Heather Toshiko

Platt-itudes

Heather — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 09:17:04 +0000

Tonight, after picking up my floor length, halter-top, ruby red bridesmaids dress, my co-bridesmaid and I had dinner at Claim Jumper in Brea. We were quickly joined by her mother, her 9 year-old daughter, and her brother. Family dinner.

Our server looked like Oliver Platt. Same hair, same frump, same shitty personality. Ollie came to our table for the initial meet and greet and struck up a conversation with Macie, the 9 year-old. Here’s the thing, if you’re a grown man, the maximum acceptable amount of time that you can converse with a little girl that is not your daughter is about 10-20 seconds. Long enough to say hello and would you like a children’s menu. Any in depth conversation, teasing or playful harassment is just weird and frankly makes me uncomfortable. Ollie-the-Pedophile did not get this memo. He stood and chatted and teased Macie for a few minutes before I got out my cell phone to call 9-1-1. Stranger-Danger Platt finally took the hint and left the table to go dip his dick in our iced teas.

When Ollie returned, he decided to try his hand at sarcasm. This is not wise when I am at the table. I consider sarcasm to be my wheelhouse, and I’m not at all pleased when a plebe crosses the threshold without knocking. Enter at your own risk, Flatliners. So there he is, giving Macie’s Grandmother a hard time, and being almost rude to her. Oh, and he was one of those fucking servers that doesn’t write anything down. Dude, this does not impress us as patrons, it makes us worry that you will fuck up our order and then make us feel awkward when we have to ask you to fix it. WRITE MY FUCKING ORDER DOWN! I do not order the number two, or the Moons Over My Hammy. I order things like no mayo, fries extra crispy, dressing on the side and ranch instead of bleu cheese. If you fuck up any of the above, I will send it back, ESPECIALLY if you didn’t write it down. I digress.

So Platt decides that he’s gonna be rude to Grandma, and gets huffy when she lists a very long and specific order. He tried to make HER feel awkward, which was about the time I asked him if he needed us to get out the sock puppets to review the order again. He was not pleased. It was at that point that he started ignoring me completely. It was also at that point that I decided that I needed a million little things from the kitchen, and more iced tea.

In the end, I’m sure Oliver Platt won the battle, because even though I made him scurry for a bunch of crap, I’m certain he shot his load into at least one of my ranch dressings. I did manage to get his name though, and I will be posting it on the local Pedo-Watch website. I will also be posting the iphone photo I took of him around local schools with the message “Free Tutoring for Girls 12 and Under” with the Claim Jumper phone number. Suck it Ollie, you’re 40 and hocking mozzarella sticks. Get a real job.

Shit, Shower and Shave

Heather — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 10:24:19 +0000

Well, it’s taken me 10 years to write this, but I’m fairly certain that I’m finally emotionally stable enough to share the story of a night I will never forget.

When I was 25, I was still fairly oblivious to the warning signs that my body sent me when I was sick. I attributed most discomfort to allergies and never really bothered to consider that sometimes I might be ill.

For some reason, I always got the flu during Christmas or New Years. Before I started getting the vaccine religiously, one or the other of the two holidays was spent in bed feeling like ass. In 1999 however, it hit me around Easter. I remember sitting on the couch in my parent’s living room, and feeling cold. I had been sniffling for a few days, but I assumed that my springtime allergies were kicking in. I decided to take a shower, so I left the warm blanket I was wrapped in, and headed down the hall.

When I got in the shower, I still felt cold and the hot water felt wonderful. It felt so good in fact, that I kept pumping the heat higher and higher until the room was quite steamy. Halfway through the shower, I tilted my head back and closed my eyes to rinse the conditioner out of my hair. That’s when my ears started ringing and I lost my vision for a second. I stood up, and felt fine, so again, I tipped my head back and tried to rinse my hair. Again, I started to pass out. Not good.

I turned off the water, hair dripping conditioner, legs half shaved, and sat on the edge of the tub. My stomach started to feel sick, but I really wanted to finish my shower, so I stood up, bent down to turn the water back on, and started to black out as liquid shit shot out of my ass and into the tub. Awesome. That’s when I realized that something was really, really wrong.

Barely conscious, I heaved myself onto the edge of the tub, feet on the ground, head on my knees. That’s when I lost it. Completely. What I can recall is waking to hear my little brother knocking on the door asking if I was ok. I mumbled that I was, then realized that I was lying naked, half in the tub, legs hanging over the edge, hair resting in a puddle of shit water. I had fainted and fallen backwards into the tub and landed in my own crap.

My brother, sensing that something wasn’t right, called my Mother who came in to find me naked in a room that reeked of poop and humiliation and struggling to get out of the bathtub. To her credit, she didn’t laugh until much later.

