Memoirs Of An Evil Genius

Damn You, Facebook!

ULRICH AND I DID NOT BREAK UP. DO NOT BELIEVE FACEBOOK'S HYPE. AGAIN.

No Place Like Homicidal

OMG.  Argyle is at a bar RIGHT NOW sitting next to FANCY CRANE, and I am out of town and cannot drive to the bar like a lunatic, get all up in her face, and GEEK the FUCK OUT.  I AM SO MAD.  I AM CRAZED.  Seriously. This is NOT FAIR.  The Universe is trying to hurt me, right?  WHAT IS THIS?  No, but I'm really like insane about this.  To be fair, Ulrich and I have been out wine-tasting all day, so my judgment is somewhat impaired, but I AM REALLY PISSED ABOUT THIS.  I will never speak to Argyle again!  HOW DARE SHE MEET FANCY WITHOUT ME!  THAT BITCH!

Okay.  It's okay.  I'm okay now.  I swear.  I'm...going to breathe.  And maybe have more wine.  AND SEETHE.  No, not that last part.  I'm going to practice my Zen breathing and I'm going to be okay.  It's all okay.

IT IS NOT OKAY.  I am losing my mind.  I'm going to cry for a minute, but then I'll be fine.  No!  I'm fine.  Don't worry about me.  *sob*

Actually, there are possibly worries needed for my future, because I may commit a murder and be incarcerated.  Not Argyle -- I talk a good game, but I could never kill her because there would be no one left who knows how to Swiffer without leaving clumps of residue all over the fucking apartment.  (Seriously, why can't I figure this out?  I'm a college graduate, people!)  No, I am going to assassinate A CERTAIN PERSON I WORK WITH*.  I don't want to go into the whole thing because it would just piss me off all over again, and I spent two hours explaining it all to Ulrich yesterday, but the man needs to just die.

Between the passive-aggressive denunciations of my efforts on the job, and the way he a) doesn't listen, b) doesn't communicate, and c) expects me to nevertheless divine exactly what he wants and do it the way he wants it while not listening to me or answering my questions and telling me 'do whatever, I don't care' before then publicly accusing me of screwing things up by not doing what he wanted WHICH HE NEVER TOLD ME OH MY G-D I'M LOSING MY MIND AND I CANNOT STOP SHOUTING WITH WORDS!  He seriously ruined my life like eight times on Friday, to the point where everyone sitting in my cubicle area offered to buy me drinks and/or help hide the body.

I am trying to be calm and sensible about this, believe it or not.  I am trying to remember to forget about work when I'm not at work, but for reals?  This man makes me glad that I may be testifying in court on Monday and unable to go to the office.  Let him figure out how to do shit without me for a day.

Except that he won't.  He'll just wait and give me a passive-aggressive lecture about how I've wasted time by being subpoenaed and now have to really buckle down to make up for it.  That fucker.

Okay.  I need to go and practice more Zen breathing.  Send help.

*I am changing certain indicators in order to preserve a little privacy.  Not that I think THIS PERSON will ever read this?  But loose lips sink ships.  The person sitting in front of me has been leaning over my wall all day long to talk very loudly about my homicidal impulses, and I don't need to add any fuel to the fire.

Zach Braff Needs To Stop Sending Me All These Subpoenas

I thought that might get your attention.  I know Zach and I have had a complicated history, but I haven't been accepting his mail for a while.  We are over, is what I'm saying.  Frankly, I know all these subpoenas aren't coming from him, but it makes me feel better to think that he's noticed I broke up with him back in 2004 or whatever, and that he's trying to get back at me.

