Days of Yore at St. Lucy’s

I thought we could take a little stroll down memory lane-here is an old note I found from dear Lauren to me after I scarred her and Isabel for life senior year (*names have been changed to protect ourselves from more pain):

“Dearest Christ,
I was sitting here in math and I was wondering…why the hell do you own the movie ‘Center Stage’? When did you purchase it? Before or after senior year started? Do you get what I’m asking here?!?!?!?! Please say you bought it before, otherwise there might be irreversible damage to your taste! Remember, Jim-good, Billie Joe-good, Colin-good, *Ryan-grotesquely bad, bad, bad, Dave Grohl-very good, Dave Foley-old, Johnny Depp-very good, Ryan-still bad. Okay I think that’s enough. Maybe you’ve been playing too much ‘Monkey Island’. He’s not really Guybrush, I’m sorry (I think) he will never be Guybrushand he isn’t cool like Guybrush (which is sad). My dear confused Christ if you’re ever in need of… *sobbing* help *sob*.. just come to me *full out weeping*.. and I will *weep* do whatever I can *WEEP*.. we can get through this ‘Center Stage’ crisis… we really can.. there are clinics that can help.

ps-Say it isn’t so so!
pps-NOOOOO!!! *WEEP!*
ppps-Return it for a better movie!!!

A True Party Crashing Tale

Another “Awkward Moments” installment…

In my desperate attempt to enter the adult world and seek employment, I resisted the ever-present urge to just take a nap and “put myself out there” (not like THAT, Lauren). I received an email from my business school from the American Marketing Association concerning a social and networking event that was to be held at one of my favorite LA spots: The Edison. 

I had a quandary, though: the event was scheduled from 5-7PM and I had class back in Claremont at 7PM, which I could not possibly miss, unless in the event of a death. My own.

I haphazardly dressed in my nice business clothes, which were probably the only clean items in my room at this point, and printed out copies of my resume. Off I went to Los Angeles, getting more nervous as I drew near. Only imagining a gay boy re-enacting Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” music video could calm my anxiety (but unfortunately not the profuse sweating). 

I arrived early and stopped by a bakery across the street from The Edison to use their restroom, and out of guilt bought a scone. An incredibly nice chef gave me a free huge Danish, which I had no problem inhaling before heading off to my event.

Completely filled to the brim with pastries, I approached The Edison to see the doors just opening and a large group of people in business attire grouped outside, all animatedly talking to one another. One guy was holding an official-looking box and everyone was greeting one another. I said to one woman, “You guys look like marketers” referring to their business attire, obvious joy at not being stuck in an office, and desire to get smashed out of their minds at 5PM.  She gave me a huge smile and said “You can tell, huh?”

How convenient, I thought. I’ve found my party without having to approach a huge herd like an outcast gazelle on a National Geographic documentary. I found myself talking to everyone in the group and felt genuinely welcomed. They ushered me inside to a reserved booth downstairs. One woman, who was wearing a tiara on account it was her birthday, saw me standing up and exclaimed “Come sit down!!!” while patting the seat next to her. We were all served The Edison’s happy hour special, 35 cent martinis that had the potency of gasoline, while a man began to open up the box he had been carrying.

I found myself talking to everyone during this time and was told that this large group of people all worked for Metro, not noticing that what was being pulled out of the box was an elaborate birthday cake. Candles were lit, and I found myself singing “Happy Birthday” with my newfound “Marketers” to someone named Susannah. Pieces of delicious cake were passed around, and I was forced to accept one by my very welcoming party.

I knew I had to belt it to class soon and began to make my escape. I asked the three of the lovely ladies who I could speak to about employment with Metro. They asked for my information, gave me theirs, and told me that I MUST hang out with them when they go out again. 

Upon arriving back at my car after spending a little less than an hour with my newfound friends, I realized how odd the situation really was. They all seemed confused by my questions about the American Marketing Association and referred to other co-workers as “maybe working in that department”. OH.

