Monday, November 27, 2006
The L Word & Crackberry
During the eight months I was involuntarily separated from S, (she here in LA, me stuck in Australia sorting out Visa issues) I made her promise that she would not watch season three of the L Word without me. Sticking to her word, one of the first things we did upon my arrival was couch down for a marathon L Word session, breaking only to have sex, go to the bathroom and get snacks. Now I am starting to regret this unabashed lack of restraint. To use the Easter egg analogy; am I forever going to be that little kid who unwraps and consumes every last Easter egg in her pile until she slumps into a sugar induced coma?
Now what are we supposed to do? Wait until season four? That's just not fucking fair. I need to know if Bette is finally going to dump Tina’s boring ass for good and who Shane is going to jilt next.
On a positive note, S and I have decided to expand into strap-on territory, which is really quite a big step for the two of us who are still quite new to girl on girl. Have yet to make a purchase but what can I say? Shane really is inspirational.
S asked the other day if I had heard of Pinkberry. My first thought was that she was talking about a sexy lingerie store. Or possibly one of those PDA’s – like a Black Berry for girls. She was actually referring to frozen yoghurt. Unbeknownst to me this Pinkberry yoghurt has become some kind of LA cultural phenomenon (apologies for the bad pun). It is meant to be so addictive it has been dubbed Crackberry. With so much hype I had no choice but to follow the flock and try the damn stuff. After dealing with the horrors of WeHo traffic and jostling in line for 20 minutes, S and I finally emerged, cup-o-crack in hand from the kiwi-colored yogurt shop. Awaiting some kind of sensory delight I plunged a spoonful into my mouth. It tasted like, um, well frozen yogurt. I really don’t know what I was expecting but this was at best, one step up from a McDonalds McFlurry. S felt the same way – completely under whelmed. Can somebody please explain, as I certainly don’t believe in the power of Crack and quite frankly was rather pissed that I’d spent nearly five bucks on the Crack. I guess that’s LA for you.
Friday, November 17, 2006
A Meltdown on the 101
Have had my 'real' job interview pushed back until December which is great as it gives me more time to fret about my lack of credentials, tenuous legal status and general inadequacies. This also gives me more time to nanny for two wonderfully precocious boys out in The Valley. I fucking hate The Valley and I fucking hate the 101 freeway, which gets me there. There is something about gridlock on the Cahuenga Pass that is akin to pure evil. So Wednesday I'm heading north on the 101, on my way to pick the boys up from school (lets call them Bill and Bob) in Sherman Oaks.
I get on at Western and make it to Highland, (less than 3 miles) it takes me 40 minutes. I keep a hawk like eye on my temperature gauge, which starts to flirt with the red part of hot. Obviously I do not drive a Lexus or a Mercedes, my car is old, as in 1988 old. But I really do not need this. I look ahead at all four lanes of traffic stopped dead in their tracks. I listen to Left, Right and Center on NPR. Arianna Huffington's pompous voice is grating on my nerves more than usual. I turn off the radio and watch as the temperature gauge remains steadily in the red and sweat begins to drip down my brow. I call Bill and Bob's school.
"I am Bill and Bobs nanny and I'm going to be late," I blurt out to the first person that picks up. Maybe it’s my Australian accent or maybe I haven't given enough information. Either way I am not understood. I get put on hold for what seems like eternity. Finally someone picks up again. This time they are speaking to me in Spanish. I do not understand Spanish.
"I speak English, no hablo espanol," which I repeat about fifteen times until they get it. I relay the message again, this time I'm understood. At this point the traffic begins to crawl and my temperature gauge takes a slight reprieve. An hour and a half after I left my apartment I make it to Bill and Bob’s school.
After the long wait, Bill and Bob are at each other’s throats and demanding something to eat. To shut them up, I make a hasty illegal turn into Jack and the Box and charge two chocolate shakes to my credit card. Apart from the slurping, I have relative peace and quiet and make it back onto the 101.