Anyway, I've been getting, like, ALL these subpoenas lately!  You may remember all of this business, wherein I saw something horrible happen -- which led directly to this business, wherein I was told to appear in court and had visions of myself sobbing on the witness stand and making the jury swoon with compassion, only to watch those daydreams evaporate when they told me to just come on down to the middle of nowhere and give a deposition instead -- which ULTIMATELY ended in some kind of undisclosed result.  Well, I thought all that stuff was behind me, until six months ago when they called me in to give ANOTHER deposition -- wherein the two attorneys sniped at each other across a battle-scarred conference table while subtly trying to manipulate my emotions for one side or the other.  So THEN I thought it was all behind me for GOOD.  Until...last week.

Yes, folks, I have been served AGAIN.  This time it's an "on-call" subpoena, which means that I might have to appear in court after all, but only MAYBE, and they'll "let me know" in advance if this is so.  I should mention that the day they "might" need me?  IS TOMORROW.  Or Wednesday.  They're not sure.  They're not sure about a lot of things, actually, because not long after I got visited by the prosecutor's process server, I got a call from the defense asking me if I'd received a subpoena yet.  I said I had and he said, "Oh.  Well, I'm going to send you one too.  Where should I fax it?"

WHY DO I NEED TWO SUBPOENAS?  And why would you FAX it?  Listen, although I have now received three or so subpoenas, I am no expert.  But even I recognize this as overkill.  It's not like one extra court order is going to make much of a difference.  Like I'm sitting around, all, "See, I know I've been ordered to appear in court under penalty of law and everything, but Rachael Ray is on!  If they were serious about this, they'd have sent a whole stack of them, right?  I'm just going to turn off my phone and take my TV to the park where no one can find me."  Plus which, if you really think that an excess of subpoenae are going to make or break this deal, don't FAX it, dude.  Like I couldn't give you some bullshit fax number or something.

Incidentally, he did not fax it after all.  So I still only have the one.

Anyway, I called the district attorney this morning when no one called me yesterday, just to make sure I was reading the agreement right, and he informed me that this ought to be a short trial.  He also informed me that I AM THE KEY WITNESS because even the parties involved in the accident don't remember what happened.  But they MIGHT not need me, right?  Our legal system makes no kind of damn sense.  Every time I see The Practice I want to choke on my bitter laughter over how organized they all seem.

INCIDENTALLY.  All of this talk about breaking up with Zach Braff leads me to some important news.  ULRICH AND I ARE STILL TOGETHER.  A couple weeks ago I removed the "in a relationship" banner from my Facebook page, because I felt way too old to be waving my personal life around like a flag on the internet, and decided I wanted some privacy in case weird people from college that I didn't really want to talk to anymore started finding me and asking to be my friend.  Unfortunately, I didn't realize that this would send a notification to EVERYONE I EVER MET with an alarmist "broken heart" icon saying I'm single again suddenly, and I got a whole bunch of concerned e-mails asking "what had happened".

Oh, and to all of you who got in touch, thank you -- it's actually very nice to know that people were so genuinely concerned!  Sorry about the false alarm.  Well, not "sorry", per se, but...you know what I mean.

Anyway, I AM REMOVING IT AGAIN because of EXACTLY what I feared before.  I've started getting weird notices from people I used to know back in the day and I just want some extra privacy.  So I'm removing my "relationship" information tag, which means everyone I know will be getting a broken heart icon, and I want everyone to know that my relationship is FINE.

Okay, thank you.

GASP

That's me, gulping air into my lungs, because I have FINALLY been able to get my head out of work for a few minutes.  Things have seriously been crazy hectic this week.  The shit hit the fan, like, six different ways.  Fortunately, I'm getting to be an expert shit-handler.  That sounded wrong.  But it is actually fairly accurate.

Okay, but for reals?  Why do people have to be assholes?  Like, especially (JUST FOR EXAMPLE) people in public relations.  Isn't their job to RELATE?  To THE PUBLIC?  If I had a dollar for every douchebag PR guy who gave me the runaround this week and/or acted like I was planning to slander them To Catch a Predator style and run some kind of child labor exposé ("We'd love to come down there and film you guys!  Could you make sure your workers don't bathe or put on makeup?  We'll be bringing some shackles -- for atmosphere -- so make sure everyone's aware.  We'd also like them to sing some old spirituals or whatever.  If you have any with broken limbs, let's put them in the front with extra welts on their flesh.") I would have...a whole lot of dollars.

