Heather Toshiko

In an overwhelming act of ennui, I went online and got ordained by the Universal Life Church. I am now a legal Reverend. From now on, please refer to me as Reverend Heather. I will totally perform gay marriages now that California has made them legal. I’ll marry the breeders too.

Shalom,

Reverend Heather

he older I get, the more I get to know myself. Remember when you were a teenager and you started drinking? Remember how sick you were until you figured out which alcohols didn’t agree with you, how much you had to eat beforehand, and how much was too much? It was all a part of getting to know yourself and your body. As a female, there’s a second rite du passage that we must endure. After learning to manage our alcohol, we have to learn to manage our hormones.

About eight years ago, I had an ovarian cyst. They are fairly common, and caused by ovulation. The “cure” for these cysts is to temporarily halt ovulation thus shrinking the cysts. So, to halt ovulation, I was placed on birth control pills for a period of three months. I had never been on the pill before, and I had never chemically altered my hormones before. Wow! What a rollercoaster. I was a bitchy, edgy, crying, paranoid nut. I broke up with my boyfriend about 5 times a day, and at some point he said one of the funniest things he’s ever uttered “Heather, you’re lucky I know this is chemically induced because I don’t date crazy.” That was one of the first times I started to learn what hormones can do to me.

Fast forward to today. About twice a year I have a particularly bad bout of PMS. I usually figure it out when I catch myself snapping at a total stranger or picking a fight with the biggest, ugliest person in a bar. Sometimes, I don’t realize that I’m hormonal until it’s too late and I’m surrounded by other humans. Today was one of those days.

Days off are a sporadic treat for me, and today I decided to spend a peaceful, leisurely Sunday afternoon having lunch and shopping at the Irvine Spectrum. After my favorite bruschetta salad, I headed to some chick store that KEEPER had told me about. I picked out seven blouses and headed to the fitting room. When I got there, a five foot ninety-eight pound bag of Asian twat told me that I could only take six items into the fitting room. Ok, I have a big problem when people try to enforce rules that have absolutely no logical basis. The number of items taken into a fitting room does not have any effect on whether or not the items can or cannot be shoplifted. In a properly run fitting room, the attendant will note the number of items that went in, and then count them when they come out. If the number matches, then no items have been stolen. Why the fuck does it matter how many items are taken in so long as they’re accounted for? It infuriates me to have to “choose” which ones to leave out, and then have to try on the first items, re-dress myself, leave the fitting room, swap out the items I’ve tried on, then go back it and undress again. Fuck that! I told HELLO KITTY that I wasn’t about to do all that and that she needed to leave the one extra top hanging on the door so I didn’t have to go and get it. She advised me that she had to hold it up by her little rolling rack of power and that I couldn’t have it. That’s pretty much when I lost my shit. I started telling her that she was in the rear of the store and thus made it pretty difficult for me to make a mad shoplifting dash for the front door. Further, I explained that having seven versus six items in the room didn’t make it more likely that I’d steal one. Finally, I explained that if she was worth the $5 an hour she was being paid, that she should just pay attention to how many items I brought out so that she could be sure that item number seven wasn’t stuffed in my purse. I also asked if she’d ever made an independent decision in her life that wasn’t governed by her father, who bound her feet and touched her inappropriately, or her store manager. The worst part? I really wanted to see her cry and when she didn’t I got even more pissed.

As I left the store feeling pissed and irritable I had an epiphany. It was one of those “oh shit” moments like when you realize you’ve been talking trash about someone and they’re standing right behind you. I realized at that moment that I was knee deep in a bad case of PMS and there were literally hundreds of people between me and my car. Fuck.