After helping me out of the tub and wrapping me and my hair in towels, she got me across the hall and onto a bigger towel on my bed. I wasn’t taking any chances getting skid marks on the sheets. Then, she took my temperature. 104 degrees. Oops.

By that time, Dad was involved, and after he checked on me, he went across to the bathroom where I heard him exclaim “Oh, Heather,” followed by laughter. To his credit, he got paper towels and Lysol and cleaned out the tub for me.

After resting, my Mother still had to help me shower and wash the excrement off of my arms and out of my hair. I was still too unsteady on my feet and very weak.

Turns out I had the worst case of the flu I’d ever experienced. I was cold before my shower because I had a high fever that caused the chills. By taking a scalding hot shower, which felt good to my chilled body, I had sent my temperature soaring thus causing me to pass out. Dumping a liquid grumpy on the shower floor was just a bonus.

To this day, when I get particularly mouthy, my family is kind enough to remind me of the time my ass vomited in the shower and I passed out naked in the puddle.

Accostco

Heather — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 07:15:54 +0000

I hate people. Well, maybe that’s a little strong. No, nevermind, I hate people.

See, about twice a year, I go to Costco and stock up. I try to avoid weekends and Costcos in cities with high illegal immigrant populations, but I was in need of some essentials today so we went to the one on Sepulveda in The Valley.

For starters, it probably didn’t help my mood that it was 92 degrees outside. I’m not a fan of the heat, so I was already feeling pissy when we entered the store. That’s when the stench of a thousand sweaty bargain hunters from countries spanning the globe hit me. It seems they were all embroiled in a vicious battle for cart spaces closest to the free sample tables, and failing to wrangle their tards. In a word: hell.

Within minutes we were stuck in a 5-cart pileup near a sausage sample table in the deli section. Some stay-puft marshmallow minority was blocking an entire aisle while greedily shoving mini-dicks in her mouth. Really? The joke writes itself. I had to clap my hands and loudly say “Traffic jam, c’mon people move it along. You’re blocking the aisle.” Stay-Puft looked up in a grease addled daze and then lumbered out of everyone’s way. Fatass.

After fighting through the rest of the aisles and getting reprimanded by Chris every time I wanted to buy something that tastes good, we headed to the front of the store. There, we stopped briefly to look at socks. Seriously, why do men think it’s ok to wear socks riddled with holes? I mean, it’s like $5 for 50 pairs at Costco so you really don’t need to wear socks that are grayish in color, threadbare and crunchy. I digress.

So, we park the cart in a respectable slot on the side of the aisle so as not to block traffic. Also, there were a ton of illegals as I mentioned before, and you just know their carts weren’t insured. Anyway, we’re looking for sox in size ginormous and this little Armenian woman asks us to move our cart so she can get by, rather than burning 5 extra calories and going around it. Chris, nice guy that he is, happily obliged. I fought to silence my inner demons, but I did not win. I politely suggested she just go the fuck around and stop being lazy. I’m pretty sure she didn’t understand a damn word I said. Fatass.

We finally managed to get to the checkout without further altercation, and after spending $300, I nestled into the herd headed for the door. There, some minimum wage monkey barely glanced at my receipt then marked it with her highliter-of-self-esteem. Seriously, does this really help prevent theft? Unless they’re checking every item against the receipt, which there is no time to do, it’s a pointless exercise. All it does is cause a huge clusterfuck at the door. Arrrgh!

By the time we were in the lot, I was sweaty, agro and looking for a fight. I’m still not sure how we made it out of the lot.

I hate Costco.

Change

Heather — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 09:31:08 +0000

I’m pretty sure that I don’t really like change. Sure, there’s good change, like when you lose 20 pounds, or when you buy a nicer car, but generally, I’m not a fan.

For most of my life, I’ve lived in a home with several people. Growing up, it was my parents and my brother. When I moved out, I lived with my friend Jackie and our roommate Cindy. From there, I moved to a house with my brother and his best friend. When his best friend got engaged, my brother and I got our own place. Only in the last year and a half have I lived alone in a place that has been solely mine. I have to tell you, I kind of like it. At first, I was uneasy about the idea. I liked living in a place full of noise and laughter. I thrive on chaos. Now, I love coming home to a house that is just how I left it. I love my freedom and my sovereignty.

In exactly two weeks, the short-lived era of my residential freedom will come to an end. My guest room will no longer be the dumping ground for my forgotten clothing, old shoes, boxes of detritus and general crap. On April 30, it will become the domain of my beloved boyfriend and his computers, cameras, printers, books and nerd supplies. My guest room will become his office. In other words, change.

My boyfriend, Chris, is a great guy and one whom I still can’t believe I managed to snare. He’s my first and only “nice guy,” and I have to say that I’m pretty hooked on the breed. He’s making a huge sacrifice by moving to Orange County from his digs in Studio City, but for some reason, he seems to think I’m worth it. Sucker! I’m thrilled to have him here, and seeing him daily instead of weekly will be awesome. I just feel like there’s this looming cloud of change coming and I’m not sure what to do to prepare myself.