But it's cool.  I got my car situation all straightened out at last, and it's mine, mine, mine!  Ironically, while I was sitting there and waiting for them to process my title transfer, I recognized this guy who was working there at Triple-A.  At first I was confused, because he looked familiar but still seemed so different, and I convinced myself I was wrong.  But then I heard him answer the phone, and sure enough: it was Tony, my old compatriot from the shackles-and-child-laboring pits of Arts-Friendly!  I didn't have time to go over and ask him how he was or what he's up to, because I had to haul ass to the office, but it's kind of nice just to know where he is and that he seems to be doing better than ever now that he's broken free of the chain gang.

In other news, both Tex and Ulrich have officially completed their respective local obligations and have returned to whence they came.  Ulrich is back up north at school, and Tex has gone back down south to his other obligations, so Argyle and I are alone.  Just us and TiVo.  And pie.  (I made pie this weekend.) I don't know what we did in the days before TiVo, though, I swear.  Of course, it's not all roses -- last night I was up till 3am trying to catch up on shows, because I'm going up north myself this weekend and will be missing all my leisurely opportunities to watch at my own convenience.

Okay, speaking of which, I need to get the FUCK out of the office.  RIGHT. NOW.  I will go for a run, I will drive the fifteen or so miles all the way back home to get shit I forgot this morning when I was running out the door, and then I will drive all the way back that and THEN some to go visit my boyfriend.  Toodles, y'all -- have a great and relaxing weekend!
 

You'll Never Guess What Happened

First, the good news: I'm getting a new car!  Yay!  Well, not a NEW car, but one that's new to me.  Now the bad news: I'm getting a new car because...my car is totaled!  Sigh.

I know what you're thinking.  Go ahead, I'm thinking it too.  But seriously, did one of my ancestors, like, crash a jeep into the mummy's tomb?  Because what is with all the bad car mojo?  However, I suppose I should be glad that this time it literally took only a week for me to get all the paperwork signed and the money from my insurance company in the bank.  Last time it took five months and I almost lost my motherfucking mind.  I've actually even picked out a car already, sorta, if the dude selling it would ever call me back.

Related: why is it that I can't get people to sell me their cars?  The first car I bought -- brand new -- I couldn't get the salesman to call me back for two weeks.  I'm all, "Hey, I've got several thousand dollars I'd love to give you!" and he couldn't find time to get in touch?  Second time, the dude resisted my haggling but promised that if the price dropped he'd call.  The price dropped two weeks later and he didn't fucking call.  I found out about BY ACCIDENT because I responded to an ad in the paper for a car that sounded exactly like the one I wanted at the price I was asking.  What a douchebag.

Anyway, I've been driving Tex's enormous SUV for the past few days.  This has been exciting, because I am decidedly not a Big Car person.  In addition to lending me his car with no questions asked, he also cut my hair for free and is helping me take care of getting this new vehicle.  I told Argyle the other day that I was really glad we're going out with her boyfriend.  But then he needs the car tomorrow, so I will have to figure out something else.  "Something else", it turns out, will be that Ulrich will drive me to work at FIVE IN THE MORNING on his way out of town, and pick me up on his way back.  I will spend three hours tomorrow sitting in the Starbucks and reading.

At least I'll have a shot at finishing my book before the year's out.

Mountain High

Sorry for the unintentional vacation, y'all!  It's been a hectic couple of weeks.  I got back from my trip on the 2nd, worked four days, and left for the mountains last Friday so Ulrich and I could celebrate our two-year anniversary.  Hooray!  It was actually a wonderful getaway, and the B&B was amazing, even though our room had a slight...rabbit problem.