I just crashed a party. I just crashed Susannah’s birthday party with all of her Metro co-workers. They didn’t seem to mind, I had fun, and I got a free slice of cake and a martini. (In fact, I had 3 desserts for dinner, 2 of them being free).

I’m just waiting for all of them to get to work tomorrow and say to one another “I didn’t know her…I thought she was with YOU!” 



A Cankle Story

“I keep thinking I’m a grownup, but I’m not” – Victoria Tennant, LA Story


            For the past year I’ve been struggling to convince myself that I am an adult.  I have a B.A. for starters; the next person that comments on my time at PFIZER College instead of Pitzer will come home to find their new kitten freshly steamrollered and nailed to their front door.  Considering how much that college education cost (thank you, daddy!) I’d appreciate people NOT mistaking it for a pharmaceutical company.  I’m working towards an M.B.A.; same threat goes to the people who think I’m playing basketball professionally.  Yes, NBA sounds convincingly similar, but look at me and take a freaking hint, people.  The only things that bounce when I’m on a court are my bodacious hips (admire in envy, Shakira).

            Given the educational status, having my own apartment, and my entry-level luxury car (haha Whitney), I feel I can rightly claim that I am officially an adult.  None of that matters in the free for all that is the gay club.

            One could say I’m a seasoned club goer.  I’ve spent many a night basking in the glow of disco balls, green lasers, and strobe lights.  On one particular night at club TigerHeat (doesn’t it just SCREAM “fabulousity”?), I found myself taking a rare break from dancing to venture to the upstairs balcony of the club.  The stairs in this particular venue are difficult to see in general, and the notion of the existence of gravity had since escaped my thoughts as I rushed forward towards the front of the balcony. 

Distracted by the usual visual over-stimulation typical to gay clubs (i.e. sweaty go-go dancers, disco balls, and music videos on giant plasma screens), I stumbled down not one, but three enormous steps that made up the amphitheatre seating.  Somehow I managed to damage both ankles on the way down, but landed on my ass and pretended that I intended to sit there all along.  My deep concern for looking cool quickly vanished as the incredible pain in my ankles began to set in.  For the first time in a while, I cried in public.  Fortunately the sounds of sobbing were drowned out by blaring music and it appeared as though I was sincerely touched by Gwen Stefani’s refusal to be a “Holla Back Girl”.

             As a result of the toppling event of my life, I woke up the next day unable to walk as my ankles were in excruciating pain and had swollen to sizes that would rival either of J. Lo’s butt cheeks (during which time they were lovingly dubbed ‘cankles’).  I had to either scoot around on my ass or be partially carried in order to accomplish any sort of movement.  X-rays showed that I hadn’t broken any bones but the doctor took that fine opportunity to tell me that bones did not, in fact, float in space as they appeared in x-rays, but were supported by ligaments. Wow.  I’m so glad I spent so much time in college majoring in biological anthropology to be told that my bones are not held in place by magical pixie dust.

            After diagnosing me with bilateral ankle sprains, the doctor pushed some hardcore drugs on me and I was handed a fine set of crutches.  I was also given the choice between wearing two gigantic snowboard boots on my feet, or some snazzy little lace-up ones that resembled boxing gloves.  After being laced up in my “booties” (coming soon to an H&M near you) and grasping my crutches, I attempted to stand up and leave, following behind my friend and business associate, Angel.  Not realizing that the sprain boots restricted my movement and that the crutches adjusted incorrectly for my height, I fell backward in slow-motion onto the examination table resulting in a laughing fit that paralyzed Angel (who left me struggling like a turtle on its back) and almost caused me to wet myself (sooooo close).

            In the end, I did eventually make it out of the doctor’s office but was forced with weeks of having to tell people that I sprained both ankles and couldn’t walk because I fell in a gay club.  Clearly I’m no grown-up, but instead of having scabby knees and Scooby-Doo band-aids, I have Vicodin, aesthetically offensive ankles braces and clumsy metal crutches.  The only thing grown-up about me now is the extent to which I damage myself.