Tales from La La Land

As Harper approaches her 1-year birthday, a sad reality is dawning on me – she has one friend.

Maybe her daycare peeps are her friends, but because I’m not friends with their mommies or daddies, they aren’t really her friends.

Unfortunately, for Harper I need to be able to hang with the parents if she’s going to be able to hang with the kid.

Call me selfish, but I’m not hanging out with the guy who tells me, “Yeah, she’s in, like, the 150th percentile for height” when talking about his daughter. I’m also not hanging out with the mom who says, “Yeah, we’re looking into preschools, and OH. MAH. GAWD. It’s sooo competitive.”

This is how I feel about even saying the word daycare before a child is ready.

So for the most part, my friends have remained the same, and most of my friends don’t have babies.

Now that Harper is getting older, play dates would be nice. So I’m putting myself out there, and trying to meet some cool parents.

Because it is awkward as fuck scoping people out at the playground and trying to determine if they fit your criteria.

“What about them?”- Me

“Do you see what he is wearing? That’s his playground attire.” – Laef

“Oooh what about them?” – Me

“That’s the lady we met when we were out on a walk with Harper, and made that racist comment about the people who work at Ralphs.” – Laef

“The fuck?” – Me

There we sat on the grass, perusing all the parents, sizing them up as if we were trying to determine if they were hot enough for a foursome, when in reality all we need is to be able to tolerate them (with clothes on) for like an hour each Saturday and Sunday.

There was another couple sitting near us on the grass, and after talking myself up for 5 minutes, I nervously approached.

“How old is your son?”

“He’ll be 1 tomorrow.”

“Aww. Congrats!!!” (in my head: Fuck I hate myself right now. Am I really engaging in this conversation hoping she’ll think I’m cool enough for her, and potentially give me her number at the end of this bullshit conversation?)

We chatted a little more, and things were looking promising when the Dad said that his 3 year old is way cooler than his 1 year old, and that basically being a parent to a person under the age of 1 sucks, and anyone who says it’s bliss is a liar.

And then the mom got up, and walked to their stroller. A few minutes later the 3-year old came over and said, “Dad, we’re leaving.”

That is totally the parental version of “She’s Just Not That Into You.” Dumped by a 3-year-old.

And so the journey will continue, and I will approach random strangers in the produce aisle hoping to get lucky.

10 Months Old

I’ve written about Valentine’s Day before. We are not big Valentine’s Day people. I don’t remember the last time we exchanged gifts. I tend to think of it as sort of a sham the same way I think of Baby Registries and Wedding planning. I don’t feel any less loved if I don’t get roses on February 14.

Also, I might have gotten a ticket for “running a red light” in Santa Monica. I disagree whole heartedly with this ticket as there would not have been ample time for me to stop at the yellow without slamming on my breaks. Unfortunately, whole heartedly doesn’t mean shit – not even during Valentine’s month – in the LA court system and I had to pay … $480 FUCKING DOLLARS.

I won’t go into the pain that writing this check caused me. The stroller I registered for is less than this. The camera I want so that I can start documenting our lives without a cell phone camera is about the same price. I could have decorated the entire nursery for this much. It stabbed me in the heart like you wouldn’t believe.

But, as Laef said, “It’s over. It’s done. And it means we are definitely not doing Valentine’s this month.”

However, yesterday I was killing time at the bookstore on campus and I stumbled upon the “Valentine’s Day” table. There are books about hot sex and romantic dates. There are pink and red stuffed animals. Chocolates.

And coupon books.

Tons of coupon books.

You know the sort of thing that people used to make for free on their home computer with little coupons that said, “A blow job whenever you want”?

Now the industry has taken that phenomenon and stolen it for itself. To quote Matt Damon, I dropped $5.99 on a book of coupons that I could have gotten for 25 cents in toner ink at home.

I flipped through the coupon book and gave 200 side eyes at some of the shit written: “Kiss your partner so passionately that you both drop to your knees.”

Dude. If Laef and I even attempted that, we would bust up laughing immediately.

