, we realize, it can’t be there. My car has eaten her license.

“Let’s just go,” Macy decides. We’re heading to our regular bar anyway — the doorman Security knows us. So we start walking, and miraculously, they let us in without her id.

FAST FORWARD.

We’re dancing and enjoying ourselves when something jostles Macy.

“What’s wrong?!” I ask her, startled.

She holds up her id. She found it. “It was in my bra!” She declares.

Thus, we come to the present day — where I’m getting heckled for having stored things in a sock. Would they have been safer in the cleave? Probably. Suppose things hadn’t fallen out, after all, I might have had my identity stolen. Or my money stolen. Or never gotten into contact with the man of the business card. Terrible things could have happened.

Oh. Wait. Terrible things have happened: it’s called the JoeyBra.

Now available for $19.99.

Yes. Someone is making money off of this. They are taking our drunken abilities to shove random items into our bras and charging us for it. Not only that. Now that this is such a well known, common concept, people are looking into all implications of the cleavage storage system causing us breast cancer.

From the Environmental Health Trust:

For many young women today, tucking cell phones in the bra has become a cool, hip way to have simple access to these essential devices. Most of us have no idea that cell phones are small microwave radios that should not be kept directly on the body.

The ways some people are using their phones today could increase their risk of developing breast cancer and other diseases tomorrow. Cell phone’s microwave radiation seeps directly into soft fatty tissue of the breast.

Geez, people. I had no idea this would turn into a diatribe about breast cancer. I’m sorry. But not really, because let’s face it – if you anything like me, you’ve done this. And now after reading this, there’s a solid chance that you won’t.

Conclusion: I’ve saved all your lives.

You’re welcome.

 

I guess that’s why they call it the Windy City

After crossing 2 state lines, 1 time zone, and 7 lanes of traffic in a freak-gps/traffic jam incident, Aviator and I arrived in Chicago. We opened the car doors, and they swung out of our hands, and I was immediately blinded by my hair. We look at each other and at the same time say, “hm. I guess this is why they call it the Windy City!” then laughed at how lame we were.

When we left GR, it was 78° and sunny; Aviator was in shorts. When we arrived in Chicago, it was 46°, foggy, and raining.

Needless to say, we had packed for the forecasted warm weather, and we’re unprepared for this bitter coldness. So, upon checked in to our sweet Serviced Apartment, we decided to shop for jeans and sweatshirts.

Naturally, we ended up in Victoria’s Secret, and naturally we ended up with matching hoodies (which we wore 80% of the weekend). Because we are sweet like that. We also got free, matching robes with our purchases.

Chillin’ in the room in our robes.

Being car-lagged, we called it a night shortly after dinner. We woke up refreshed on Saturday, ready to being our assault on the Magnificent Mile.

Naturally, we hit East Oak street first. If you aren’t familiar with Chicago’s shopping district, this is the NICE area. Hemes, Barneys, David Yurman, Jimmy Choo, and Prada are some examples of stores on E. Oak. Being the A+ mommy I am, I headed into Juicy Couture, where I bought P and myself MATCHING pink cardigans. You’re jealous, I know.

Shopping continued in fabulous style, Neiman Marcus, Saks, Guess, and TopShop were a few places we hit.  We headed back to the room to rest and change for dinner. I took this opportunity to have a glass of wine and admire my purchases.

So maybe I have a slight problem. Maybe.

For dinner, we donned some of our new goodies, and Aviator even wore my sweet, studded Louboutin booties. We looked so fetch, in the words of Gretchen Weieners.

For dinner, we went to Hugo’s Frog Bar, and had a romantic dinner. We split a veggie platter and a bottle of wine, so naturally our server brought us one tab. We’re the cutest couple ever.

We hailed a cab as we exited. The cab driver is laughed. We exchange awkward looks. “THOSE MEN. THEY STARE AT YOU!” He says, in a Jamacian accent.

“No…they’re looking at something else,” I say. After all, we were fully clothed, and there were seriously 10 older men at the window across the street, just staring at something.

“No!” CabDriver insists, “they are looking! looking right at you!” Aviator waves, and 3 wave back. This sends us into giggles. “SEE!” CabDriver is so proud of himself, as he runs a red light, “They were looking. Necking. The long necks. They extend their necks….”

“Rubber necking,” I jump in to help him out.

“YES!” He is pleased, “I will call in to my boss. Stay with you all night. Keep you safe.”

“He thinks we are famous,” Aviator whispers. We giggle more.

Since he was so entertaining, and I was drunk, I tipped him an excessive amount. He waves goodbye and tells us he hopes he sees us again. We are still laughing.

I am singing “Never Say Never” as we run across the street to our building. We were going to do shots before going to the bar, but I was already drunk and insisted on changing. Cinco de Mayo and 5″ heels do NOT mix. Time for flops and party pants.