Since the point of my visit was to go to Anthropologie, I decided to hit that store and then go home. I walked there quickly, head down, avoiding eye contact, and potential irritation. I entered the store, and started looking at the overpriced clothes and random candles and shit. Towards the back, there was a small room with sale items in it. I decided to check it out, and as I stepped inside, I head a piercing yap. I looked down, and saw a cute little pocket dog on a leash. The owner was a middle aged bitch who was greedily elbowing her way around the sale rack in an effort to discourage anyone else from shopping the same rack. I usually find a way to intentionally crowd these types of shoppers because they are fucking obnoxious, but I was trying really hard to be nice so I went to another rack. That’s when the stupid little dog started yapping. It wasn’t that cute little puppy yap, it was an earsplitting, high pitched, continuous yap that made me want to climb the walls. I assumed that she’d control the little fucker or take it outside, but she kept on elbowing her way through the racks and ignoring the dog. That’s pretty much when I lost my shit. Again. I told her that the dog was too damn loud and that she should have left him in her trunk where he belonged. Then, I told her that she shouldn’t be carrying a $1500 handbag and bogarting the sale rack at the same time. Finally, I told her that it smelled like her dog shit himself, then I went to look at scented candles and pajamas.

Right around the jewelry section I realized that I’d had another PMS meltdown. I shamefully hung my head and rushed for the door. I was now on the opposite side of the mall from my car, it was hot, I was sweating, and I needed to get away from all the potential targets surrounding me.

I started hustling through the crowds, staying close to the wall in an effort to avoid human contact. I made it all the way to the Cheesecake Factory when some fatass and his ugly wife rounded the corner with their stroller and practically knocked me down. Had they politely apologized, I would have made it out of the Spectrum without another incident, but when George Lopez and Camryn Mannehim didn’t even acknowledge that they had almost plowed me down, well…that’s pretty much when I lost my shit. I’m ashamed to say that I called him a fatass douchebag in front of his kid.

Ah, fuck ‘em.

I made it back to my car without incident, and I’ve been hibernating in my house in an effort to avoid human contact until I can behave like a normal human being. I’m not answering the phone, and I’m not instant messaging. Can’t be too careful. If you need to talk to me, send an email or use the bat signal until my PMS has passed.

Most Californian’s have a favorite Mexican food place. For some, (usually us Crackers) it’s a crappy chain restaurant, but for many it is a hole in the wall or a Mom and Pop place. Almost everyone knows that for Mexican fast food there’s Tito’s Tacos in Culver City, or Taco Del Rio in City of Industry. Finding a sit-down restaurant is a little harder.

A few years ago, Sean moved to San Clemente with his new girlfriend. For those who are keeping score, this is the ONLY girlfriend of his that I have ever liked. She is awesome, and if they ever split up, we’re keeping HER. Anyway, there are a few good Mexican places in San Clemente, but one has become my favorite. El Mariachi is freakin’ awesome. Sean took me there a few years ago, and now whenever I get a craving for a carnitas chimi, really good salsa and a mojito, I head down to San Clemente.

After my two month trip from hell, I was craving some California-Mexican food, since I was sick of New Mexican. Sean, his girlfriend, KEEPER, and I headed to El Mariachi. We like to sit outside on the patio when weather permits, and since it was nice out, we found a booth in the fresh air. We were seated across from a table of 5 middle-age plus women in JC (Penny) Couture. As we were reading our menus (pretending that we hadn’t already mentally ordered in the parking lot) I heard a louder than normal voice coming from the Golden Girl’s table. I looked over, and all of the women were holding hands and one was praying, loudly. Minutes later, I looked over, and she was still praying. Total prayer time was probably about 4 minutes. What the hell?

So here’s my issue. Although I believe that organized religion is probably the most offensive thing to God, I also believe in every person’s right to worship as they choose so long as they don’t try to force their beliefs on others. Loudly preaching a 4 minute sermonesque prayer in affordable pant-suits is not my idea of worshiping politely in a public place. I have some very close friends who are faithful. Whenever they eat, they pray before the meal. Regardless of where we are, they discreetly hold hands UNDER the table and bow their heads in SILENT prayer. They do not ask others to join them, or ask others at the table to be quiet while they pray. If you aren’t paying attention, you wouldn’t even notice they’re doing it. In my opinion, this is the appropriate way to worship in a secular public place. A 4 minute vagina monologue is not. Further, the prayer wasn’t even a prayer of thanks. READY-TO-WEAR was pontificating about how they should reflect on trying to be better people, about how they give to others, and some other crap that I think involved sacrificing fetal pigs. KEEPER and I kept looking at each other like we were waiting for someone to tell us we were being punk’d.