“Have your partner cook dinner for you.”

Um, this one is not that bad, actually.

“Spend an entire evening in the dark. Take a bath, eat dinner and watch a movie. All by candle light.”

No fucking way. Mostly because Laef is 8′ 2″ tall and we have tried to take a bath together once, and aside from the fact that he barely fits in the tub, we end up just staring at each other freezing cold because the water is below our entire bodies.

“Re-inact your first date.”

Doble. However, our first date was in Hawaii. But, I figure we could go to Manhattan Beach, close our eyes and pretend it is Hawaii. I will make Laef unhook my bra with one hand. No, seriously. He did that. And thought he was really awesome. I am amazed that we are married after that incident.

Anyway, there were a handful of coupons in the book, and it got me thinking.

Laef and I have exactly 4 months left of just him and I. Four months of the life we’ve known for 6 years. Four months of being able to do whatever we want, when we want, with no interruptions (this does not include making out until we fall to our knees). When Laef has a day off from work we struggle to come up with something to do together. We usually end up sitting around the house watching movies and taking naps.

I bought the coupon book and told Laef that we were going to pick out some of the ideas that were reasonable (a picnic, weekend getaway, him cooking me dinner) and do them. And then I am going to blog about them.

Everything was fine until I mentioned him cooking dinner and me filming it. I thought it would be funny. He was worried about his hair.

Fine. No filming.

He nodded yes, but I think he has some trepidations about us becoming “Valentine’s” people.

Will keep you posted on how we do. And, I promise: NO MAKE OUT OR BLOW JOB STORIES.

The weather in LA has been bullshit.

Laef and I had planned to spend our last weekend in Manhattan Beach lounging around, swimming in the ocean, soakin’ up some rays and bidding farewell to our home of the last 3 years. Unfortunately, not only was it cloudy last weekend, it also rained on Sunday. There is a silver lining to the whole thing, however. It forced us to stay in and pack up most of our belongings. We are now basically ready to load the U-Haul on Saturday morning without having to spend much time packing.

To date, the saddest part of the whole moving process was watching a young family come by our house to buy our beloved Weber Grill. We are not allowed to have a bbq at our new place, which is common practice for apartment buildings. A little piece of me died inside watching them wheel it down the driveway. What’s summertime without a little smell of coal and lighter fluid? What’s summertime without watching Laef grill a peach and proclaim, “Dessert time!” What’s summertime without hitting up Whole Foods with Nick Dozier to buy giant scallops and fresh sea bass to grill while drinking beers? What’s summertime without a Weber Grill?

As you can see, I’m taking it well.

Anyway, today the sun finally came out. It’s a gorgeous day in LA. A perfect summer day for sitting behind a desk in an office with no windows. As I drove into work this morning I heard the forecast for the week: Hot today, hotter tomorrow and triple digits by the weekend.

Are you fucking kidding me? I mean, I am all for summer and the sun. But, moving boxes up and down stairs in triple degree weather does not seem like a fun activity. I immediately think of my good pal, Erin, who has graciously offered to help us move. Erin is hot when it’s 45 degrees. Erin puts ice packs on her head and neck while sitting motionless on the couch during summer days. Erin moving around with heavy objects during a heatwave makes my life. I am currently seeing if I can have a Japanese Ice Suit FedExed to LA by Friday. My 8 ball tells me outcome not so good, so maybe we’ll have to go with Plan B.

Despite the weather forecast, we are beyond excited to be moving. We are already getting familiar with our new neighborhood by starting tennis lessons at a Rec Center down the street from our new place. Last night was the first lesson, and it was not quite what I was expecting. For starters, I was expecting an Andy Roddick lookalike as our instructor. Nope. Our instructor had dreadlocks, and might have been 20 years older than Andy. Secondly, I thought there’d be some old people in the class. Not so. I am probably the oldest person in the class. Which isn’t as bad as Laef’s dilemma: HE IS THE ONLY BOY IN THE CLASS. Yes, it’s 7 girls and one tall ass dude shanking balls all over the Barrington Rec Center.