Please note: the party pants

We look into the mirror before we left. Aviator notes that since her hair is poofed so perfectly, she feels like Barbie. “What does that make me?” I ask, “Barbie’s alcoholic, hipster cousin?” We giggle more.

We do a shot of 100 proof Rumple – which is standard, then head to the Mexican bar down the street.

The rest of the night will be summed up in photos, because words cannot do the night justice.

It’s not a party until the mustaches come out.

Stolen hat and stolen poncho. Shit is getting cray. OLE!

4th margarita. I look sober.

We took all the goodies off, to prove that we still exude swagger.

We got photo-bombed on the way out of the bar. We also gave our mustaches and poncho to the guy who took this picture. That’s the barter system, folks. Aviator took the hat, though.

We got back to the room, and decided to go to the rooftop. Lo and behold, there was a pool. A blue pool.

So, naturally, I got in.

I then shouted more Justin Bieber lyrics from the rooftop.

My audience

All in all, it was a fabulous trip, and a fabulous Cinco de Mayo!

Soccer Girl Guest Blogs: Chapter 1

Let me start this by stating that I have never dated multiple people at the same time. I might be “hanging out,” or “kickin’ it” with a few people at any given time, but I never classify it as “dating.” Once it is classified as “dating,” then I commit to that one person, solely and completely. To classify as “dating,” perhaps the boy and I will have a conversation about exclusivity, much like an exclusive release of a song to people who have bought the previous album on iTunes or who have “liked” said artist on Facebook. My example is clearly an over-exaggeration, but I digress.

In my mind, until this conversation happens, I am free to go to dinner and hang out with whoever I want, whenever I want.

Please make a mental note that in no way, shape, or forms do my actions on these escapades result in anything skanky, slutty, or whorish.

So in light of my prelude, let me begin my torrid tale of living life, eating food, and hanging out, all while acquiring a theme song.

The Arena and I have had our share of ups and downs, much like the timeless metaphorical “roller coaster ride of relationships.” Awhile back, we began hanging out again, and once again, I got skittish (much like a baby deer) and wanted to take a few steps back and just be friends. He was one of my best friends and after the last plummet in our friendship timeline, I panicked thinking of that fate once more. He seemed okay with this, but by now, he probably was very much expecting my easily spooked behavior, and let it slide.

Then on Easter 2012, massive amounts of drinking ensued, as The Arena and Legomaniac gave up booze for Lent. I gave up sweets, so I made the most beautiful dirt cake in the world (also the most delicious).

Now it is neither here nor there as to how the food fight began, but what is most important is how it ended. It ended with me, SoccerGirl, crowned victorious, reigning supreme over all other participants (all other participants = The Arena). He will never admit this of course, but at one time was quoted saying “I will get my revenge.”

Revenge defined:

-to exact punishment or expiation for a wrong on behalf of, especially in a resentful or vindictive spirit.

-to take vengeance for; inflict punishment for; avenge:

-the act of revenging; retaliation for injuries or wrongs; vengeance.

-something done in vengeance.

-the desire to revenge; vindictiveness.

-an opportunity to retaliate or gain satisfaction.

Therefore, by claiming he will one day get revenge, he was ultimately admitting defeat.

This was a very intense battle, that covered two floors of a house and…an hour of overtime spent in the penalty box, and what happens in the penalty box, stays in the penalty box.

This picture was taken in the early first half of the battle. By the end, my hair needed to be completely washed…I hate washing my hair (Please remember, this is one of the reasons it didn’t work between me and Army)…and showering (Also another reason).

And ever since Easter 2012, The Arena and Soccergirl have been…

But with every success comes tribulation, so stay tuned for chapter two!

Kleptaholism: so hot right now.

So, if you read my last post, you have have noticed a part where I just had to get this man’s sunglasses. I can’t explain it. I saw them. I went for them. The next thing you know, L.A. is dancing with this man, and wearing his sunglasses.

It’s what I do.

Remember my birthday, and that furry hat?

GoldDust texted me the week after this game. Caption: "I miss you, my Asian Koala."

YEAH. After I got that hat, GoldDust and I went to refill our drinks and pee. All the Nordiques jumped up instantly.

“Don’t take his hat! You can’t keep his hat! Accents! French words! Phrases with accents!”

If I hadn’t wanted to watch the rest of the game so badly, I would’ve taken the hat and run. Goodbye forever, Nordiques!

But honestly, for some reason, when I drink, I see things and feel like my life would be instantly better if I had this hat/glasses/t-shirt/sticker.

Kleptaholism (n): the act of taking strange things while inebriated.

People. I have a problem.