Minutes later, they got their check and left. They were praying at the END of the meal. Who does that? It was at that point that I realized that this was not a mealtime prayer so much as a public display of reflection. Perhaps I’m overreacting, perhaps I’m being a busybody, perhaps I’m going to hell, but I was offended. As they walked to the adjacent parking lot, I called “I worship Satan,” and then settled in to enjoy my mojito. Good times.

I’ve been home for 4 days now. In those four days, I’ve noticed some of the things that I missed while I was gone but totally took for granted while I was home.

I’ve missed…

-My Mommy and Daddy and Butthead

-Jack FM and STAR 98.7

-People who DON’T say hi to strangers when they pass in the store

-People who drive OVER the speed limit

-MAC stores

-Panera, Corner Bakery, Natraj’s Tandoori, Alberto’s, El Torito, In-N-Out Burger and Del Taco chicken ceasar salads.

-HUMIDITY!!!

-The ocean

-HDTV and TiVo

-My bed and feather-free pillows

-Sea level

I’m also thrilled to see people driving luxury cars rather than pick-up trucks, and men with faux-hawks rather than pony tails. I’m happy to see women who shave their legs, and people who throw their recyclables in the regular trash can. Finally, I’m happy to spend time with my family and friends rather than the hippies and freaks in the part-time lesbian bar with Monday night karaoke.

God it is good to be home!

So, tonight my colleagues and I are driving home from work. CAPTAIN tells us that there’s a blue Honda Civic that tried to take out a guard rail. As he tried to pass her, he had trouble because she couldn’t stay in her lane. Finally, he was able to pass her safely, but he had no cell phone signal so he couldn’t call in the DUI. Since I was about 2 minutes behind CAPTAIN, I ended up right behind DUI in a matter of minutes. I stayed back and watched to see if she was really drunk. Sure enough, she was drifting from line to line and trying to stay in her lane. Fortunately, my Blackberry had a signal so I dialed 911.

Ok. Let me just say that I have dialed 911 many, many times in California. I am on the road quite a bit and I have witnessed dozens of accidents and possible DUIces. Since I’m generally a good citizen, I usually phone them in. NEVER, EVER have I gotten through immediately. I usually get put on hold for several minutes and then get transferred to CHP dispatch who then transfer me to the local department that I need to speak to. The entire process has taken over 20 minutes at times. Imagine if I was bleeding out after an accident. I’d be dead before I got an operator. If ON STAR advertised these statistics, they’d sell a lot more cars.

So, back to my story… I dialed 911 from my Blackberry and settled in to wait for an answer. One ringy-dingy…”Santa Fe Police Department, what is your emergency?” What the hell? One ring? Anyway, I explained the situation and gave the dispatcher the tag and location of the vehicle. The dispatcher then asked if he could keep me on the line in case DUI got off the freeway. Keep me on the line? What? So, I proceeded to update him on the vehicle’s location and then he said that he was gonna hang up but gave me his name and asked me to call back if she transitioned to another freeway. How crazy is that??? They NEVER give out their names and ask you to call back. The guy was so nice too. Eventually, the car did switch freeways, and I called 911 again to update them. Once again, after ONE ring, the phone was answered and I relayed my message easily. I was totally amazed by the experience. I’ve never had such ease in dealing with local law enforcement on the phone. Kudos to Santa Fe PD and their 911 dispatchers!

*Addendum: As I mentioned above, she transitioned to another freeway and I notified dispatch. When she transitioned, I did not. The freeway she switched to was a desolate two-laner so I’m sure they caught her easily.