It. Is. Fucking. Priceless.

More blogs to come on tennis lessons. Since we pretty much learned how to hold the racket, pick up balls and ran 2 laps yesterday, there’s not too much to report on Class 1. I However, I think some good material will be coming.

Maybe summer is starting to look up after all.

We are now in our last month of beach living and trying to enjoy every second of it. Unfortunately, June Gloom is not cooperating with our desire to spend every waking second at the beach. Couple that with the fact that it took me 1 hour, 10 minutes to make the 12 mile drive home from work yesterday, and we are actually really looking forward to moving closer to UCLA.

Because it is summer, and UCLA student-athletes are not around much, Laef had this entire week off. I believe he spent Monday on the couch. I also believe that he has not worn underwear all week, but I try not to ask too many questions. However, I did shed a small tear when I called him on Tuesday and he was outside in our storage shed organizing things to prepare for the move. I shed 6 more tears when I came home and saw the trash cans filled to the brim with random shit that he had finally decided we no longer needed to keep.

Feeling super accomplished after Tuesday’s events, my sources (Sanch) tell me that Wednesday was spent on the couch. On Thursday, Laef had to stop by work for something, so he decided that while he was showered and wearing underwear, he would go look at some apartments.

We had a short list of top choices near UCLA.

We are seeing one of these places on Sunday, but he decided to do a drive by to check out the area. He liked it, and across the street from the apartment complex was another building that had a for rent sign, so he called the number. Apparently, a 70-ish year old lady answered and hit Laef with a barrage of questions. Are you alone? Is it you and your friend? Oh, it’s your wife? Do you want to wait for you wife?

Eventually Laef cut her off to let her know that he wanted to see the place, and also tell her we have a cat so if that’s a deal breaker, no need to waste her time.

Laef: “We have a cat. Is that OK?”

Cat-Eater: “Um, oh. Does it run around outside?”

Laef: “No. He stays inside.”

Cat-Eater: “Do you have to bring it with you?”

No, bitch. We are leaving Sanch in Manhattan Beach to become a surfer dude and pay his own rent.

Besides, who would play Cribbage with Laef if we abandoned The Sanch?

It only got better once Laef was actually able to get inside to see the place. When she showed Laef the bathroom she said, “A perfect place for your kitty”.

So, yeah, whatever that means.

During the day, I called on another place that was in a perfect location. I asked the guy if it was available right now because we won’t be ready to move until July. He said yes. I said I’d keep an eye on it, and if it’s still vacant when we’re ready to move, I will call him back.

Creepy Landlord/Hustler: “Oh, you’ll watch it like Wall Street, heh?”

Me: ….

CL/H: “Why don’t you pull the trigger. Put a deposit.  I’ll hold it for you.”

Me: “Ihavetogobye!”

It’s not so much what he said, it’s how he said it. I pictured him in a wife-beater with mad amounts of black chest hair protruding and a gold Rolex that he picked up on Canal Street. He was super pushy wanting to get confirmation without us having seen the place or met him.

In a sense, we are interviewing landlords as much as they are seeking good tenants. I don’t want to be hustling with my landlord every month or worried that The Sanch’s mug will end up on a milk carton. But, there are a TON of vacancies all over the place and it seems with the economy the way it is, landlords want to find people to fill those empty apartments. So much so that they’re willing to consider a cat even though it’s obvious they hate cats.

After meeting with creepy lady who hates cats, Laef went to our top choice to check it out. I called him later to get the scoop and see if he liked it.

Me: “What did you think?”

Laef: “It doesn’t have a shower.”

Me: “Say what?”

Laef: “It only has a bath.”

Me: “How? What? I don’t ….”

Laef: “You like baths.”

Me: “Not in the morning at 6:30 when I have 5 minutes…OK, we are not even having this conversation. I’m not taking baths everyday. Who takes  a bath?”

As my friend Erin said, Ernie takes a bath. That is who takes a bath.

Or Kate Winslet.

So, yeah. I’m not a Muppet, and therefore we are not moving to a place without a shower.