Example:

Remember that Wings game that we had a girls night for? Poof and I meant to keep blogging about that night. I yelled about being Asian, shots were poured, drinks were had. It was a pretty epic night. I believe at some point, I ditched my five inch sparkly heels in a casino because I just could not do the B-52′s Love Shack dance in them. Don’t worry. I wore the shoes home.

You know what else happened?

Kleptaholism.

Towards the end of our night, we found ourselves in the bar in the hotel we were staying at. Some sort of party was going on. Presumably a bachelor party, seeing as it was a bunch of men in button downs with too many buttons undone and crazy glasses. GoldDust kept telling them to button it up, because they weren’t classy gentlemen. Poof kept demeaning their manhood. Aviator kept asking why the hell we were talking to them.

But all I saw were these tacky sunglasses, and how much I wanted them.

The original glasses I stole were apparently prescription. This man actually went to the trouble of getting janky prescription glasses.

Obvious solution? Take them. Which we did. Until the man I stole the glasses from kept telling me they were prescription lenses. Did I believe him? Yes. Because I was inebriated, and am gullible enough when sober that OF COURSE, he must have lenses in these black and pink checked glasses. But that didn’t stop me from stealing a different pair of glasses, before running off with my entourage.

These ones we stole. And ran off with. They are mine now. Goodbye Forever.

Thus, another thing to add onto my antics list: Koala-ing, and kleptaholism.

I’m sorry, everyone. I have issues. But really, don’t we all?

Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy.

For a majority of my life, I have been in relationships. Ex and I had a long term relationship. Then I was with BabyDaddy. I never really just dated. I had to no idea how to meet guys, or if I was flirting with someone (which apparently I always was. I’ve probably accidentally flirted with a trashcan, I’m so damn nice.), or to be frank, I had no idea what the fuck I was doing.

Back in 2005, when I was a fresh faced, innocent, college freshman, my roommate 202 and I decided that clearly, we were missing out on something. All we’d done so far in college is have boyfriend drama. We obviously didn’t know how to be single, and decided one day, that we had to at least try it: this single life.

“That boy,” 202 points out a man.

“Is he cute?” I ask. I didn’t have my glasses on and everything was blurry.

“He looks cute. And you said you would give your number to a new boy.”

I squint. This kid looks presentable enough. I scribble my number down on a gum wrapper and throw it out the window. Yes. I’m embarrassed, but I really did that.

We then park the car and wait for the boy to get find the number, pick up the number, and walk us. Seriously. We had no idea what we were doing.

“Heeeeey, girls, this your number?” The boy reaches us. 202 and I exchange horrified looks. He did not have good looks. He did not speak proper english. However, he did have my phone number.

I nod. I don’t know what else to do. He asks us our names. We tell him. Then, we scurry away, out of fear, and disappointment, both in ourselves, and in mankind.

Fast Forward.

202 and I are in my friend Muscles’ dorm room. We’ve been home for awhile, and there’s been no call from the rogue man on the beach. I’m all set to breathe a sigh of relief when it happens. My phone rings. It’s a random number. It’s him.

We all stare at the phone, until Muscles gets the balls to answer it for me. Probably because he actually has balls.

“Hello?” Muscles answers. He flexes involuntarily at this act of manhood.

The beach rat is clearly confused. “Hey, uh, is this, uh? These two girls? I met em on the beach? They said this was their number?”

Muscles shrugs. “Ah, I don’t know, man. This is my number. Two girls? What were their names?”

“Uh, I think the one was like Lisa? And then Jennifer?” Beach rat stumbles over our names. For the record, those are the names he guessed, and even more for the record, those are not our names.

“What’d they look like?” Muscles is having the time of his life. I’m embarrassed that the ugly man from the beach couldn’t even remember my name.

“I don’t know, man? Like skinny? Dark hair? The one chick was I think Mexican?”

I’ve had enough. The phone has been on speaker phone the whole time and I grab it from Muscles’ hand. “I’m Filipino, asshole!” I yell, before flipping the phone closed.

We all stare at the phone for a second.

“Well,” Muscles reasons. “He knows it’s you, but I don’t think he’ll call back.”

Fast Forward.

It’s 2012 again. It’s actually last Saturday. We’ve just sung Mahler’s 8th Symphony, and Soprano and I are debating plans for the evening.

“Bottom40,” Alto tells us. I have no idea what this is. I have no idea where this is. But Soprano knows, so we caravan to a strange bar in a strange area of town that I never really venture to, except to see Mr. Poland, who lives out that way.

The bar is strange. The whole event is. It’s themed, and I’m not dressed up at all in theme clothes. Sadness.

Alto shows up, and apparently she knew about the theme, cuz she’s all dressed in running clothes. Then I remember: I never took my soccer bag out of my car.