Okay, I don't mean there were, like, rabbits chewing on shit or whatever; I mean the room was decorated like Beatrix Potter blew up all over it.  Ceramic rabbits, stuffed rabbits, painted rabbits, ragdoll rabbits.  We picked the room because it had a raised spa tub for two (hooray!) with a view looking out at the woods, and were thoroughly satisfied, but...rabbits, y'all.

We did some wine tasting on Saturday, and that was a shitload of fun, as always.  We made a record haul, too!  We're usually pretty reserved when it comes to the tasting -- like, we'll split one between us, and at most we'll buy like two bottles if we're feeling good -- but we went all the fuck out this time.   I'm serious.  I'm going to have to cancel my cell phone or something, because we spent a fortune on booze and food.

The first place that we stopped at, we were clearly the only ones to show up that day.  The lady kept pouring and pouring, and asking us about ourselves, and we obliged as comfortably as one can be expected while talking about your relationship to a total stranger.  Then she pulls out this weird, unmarked bottle, and goes, "Now we're going to try something!"  She poured us a wine that had only been in the bottle for a week, the first harvest of newly planted grapes, and said that she tasted "fruit and onions".

A) WTF?  B) Worst. Combination. Of flavors.  Ever.  We had some.  It tasted like fruit and onions, all right.  Like fruit and onions BOILED IN FECES.  I am serious, it was the worst thing I have ever had in my mouth, and I once fell off the monkey bars and landed mouth-first in a pile of fucking dirt.  It was like...if someone stuffed a rotting beaver corpse with feta cheese, garlic bulbs, and aluminum shavings, then soaked it in sweat and gasoline, and then liquefied it, you MIGHT approach what we tasted.

That night, we walked into town and had an amazing dinner, followed by some seriously awesome apple pie for dessert.  We started to walk home, when we realized that the sky was so clear up there that you could actually see the Milky Way.  We also realized that there were no street lights on the mile-long twisty mountain road leading back to the B&B, and we stood a good chance of getting mowed down by an SUV and left to die in the obscuring underbrush.  So we called our hostess, and she came to pick us up.  THAT'S why a B&B is the way to go, people.

Anyway, there was more, of course, but this entry is long enough and I have to get back to work.  I only have one more week!  This was a shock to me, because I thought this job was pretty much permanent.  Imagine my surprise when I came in this morning to find out that I'm getting a promotion and starting a new, higher-paying job come the 24th.  Hooray!  My horoscope even told me this would happen, and I totally didn't believe.  Shows how much I know.

Nobody Drives, Nobody Gets Hurt

Okay, seriously, what the hell?  Remember how a driver-less van smashed into our building the other day?  Well, not ten minutes ago, an SUV plowed into the building across the street.  And this comes four days after I watched a car's TIRE COME OFF on the EXPRESSWAY in the MIDDLE OF TRAFFIC.  I don't mean that the hubcap popped off, or that the rubber blew or something; I'm talking about a wheel jumping ship and rolling merrily down the center lane all by itself, while the sports car skids to a sparky halt against a guardrail.  I repeat: what the hell?  There is some bad driving juju in the air, people!  It's like Lindsay Lohan is astral projecting from rehab to take revenge!  I'm afraid to get on the road now! 

In related news, tomorrow is Deposition, Part Deux.  I have to drive downtown, remember in detail an accident I witnessed three years ago, and then drive all the way back into the Valley for work.  The commute alone is going to take at least an hour each way, and I am SO JAZZED ABOUT THE DRIVE I CAN'T EVEN TELL YOU!!!

Also in related news, I have been working through my lunches all week just for that purpose: so I can still leave on time tomorrow.  See, tomorrow is ALSO Ulrich's and my 2nd anniversary!  So we want to go out to dinner together.  Working until 10:30 to make up for my deposition would put a crimp in that plan.  Like, happy anniversary, I got you a typed copy of my testimony in Barton v. City of Los Angeles.  But it won't arrive for another three weeks or so.