To Be Continued.

Today I’m spending the day over at Aiming Low writing about how we don’t have our marriage license yet even though it was supposed to be a fool-proof process. Long story short, we’re going to need to make another trip to the LA courthouse and I think I’d rather spend the day at the OBGYN.

Seriously.

So, we will add “going to the courthouse” to our insanely long list of shit to do.

I don’t know what is going on lately, but I am struggling to keep my head above water. I have written about this in the past – how it feels like we always have things to do, places to go, lunches to make, laundry to fold.

Nothing has changed except that I’m just pretty much exhausted all the time right now. I am having an exceptionally hard time making myself get out of bed for work. There’s a lane closed on the 405 right now and it has made the commute that much more sucky.

I am so tired of getting home at 7 p.m. when I clock out at 5:30 p.m. It is starting to depress and wear me down.

The truth of the matter is that, I want to be home. I wish I could be a stay at home wife. Not because I don’t have professional dreams and aspirations, but because I’m passionate about our home, our lives, our well being and our quality of life.

I wish I could come home from work and tell myself that the world really won’t end if I don’t make something for dinner. Or that if Laef doesn’t do the dishes, nothing bad will happen.

But, I am anal about taking care of us. I can’t have the house be messy. I can’t have laundry sitting out. And, I REALLY can’t have dishes everywhere.

So I put this pressure on myself to grind through all of the things that need to be done AFTER a long day of work.

It’s exhausting.

I really need to aim a LOT lower and just chill the fuck out.

Well, my sister has returned to LA to run the half marathon with me this Sunday. I am not sure if you remember her last stay, but let’s just say that the bruises from a long night of drinking have just now healed. She is recently single, which means she is 43 going on 21. For as awesome as I always thought I was, I can not keep up with her in her current state.

I picked her up at LAX last night, and thankfully she did not smell of tequila. I knew we’d be off to a better start. We made a quick stop at Whole Foods and Pinkberry before heading home.

She came in like a hurricane, leaving The Sanch speechless and scared. For starters, she plopped all of her belongings in the middle of the floor, made a quick assessment of the house, broke a glass, let the cat get out (twice) and took over the lone computer in the house. All while making me watch Private Practice.

Once The Sanch realized that my sister was no maverick, and that she would certainly make many more mistakes that would lead to his escape, he decided to follow her all over. Well, it was part her inability to not close doors fast enough, and part the shredded beef she gave him from her Whole Foods spread. So, he cuddled with her all night and slept in the bed with her.

Prior to falling asleep, she went ballistic on her blackberry, texting and talking on the phone like a little school girl. I was simply in awe of her ability to maintain such a high level of energy at 10 p.m.

It seems she wakes up with the shakes from missing her blackberry all night because I was awoken at 6:30 a.m. to the sound of her voice on the phone. She was laughing and giggling and carrying on a full conversation. 1. Who talks on the phone at 6:30 a.m.? 2. Who talks on the phone for a half hour at 6:30 a.m.? My brain cells don’t even know the meaning of life until I have a shower and coffee.

Anyway, I am now at work and have gotten the following texts from the Zoo that used to be my sister.

8:50 a.m.: Where’s your iron?
8:54 a.m.: Any hair product stuff? Forgot mine.
9:57 a.m.: Sanch is psychotic. He is under the sink and won’t come out. He is trying to escape out of the hole under there. OK. He is fine now.
10:08 a.m.: I just fell off the back step out to the back yard. There’s a weird dog out there. Sanch ran out.
10:12 a.m.: Is gorgeous out. Heading to coffee then the beach!
(BTW, I sure did love getting that one)
11:12 a.m.: Where is your sunscreen?
11:56 a.m.: My nice vaca buzz just burst by a $40 ticket for not curbing my wheels??!! WTF??
12:10 a.m.: Back at home with Sanch.

I am nervous about what the next few hours will bring. I hope she doesn’t fall, break a glass or kill my cat. Oh wait. She’s pretty much already done all that.

The record needs to show that I am no longer the biggest cluster to come out of my mother.