Why are women so insecure and crazy? I’d like to think that men are partially to blame for some of our mental inconsistencies, but by and large, I think that some bitches are just nuts

Today I got a few “blocked caller ID” calls on my personal cell. No big deal. It was the kind of call where I said “hello? hello?” and I could hear background noise so I assumed that maybe someone’s phone had mis-dialed me. Again, no big deal.

Fast forward several hours…it’s now 2am in New Mexico. I’m in bed reading when my phone goes off again. Blocked caller ID. I answer the phone, and it’s a female. She immediately asks who I am. Dude! Have you met me? I’m not inclined to give out personal information on the phone, and I’m a generally suspicious and cynical person. Comes with the territory. Anyway, she says she got a missed call from me on her phone, and continues to ask who I am. I tell her that it’s 2am, and that clearly I haven’t called her and that she’s mistaken. She continues to insist that I called her and repeatedly asks who I am. Finally, it dawns on me what’s going on. So, idiot that I am, I say “Hey, let’s try this. You raided your boyfriend’s phone and found my number, and now you want to know who I am.” She paused for a second then let out a very unconvincing “no.” I quickly say “well, I’m sorry you think I called, have a good night. Goodbye.” As I hung up, I could hear her saying “wait…”

It is now 2:26am and she has called my phone nine times. Of course, I’m not answering. No need to encourage her. On the eighth call, she left me a message:

“I don’t know if you’re dating “Carl” (Kyle? Cal? Paul?) but I did, and he raped me and beat me and put me in the hospital so I’d be careful.”

Ok, first let me say that although I can’t quite tell what name she’s saying, I am not nor have I ever dated anyone by that name. Further, I don’t even KNOW anyone by that name. Perhaps she got scared since I called her out on her motive, and now she’s trying to mislead me with the name so that the guy whose phone she raided won’t find out. Mental note guys: if you have my personal cell number in your phone, this bitch could be YOUR problem.

Second, let me say that the 11th grade scare tactic she is attempting to employ leads me to believe that I’m dealing with someone so inept and/or immature that when she raided her boyfriend’s phone, she copied the number down wrong and called me by mistake.

Third, let me say that bitches are crazy. What kind of needy and obsessive desire to identify a phone number on some guys cell leads a woman to call a stranger TWELVE TIMES in one day to try and identify her? Although it will never happen, I’d love for her to know who she’s dealing with. Perhaps she’d rethink her erratic behavior before stalking another woman. Who knows, maybe one of my male friends will read this, figure out who she is, and tell her a little bit about me. That would make me smile.

Kill me, please? I have never wanted to leave a place so badly in my life. I’ve been here in New Mexico (way better than the original) for 2 months and I am either suicidal or homicidal…I’m not quite sure.

First, the people here drive the speed limit. Assholes! There are many two lane highways, and these idiots with nowhere to go just take their sweet ass time doing 54 in a 55. I haven’t seen one speeder since I’ve been here. Oh, and apparently there’s no age limit for driver’s licenses either. I’m constantly stuck behind some fatass old croaker in a big Buick who is straddling the line and driving below the limit. I won’t say how many times I’ve been pulled over, but suffice it to say that to continue counting I will need another hand. I will say that the cops here (state, local, county) are EVERYWHERE and they are very nice if not a bit zealous. Seriously, if we had as many cops in LA, our crime rate would plummet. They are everywhere.

Today I went to the Post Office to mail Ian his Wii. There were about 10 folks waiting and so I took a number. Moments later two fatass, bald, mandal wearing douchbags walked in. They were talking very loudly and having a pious conversation about Christianity and televangelists. They actually stood in the middle of the post office and speculated on what God thinks of various people. I assume that they are such pious and inspired individuals that God gives them the low down on what he’s working on during a given week. I had placed my box on a high counter, and at some point I started banging my head on it. This brought chuckles from the other customers and a stern look of disapproval from the two Wise Men. I muttered “kill me” and then my number was called. Thank you, Jesus.