Rum for the Money

This past weekend, we decided to make a grand and ambitious excursion around the city, in order to get drunk.  It had been a long time in coming, and as the summer really is entering its final stages, the time was now or never.  So we all piled into Tex's car (that is to say, myself, Tex, Ulrich, and Argyle) and we began Mojito Tour '07!

Stop #1 was The Abbey.  Yes, it kind of sucks now, having become a total tourist trap with escalating prices, but they still make one damn good mojito.   Tex treated us to nachos, and we got to the bottom of our drinks so fast you'd have thought we were expecting to find gold.  Ulrich and I had the coconut mojito, but Tex had the Ultimate, and they were all AMAZING.

Stop #2 was Lola's, where we met up with Glambo and her frenemy, Nutsy.  Now here's the thing: you will NEVER hear me saying that Lola's sucks in any way, because they are the  undisputed champions of the martini, but our bartender?  Kind of sucked, frankly.  I know he has no control over regulation drink size, etc, but the black cherry mojito (sounds good, right?) had, like, a JUNGLE of mint leaves in it.  When Argyle tried to compliment him on the drink anyway, he sassed, "Well, I don't really care how it is, because this is a martini bar."  Excuse the fuck out of us, we'll take it somewhere else.

Somewhere Else turned out to be Ma'Kai in Santa Monica.  My dad took me there for my birthday dinner one year, and I in turn took Ulrich there for his birthday dinner this year.  The food is delicious, the restaurant itself is beautiful, and they make a lot of really good specialty cocktails.  We were unfortunately pressed for time, late for a dinner reservation, and had to CHUG our mojitos.  Already a little bit tipsy, we were really getting buzzed when we left and stumbled across the street to:

i Cugini, a wonderful little Italian place that makes the BEST bellini you will ever have, EVER.  The mojito wasn't too shabby either -- a little tart for my taste, but I'll cut the guy some slack since he was muddling our drinks with a BROKEN FINGER.  We also had to slam these ones down, and then stumbled much more drunkenly back to the car.

Last stop: Za-Zen.  I don't care what they say over there, the restaurant is named Za-Zen.  It used to be, anyway, and then for some unexplained reason they changed the name to "Bite" (which, STUPID) and kept the menu and everything else all exactly the same.  Bite is a dumb-ass name.  Anyway, We had another round of mojitos (raspberry, this time), and Tex treated us all to an incredible sushi dinner.

So I woke up totally, totally hung-over the next day, but it was well worth it.  Seriously.  I'm sorry the summer has to end, but Mojito Tour '07 made it all worthwhile.

And, shit, because this was supposed to be a much more elaborate and entertaining post, that would also include stories of how my glasses are all fucked up, and how I got SERVED WITH ANOTHER SUBPOENA to appear as a witness (relating to that horrible accident I witnessed where the dude lost his face and stuff), but it is closing time and I have to haul ass out of the office to get home in time to get Ulrich in time to make it to a screening of The Bourne Ultimatum, so forgive the rush job, I love you guys, I'll talk to you soon, kisses, bye!

About Face

I am having an issue today.  For the first time in FIVE YEARS, I am having a breakout.  Not "a zit" or "a couple of pimples", but a full-on storm of blemishes on my forehead.  This is not okay, people!  I look like Jupiter!  There is a MOUND an inch above the bridge of my nose, like a third eye, like my forehead has a goiter, and I don't know why!  I have been washing, and drinking lots of water, and using oil-free and non-comedogenic moisturizers, and I have been taking my vitamins and shit, so what's the deal?  Why??

Okay, I'm done complaining.  Life could be a lot worse, but seriously, WTF?

I had a nice, low-key weekend, and Ulrich and I had some delicious wine and watched a shitty movie and I started on another book, so I'm just going to go to my happy place and think about Fancy slapping the shit out of Sheridan on Passions and relax now.  I wish I weren't at work.