XO

I spent my very first day of Christmas break at the California DMV. I have lived in California for two years, but had not switched to California plates or drivers license because my registration was good through October 2008. Too bad the CA DMV didn’t care that my registration was good through 2008 and made me pay for the two years I was already here. Plus the upcoming two.

Yeah. It was a lot. Merry Effin’ Christmas.

My car was essentially my last remaining daily reminder of Oregon. I mean, I do talk to my peeps and check their Facebook status’ to see how fucking cold it is up there and who got drunk at Rennies recently, but for the most part, I have completed my two-year process of accepting that I really don’t live there anymore.

Maybe that sounds a bit dramatic, but I moved to Oregon from California in 1994, went to college, got a job, made the best friends in the world, and most importantly, found myself. Yes, I was lost for a while. Wandering the streets of break ups, table dancing, jager bombs, strip clubs and bad overall decisions.

I still make mistakes. But, I give myself a break more often now than I used to. I’ve sort of accepted the cluster that I am. I moved there at 19 and left at 33, a completely different person. So, I have some pretty fond memories.

Rather that pour one out for my peeps, I’ve compiled a top-10 list of my most favorite Oregon things.

1. Autzen Stadium Press Box
It never mattered how cold it was. Me and my peeps had the best seats (indoors) to some of the best games in Oregon history. And, there was always extra beer in Coach Bellotti’s family suite after the game.

2. Rennies
A LOT of shit went down in this place. It would sicken me to add up all of my tabs, but this was our Cheers. We used to go at least four nights per week. We never had to wait in line and had backdoor access. I think I once put $1 in the video poker machine and won $100. Needless to say, aside from work and my apartment, this was my third home.

3. Amy and Andrew’s House
Whether I was watching Alias with Amy, sneaking onto their couch at 3 a.m. or barbecuing in their back yard, it was always the best time ever. Maybe it’s because Amy is the second coming of Martha Stewart, so her parties always boasted some wicked hors d’oeuvres. We usually ended up at their place after the bars because they had the best left overs. Of course, Rob would read and the rest of us would…who knows.

4. Burrito Boy.
There are no words to describe a Chicken Wet Burrito and how good it is. I have never been able to find anything that could even come close.

5. The Cas Center, a.k.a., my first real job.
My favorite time of year is that first day of spring when I’d come to work and notice the white lines on the grass fields out front. That signified the start of spring football and the upcoming fall. Best. Times. Ever. And, I rolled in at like 9:30 a.m. everyday. How is that even real?

6. Max’s Guinness/Dart Night
Somehow, Max’s Guinness was always the smoothest and most delicious. Or maybe it was because Max’s was the Wednesday spot for me, Chris, Jerry and Rob to talk about…um, well, nothing important really. Or play darts. Jerry and Rob were “The Cool Guys” and Chris and I were “The Dirty Sanchez’”. I promise I grew up at some point.

7. Annual Camping Trips
Never boring. These trips started with just the crew and steadily grew over the years. There are too many stories to try and tell about the camping trips. But, thanks to Amy and Jerry, we ate and drank really well. We also camped, rain or shine.

8. The Juice
This was the first store in Eugene that one could buy Seven jeans and other super fun designer clothes. The best part? NO sales tax. Oh, how I miss shopping in Oregon.

8. Sunday TV day at Jerry’s
Over the years we all got together at Jerry’s on Sunday nights. Mostly it was to watch HBO shows – Sex in the City, Six Feet Under, etc., but we also grilled delicious food and read Jerry’s girly magazines. Even Belle came once she was born (she didn’t read the girly magazines though).

9. Running Trails
I really did take for granted how running-friendly Eugene is. Much less exhaust from cars and more areas designated for runners. Now, I try to brave the streets around UCLA and it’s somewhat dicey. And, not nearly as gorgeous.

10. Eugene Emeralds Beer Garden

Seeing as their is no professional team in Eugene, it was always fun to pretend we were at a major league game by going to watch the Ems and sit in the beer garden. There’s nothing like summer in Eugene.