Alto and I. Note my soccer shorts. I apologize that you can't really see the socks here.

Sidenote:

“You wore your dirty soccer uniform to this dance party?” Poof asks me incredulously, days later.

“No,” I clarify. “I wore my dirty shorts. And they weren’t that dirty, because I only played one half on Thursday. Plus, my socks were clean, because I never wear shin guards during indoor.”

“Well, still…” Poof fades off. “I guess it could be worse.”

After a few drinks, we hit the dancefloor. Then I see them. Sunglasses. And I want them. For some reason, I go all sorts of klepto when I drink, and today, I wanted these sunglasses.

And so I take them. I think I’m nice about it. I end up dancing with the [un] sunglassed man for awhile, and between the music, the fact that I have these sunglasses, and the dancing, I’m having a good time. Thus, when he asks my name, I give it. And it gets to the end of the night, and I’m leaving and…

Everything that happens from this point on is open to speculation because I’ll be honest. I don’t remember exactly how it went down.

Someone asks someone else for a phone number. I don’t have my phone on me (no pockets in soccer shorts), so I can’t get his. Going from the story above, you see how great I am at giving out mine, so that doesn’t happen either.

But I do remember this:

“Here,” he tells me. He hands me something. “This will make things easier.”

Fast Forward.

I wake up the next morning. I got home late and my clothes from last night are in a jumble on the floor. But there, tucked together, are the following: my license, my credit card…and the sunglass’d man’s business card.

By the way, if you’re wondering how I managed to get this man’s card safely home, ALONG with my ever important ID and credit card…I’m ridiculously lucky I didn’t lose anything.

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I don’t know who you are, and you might be a terrorist.

This story is a little dated since I no longer live with my roommate/ex, but it’s still funny. L.A. and I had a good chuckle about it as we drove to her birthday hockey game. Let the giggles begin.

Just like Poof, I also got inked a few months ago. (L.A., when are you going to join all the cool kids?)

It was right after things had officially ended with Detroit and I.

Instead of doing something crazy to my hair like most girls do after a break up… I got a tattoo.

I didn’t tell anyone besides a co-worker, Tits McGee. I asked her to come with me on our lunch break. Get paid while getting a tat is always the responsible thing to do.

I had known what I wanted for a long time, but needed the perfect excuse to do it.

Back story of what I wanted.

From the day I walked into Arabic 101, I had known I wanted to the words “No Fear” in Arabic written on my wrist. I wanted to be reminded by the words each day to not to fear what life brings me. Be as fearless as I was the day I walked into that class.

Continue.

So Tits McGee and I made our way to the tattoo parlor. I handed the tattoo artist my post-it note with Arabic writing and $50.

Don’t worry, I consulted Google translator several times to make sure I had translated it correctly. My luck I would have made a mistake and my tattoo could’ve said something awkward like, “I hate boobs” which no one would have benefited from that. No inspiration when someone hates boobies.

Artist lady made the trace on the crazy paper, and said she needed to smoke a cigarette before she started. Tits McGee and I look at each other a little worried. I prayed to Allah that the artist had actually done a tat before.

Artist lady returns to start. She pulls my wrist towards her. She begins. I’m fearless in this moment. It hurts a little. It’s all surreal thatI’m actually doing this. 5 minutes later she is done. And folks here you have it. (La Khuufa!!! or No Fear!!!)

But the blog doesn’t end here. After I got it, I chose not brag about it or put photos on Facebook.  I got the tattoo for me and only me. If someone asked I would explain its meaning and my reasoning. But, I wasn’t going to be waving my arm in the air to grab people’s attentions. GoldDust is always classy and lady-like.

Month or so had went by and I hadn’t shared the news of my new addition to my body with my roommate/ex, Detroit. And one night, I was in my bedroom, relaxing from a long day at work and not attempting to hid it from him.

He came in the bedroom to ask a question about something random, but mid sentence he gasped.

Detroit, “What’s that on your arm?”

I’m confused and look down. I realize he has noticed my tat.

GoldDust, “A tattoo.”

Detroit, “What does it mean? When did you get that?”

GoldDust,  “It’s means “No Fear” and I got it a few weeks ago”

Mind you, Detroit is very traditional and conservative. He is shocked and starts to flip out that I have mutilated my body.

Detroit, “Who are you? I don’t know you anymore. You got a tattoo!”

GoldDust, “Yes, I did.” Rolling my eyes.

Detroit, “Are you a terrorist?”

Yes folks, those words came out of Detroit’s mouth in all seriousness.  Since someone gets a tattoo in Arabic script… it clearly means they’re a terrorist.

I begin to laugh. Once again, he has amazed me by the things that come out of his mouth.

With all the blog material he has recently given me, I feel a little sad I can’t keep him around for comedic value.