Your Frenemies And Neighbors

It was a very busy weekend at Casa de No, y'all.  I don't know if I mentioned this before, but one of our neighbors totally died a couple months back.  I mean, he was old and stuff, so it wasn't tragic and unexpected, but death is always sad.  Unless it's, you know, Hitler.

Anyway, Argyle's friend Glambo needed a place, and on our recommendation she rented the vacant apartment and we helped her move in on Sunday (and I have the muscles, sore and rippling, to prove it).  This should be fun, as it means we'll have a friendly neighbor thirteen seconds away!  A friendly neighbor, with a dishwasher and A/C, like WTF?  Why don't we have that?  No seriously, why don't we?

Thing is, the process has also suddenly pulled us all deeper into the bizarre, Melrose Place-ian world of our apartment complex.  I have never been much of an apartment socializer -- when I was in Chicago, I lived at the end of an adjunct hall and made friends with the two other people who shared the same fate, but we never HUNG OUT or whatever -- in part because I kind of enjoy solitude in my own space (says the guy with three de facto roommates) and worried that Friends With The Neighbors equaled No More Me Time.  I also have ALWAYS resisted the allure of the "OMG, my apartment complex is just like Melrose Place!!!!" claims, because Dolly used to say that ALL THE TIME and it drove me insane.  Like, no, Dolly, your apartment complex is not "like Melrose Place", because I actually WANTED to hear about Melrose Place.

Anyway.  Glambo's appearance has precipitated a lot of strange events.  For one, the presence of Glambo's car does not suit the otherwise pleasant building manager's family much, because they had hitherto been using the space designated for that apartment to store some of their crap.  Now they are extremely unhappy, and seem to have held it against Argyle for getting someone with a car to rent the unit.  It has been subtle, but the signs are there.  The landlord has encouraged them to move their crap to the space immediately across from MY car, making it impossible for me to get in and out every day without folding my car in half like an origami swan and making a sixteen-point turn.

We now have nick-names for nearly everyone in the building, based on their personal proclivities.  To wit:

Phlegmy, aka Old Man Shouts-a-Lot, who has been my mortal enemy since the day he screamed at me through my kitchen window at 10pm for using a hand-held mixer, is suddenly being all hearts and flowers with us.  This would be a confusing turn of events even if he hadn't confided in Argyle that he THINKS MY BOYFRIEND IS "CUTE".

Old Lady Jenkins, who we previously thought possibly the meanest old woman on the planet, given her propensity for ignoring us when we say hello and snapping at us when we offer to assist her in dragging her grocery-laden walker up the front steps, turns out to suffer from hearing loss, poor eyesight, and...um, a lot of wine in the afternoon.  Suddenly she's all friendly, too.  And apparently she and Old Man Phlegmy have a social life we knew nothing about, and go out drinking together (?!?!)

Meg Ryan Moan, (so named for obvious reasons) and her boyfriend Goldpenis (so named for the reaction his aforementioned member elicits in MRM), who still haven't introduced themselves, but have finally quieted down some after Ulrich finally lost all of his patience and started yelling at them out of the bedroom window one night whilst they were in the extremely loud throes of passion.

New York and Cheats On New York, who barely registered on the radar until the other night when Glambo was unpacking some things and overheard a sudden, explosive commotion from directly below her, to the tune of, "So THIS is what goes on while I'm in New York," etc., etc.

Then there are an assortment of oddball recurring characters who come and go without much impact (the Sydneys and Janes of our little MP, if you will), like Antisocial Blonde Lady, Marathon Man (who runs back and forth all day long in the apartment above us), and The Chihuahua Girls, who are actually moving out now, and of course Glambo is living in the apartment formerly occupied by The Creeping Tom, aka Old Man Dies-a-Lot, and we suspect any day now she will become haunted and/or possessed.

We have found ourselves all of a sudden at the epicenter of our apartment building's social life (which, who knew there was one), and I have yet to decide how I feel about it.  All I know is, we're one scar-headed, bewigged, calculating doctor away from our own prime time soap.