Later in the day, after my happy hour Sonic iced tea, I went into a public restroom. As I was heading for the door, a woman pushed past me and rushed inside. By the time I entered, she was in a stall. The restroom was empty except for me and her. Oh, and whoever she was talking to in the stall. Here’s what I heard:

“Ahhhhhh. Ooooooh. I shouldn’t have held it so long. Ohhhhh. God I have to go. Ahhhhh. Oh it’s so cold in here. Ohhhhh. Ahhhhh.” Flush.

By the time she was done, I was at the sink washing my hands. She exited the stall, looked at me, said “its cold in here” then left. She left WITHOUT WASHING HER HANDS!!!!!! Also, I should note that she wasn’t on the phone, she was moaning and groaning and talking to herself in the stall. Fucking wacko bitch.

I hate this place. I can honestly say that I will never, ever come to New Mexico again in my life. You can’t make me!

Have you ever been to Needles, CA? It is a shithole little off ramp on the 40 Freeway, somewhere in the Mojave Desert. I stopped on my way to Flagstaff to fill up my tank and stretch my legs. While my tank was filling, I went into the Shell Station to use the ladies room. For the first time in my life, I saw a condom/erotic packet of whatever machine on the wall. My question is: why the hell do you need a condom in the middle of Needles, CA, and why would you need one in the Shell Gas Station ladies room? Are there a bunch of Needles hookers that fly out for the summer months from New York? Is there no cable tv? Seriously, what the hell? According to BRUIN, the men’s room had a machine too.

Last night, after a huge and unhealthy dinner at the Flagstaff Olive Garden, CAPTAIN, MALIBU, BRUIN and I asked the server where to go for a drink afterward. She suggested The Museum Club. Ok, I’m an idiot. When I imagined The Museum Club, I envisioned faux renaissance works on the wall, maybe a cigar room with cloth and leather bound books and armchairs, and a bar that had several varieties of single malt scotch. Not so much. Instead, we found ourselves at a cowboy bar with a $5 cover and nickel beers.

Did you see 48 Hours? Remember how Eddie Murphy walked into the Bubba bar and the music stopped? Well, MALIBU is a 6’3″ African (literally!) and we are all over 30. When we walked in to this college bar, it felt like the room stopped. Strangely, a lovely young man came up and offered us some chronic because “we were minorities.” I swear he said that. Ironically, I had to explain to MALIBU what chronic was. We politely refused and Chronic-Boy moved on to find another minority customer.

CAPTAIN bought the first round of drinks, and walked away from the bar looking puzzled. Apparently, the entire round (a beer and two mixed drinks) cost only $4. He couldn’t figure out why. We shrugged and moved to the dance floor.

In Orange County, country music is rarely played in a club, and if it is, it is played ironically. It clears the dance floor and gives the DJ a minute to regroup or segue into another mix. In Flagstaff, when the country comes on, the dance floor gets packed. College students, pedophiles, truckers and bubbas from all over the bar rushed over in their cowboy boots to dance with their partners. Mind you, this wasn’t just freestyle bump and grind kinda dancing. This shit was choreographed, and they looked like they had practiced. There were steps and everything. I was impressed and amazed.

After another $4 round and watching freaks and geeks from all over the Flagstaff area get their groove on to country and hardcore rap, I realized why the crowd was so eclectic. This was the only bar/club in town. There are no genre bars here. If you want any one specific kind of music, you gotta come to The Museum and wait for the dj to play it. Hardcore gangster rappers (ok, the one other black guy wearing a tweety bird jacket) and country lovers alike were forced to share the space and vie for time on the dance floor. This is what America is all about.

Now, I am finally in New Mexico, and I’ve come to find that we are at 7,000 feet. At first, I couldn’t figure out why I was winded after walking up a flight of stairs. I thought something was wrong with me. Then, I remembered Ian saying something about altitude, and sure enough, according to Wiki, we are hella high up.

Happy St. Patricks Day! My Irish half will be drinking and merry while my Asian half looks on with silent hostility.