As soon as plane tickets don’t cost 827,000 dollars and the snow goes away, I’ll be up for a visit!

Heart!

Holler Friday, Bitches!

I’m totally going to steal a recent blog format from my girl Brittany and do a little list. Lately, I’ve been neglecting the blog because there seems to be too much going on with the holidays. For example, the other day I was IMing and texting five different people at one time to discuss New Year’s Eve plans, while also shopping online for my future family-in-law, while simultaneously helping stressed out grad students print their 800-page theses two minutes before they had to present them.

I’m sure during the winter break I will acquire lots of great ideas, and, as Ben suggested, maybe even live-blog with him on New Years Eve (assuming I don’t pass out at 8:30 p.m.).

The list is perfect because there have been things on my mind to blog about, but none of them inspire me enough to dedicate an entire post.

1. I have grown accustomed to LA traffic. I finally decided that if it’s sunny in November, I will no longer complain about how long it takes to get to and from work. HOWEVER, this particular phenomenon has overcome me lately. See, I prefer to leave a car length (OK, maybe half a car length) between myself and whatever Lexus SUV with eight Obama stickers is in front of me. Apparently, this is code for BMW SUV to think, “Hey! Room for me! I’m squeezing in!” NO, you fuckbag! There is not room for you. I’m slowly starting to come to grips with the fact that, in LA, there is never space between you and any cars and people will actually speed up to NOT let you in and by the time you get home, you are ready to kill a kitten (not Sanch, but maybe someone else’s).

2. Top Chef. Is anyone watching this? To me, it’s a little down this year. Maybe it will pick up, but I’m not feeling that the talent is as high as it used to be. There are only a couple of chefs that seem like they know what they’re doing. Then there’s this guy, who thinks he’s good, but is always so flustered and worried about hair. Plus, he works at the Dilido Beach Club. Dude. I don’t care what you say, you work at the Dildo Club. Period. Of course, I’m a sucker and like Fabio. I might have to fight Padma though, because she’s always giggling around him like a school girl.

3. I won’t even start on Laurie’s lips on Real Housewives of Orange County or how Vicki is a complete whack job because I’m pretty sure all of two readers of this blog watch that show.

4. After a demoralizing 68 age score on the Wii, I recently scored a 24. That’s more like it.

5. Half-marathon training is kicking ass. I can’t believe I’m actually doing it. My sister got me new running shoes and I swear Nike has steroids running through its laces. Or they were just a nice upgrade from the pair that I had been wearing for four years and made my knees feel 80. I did my longest run of the training – a five-miler that took me through Manhattan Beach, Hermosa Beach and into Redondo Beach. I felt kinda cool. Until mile five. When I could no longer feel my legs. Alas, Dave Matthews pulled me through. Heart!

TGIF!!

UPDATE: I can’t believe I forgot to mention the totally fucking annoying Denny/Izzy bullshit on Grey’s. I can not wrap my head around this, nor do I want to. Ick. Dumb. Hates it. And, I also hated the wind/vent/kiss thing.

Laef and I headed south to visit Ben and Annett for the weekend. Cal played USC so we went more to offer Ben moral support. Except that it was me who needed moral support as Oregon tried about 1,000 different ways to lose to Stanford.

Here’s a recap of how the weekend went.

We ate about 100 taquitos. Why are such things so delicious?

Annett and I talked about really important topics: strapless dresses, side boobs, gray hairs, vodka and how amazing it is that you can buy egg rolls with sweet and sour sauce already mixed in!

Today was one of those days that I woke up feeling fine. And, then, about an hour later, my tummy reminded me about the taquitos and vodka and was not happy. I napped it off while my fantasy team sucked ass. Again.

When we got home, we were surprised that Sanchez did not come running to the door to greet us. We call it greeting us, he calls it trying to get the fuck outside. The house looked like a hurricane came through as he was clearly none to pleased with the abandonment. Well, he somehow got locked inside the bathroom while doing something naughty. So, who knows how long he was in there, but by the looks of it, it was a while.