I think that maybe I can keep the car cool by sheer will and we really don't have that far to travel. This technique works for about six minutes, after which point the temperature gauge breaches the red. Very quickly black smoke billows from the engine, an acrid smell wafts through the vents and in the middle lane of the freeway my car promptly gives up the ghost. Bill and Bob are remarkably quiet as two Mexican's jump out of the pick up next to me and roll my piece of scrap metal to the shoulder. I thank the Mexican's, reassuring them that I would be fine... AAA = peace of mind.
With a 40-minute wait for a tow truck, it is inevitable that at least one of the boys will need to pee. I don't have to wait long. Bob needs to go first. "It's going to overflow," he says as he pisses haphazardly into the Jack in the Box cup. About ten minutes later it's Bill's turn. As I look at the two full cups of piss sitting in my cup holders, complete with bobbing cherries, I think very seriously about what else one can do for $12.50 an hour.
I get on at Western and make it to Highland, (less than 3 miles) it takes me 40 minutes. I keep a hawk like eye on my temperature gauge, which starts to flirt with the red part of hot. Obviously I do not drive a Lexus or a Mercedes, my car is old, as in 1988 old. But I really do not need this. I look ahead at all four lanes of traffic stopped dead in their tracks. I listen to Left, Right and Center on NPR. Arianna Huffington's pompous voice is grating on my nerves more than usual. I turn off the radio and watch as the temperature gauge remains steadily in the red and sweat begins to drip down my brow. I call Bill and Bob's school.
"I am Bill and Bobs nanny and I'm going to be late," I blurt out to the first person that picks up. Maybe it’s my Australian accent or maybe I haven't given enough information. Either way I am not understood. I get put on hold for what seems like eternity. Finally someone picks up again. This time they are speaking to me in Spanish. I do not understand Spanish.
"I speak English, no hablo espanol," which I repeat about fifteen times until they get it. I relay the message again, this time I'm understood. At this point the traffic begins to crawl and my temperature gauge takes a slight reprieve. An hour and a half after I left my apartment I make it to Bill and Bob’s school.
After the long wait, Bill and Bob are at each other’s throats and demanding something to eat. To shut them up, I make a hasty illegal turn into Jack and the Box and charge two chocolate shakes to my credit card. Apart from the slurping, I have relative peace and quiet and make it back onto the 101.
I think that maybe I can keep the car cool by sheer will and we really don't have that far to travel. This technique works for about six minutes, after which point the temperature gauge breaches the red. Very quickly black smoke billows from the engine, an acrid smell wafts through the vents and in the middle lane of the freeway my car promptly gives up the ghost. Bill and Bob are remarkably quiet as two Mexican's jump out of the pick up next to me and roll my piece of scrap metal to the shoulder. I thank the Mexican's, reassuring them that I would be fine... AAA = peace of mind.
With a 40-minute wait for a tow truck, it is inevitable that at least one of the boys will need to pee. I don't have to wait long. Bob needs to go first. "It's going to overflow," he says as he pisses haphazardly into the Jack in the Box cup. About ten minutes later it's Bill's turn. As I look at the two full cups of piss sitting in my cup holders, complete with bobbing cherries, I think very seriously about what else one can do for $12.50 an hour.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
No Sex Before the Big Game
Well here I am, losing my blogging virginity, breaking the blogger seal. I am still a little unsure as to my motivation in this escapade but for now it feels right. It's been exactly two months since I left my cushy government job in Australia and landed here in this cliché-ridden town to be back in the arms of S. I am still without proper job, which has done wonders for my sex life. Today S and I rolled out of bed at midday after fucking all morning. This has been a common occurrence and after coming three times in a morning everything else that the day might have to offer pales into insignificance. Alas, Yoko and John we are not and I do realize that one must leave the bedroom every now and then if they are to make rent. Next week I have an interview for a 'real' job, one that would require me to be up, laundered, coiffed and running out the apartment door at an hour in which birds would start to chirp, if there were any birds in LA. So if I have any chance of landing this gig and beating my current rent woes I need to remind myself pre interview of what any self respecting coach tells his star player "No Sex Before the Big Game".
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