Me: “See, this is what we call karma. If you are going to be in here tearing up the toilet paper, the door may close on you and keep you from your food.”

Sanchez: “I hate you and I wish I was dead!”

Me: “You’re being dramatic. Only real kids say that. You’re a kitten.”

Sanchez: “You don’t even love me! You left me overnight!”

Me: “What is wrong with you? Hasn’t daddy taught you that you should embrace free time? Look at kitty porn or whatever. Jump on the counter. I don’t know, do shit you can’t normally do.”

Sanchez: “Um. Helllo. That’s what I was trying to do. And then that karma thing you said happened.”

While I was teaching Sanch the ways of the world, Laef was once again fixing my car. It didn’t pass the smog check (fuck California) and they mentioned a hose that needed to be replaced. We looked online and these types of repairs run upwards of $600. But, sure enough, my mavericky fiance crawled up under there, found the hose and fixed it for $34.99.

Now if Eli Manning can just figure out a way to throw a touchdown pass it will be the perfect weekend.

Let me tell you how my weekend started.

My boss was on a plane to France on Friday, so I decided to be insubordinate and leave at 4:30 p.m. I call Laef and tell him. He informs me that he also leaving. We park in different parking garages at UCLA and his is much closer to the 405 so I say, “See you at home.”

Much to my surprise, I am two cars behind Laef at a stoplight near our house in Manhattan Beach. I’m in the far right lane, which is a right-turn only lane. My plan is to get over to the left so I call Laef.

Me: “Hi! Look over to your right!”
Laef: “Hi! I’m not letting you in.”
Me: “What the fuck. Let me in!”

At this point, the light turns green and we start moving towards the intersection. I am on my cell phone (with no head set, which is illegal in California now) screaming to Laef to let me over. He does not oblige. Thinks he’s funny.

So, what do I do? I cut him off in the middle of the intersection, still on my phone.

I promptly get pulled over by the cop that is sitting in the Chevron parking lot watching for assholes who cut over at that intersection.

Right before he flashed his lights (which, for Laef were flashing dollar signs), I see him, and throw my phone over my shoulder so I am not caught on the phone.

Now, it should be noted that I have never in my life gotten pulled over and NOT gotten a ticket. And, it started on day one. I got my license on my birthday in 1990. The very next day, I picked up my friend Cayla for school. I rolled through a light by her house and got pulled over. Ticket. Two weeks later, I got pulled over for speeding. It was a never-ending battle for me.

Anyway, he asks me why I got pulled over. And let me point out that I am not cool under pressure. When I get pulled over I’m not nervous like I was simply talking on my cell phone. I’m nervous like there’s a pound of pot and crack pipes in my trunk.

So, not wanting to divulge too much I quickly run through the following in my head:

1. The bullshit move in the middle of the intersection
2. My cell phone
3. Oregon plates
4. Oregon drivers license
5. I have not put my new insurance cards in my glove box (I realize this while he is standing over me).

At this point, I’m thinking of how I will explain to Laef that we owe $1,000 in traffic violations.

Cop: “Where do you work?”
Me: “um. uh. er. UCLA.”
Cop: “Can you step back in the car please?” (I had to get out to get my wallet out of my purse, which was in the trunk).
Me: … (thinking…why is he so business like?)
Cop: “Why do you have Oregon plates?”
Me: “I just moved here.”
Cop: “OK. How about if I just do a fix-it ticket?”
Me: “k.”
Cop: “Why haven’t you done it yet?”
Me: “Honestly? Because I’m getting married and I don’t want to make two trips to the DMV to change my name and everything.”
Cop: Laughs.
Me: Oh Thank God.
Cop: “OK…you can go. Wait. You’re not getting married in two years are you?!”
Me: “No, it’s soon! Promise!”

I come home and am desperately trying to keep a straight face and tell Laef that I got like six tickets. But, I couldn’t because I was giggling so hard at the fact that I got pulled over cutting off my boyfriend, who I was talking to on the phone because he wouldn’t let me over!!