The change seems to already be happening in increments. Suddenly, there are healthy snacks in the fridge, surely not mine, and I’m sleeping on the wrong side of the bed because of Chris’ shoulder injury. My beautiful 42” plasma will be coming off of the living room wall and move to it’s new home in the master bedroom. Why? Chris has a big mama jama entertainment megaplex that will be taking up residence in the living room. My tv wasn’t good enough. Sigh. Then there’s the car situation. My garage is full of crap, so only one car fits inside. Will my 2004 Infiniti get to continue living there? Nope. Chris’ new BMW 5 series is moving in and kicking my Infiniti to the curb, literally.

I suppose these are truly first-world problems, and I really shouldn’t be complaining. The kids in Darfur would love to have any of these issues. Actually, I’m not even complaining. I’m getting a big entertainment center with a badass tv, a king sized bed, and DirecTV. Oh, and most importantly, I’m getting Chris. I suppose that’s all that really matters, right? If I’m willing to sacrifice my sovereignty, and he’s willing to sacrifice his LA lifestyle, then I suppose it’s meant to be. I just hope that once we adjust to the change, and we get comfortable calling things “ours” instead of “mine,” we can focus on what’s really important in our lives, “us.”

Pride

Heather — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 10:35:37 +0000

Years before I was born, in fact even before my Mother was born, my maternal grandparents were forced into a Japanese internment camp in Utah. They weren’t citizens of Japan and thus an intelligence risk, and they weren’t anti-Americans. In fact, just like the thousands of other Japanese-Americans placed in the camps, they were loyal Americans, singled out because of their ancestor’s national origin. After World War II ended, there continued to be anti-Japanese sentiment in the United States, and my grandparents lived the rest of their lives feeling the sting of racism.

I grew up in suburban southern California, in a town about 35 miles east of downtown Los Angeles. It was a middle-class melting pot neighborhood. My neighbors were white, black, Filipino, Indian, Taiwanese, Colombian and German. All of the neighborhood children played together, and race was never an issue.

Because my mother was a credentialed teacher, she was very specific about the education she wanted us to receive, and early on she determined that the local public schools were sub standard. In the second grade, she enrolled me at a small school called Walnut Valley Montessori.

WVM was a melting pot school, much like my neighborhood. The owners were Jews, and the enrollment spanned the ethnic spectrum. I enjoyed my time there, but I will always remember one boy. His name was Ron Langley, and he was a tall, blonde, white trashy boy who used poor grammar and had a general lack of respect. He lived across the street from the school and was allowed to walk to the Walnut Superburger to pick up his lunch every day, while we ate whatever our mother’s had packed into our Lil’ Playmate coolers.

Even as a child, I had a smart mouth. My father is to blame for that, or perhaps thanked. I was never really afraid of any other children, and when Ron said or did something to me one day (I really can’t recall) I popped off at him, even though he was several years my senior and about 3 times my size. His response, “shut up you dumb chink.” Huh? Never in my life had I been called a racist moniker, and I wasn’t even sure how to respond. For several weeks he continued to call me that until I told my Mother, and well, that was the end of that. I’m sure I was called many names in school, but that one sticks with me for some reason. I assume it’s because I am shocked that a boy so young could already know how to hate a person for their race.

Years later, when I was shopping with my mother, some shithead teenagers walked past us and made snide comments about Pearl Harbor. Again, I was pretty surprised that young people could be so full of hate. I thought racists were supposed to be old, sheet wearing white men in the south.

During high school, one of my closest friends was a black male. We met sophomore year in honors English, and we were inseparable for the next three years. John was the son of two police officers, and had attended private schools all of his life. He was the President of our senior class and went on to become a Supervisory Deputy District Attorney. He never got in trouble in school, and was generally a great kid. I offer this background because it makes the way he and I have been treated even more absurd. I can clearly remember shopping with him on many occasions and having store clerks and loss prevention personnel follow us around like vultures waiting for him to steal. Many times, it was so blatant as to be embarrassing. Also, on more than one occasion, we would hear the mutterings of “jungle fever” when we walked together in public, and on one occasion John even confronted a man who was saying it.

I suppose that all of these incidents of racism that I’ve seen or been involved in have partially made me the cynic that I am today. They’ve also made me lose faith in the American people. I always thought and hoped that we were more evolved than we really were. I remember not that long ago, telling my brother that we would never see an African-American president, because as a country, we just weren’t ready. I didn’t believe that there were enough progressive and open-minded people to outnumber the ignorant and the racist. I was wrong.

I did not vote for Barack Obama. The reasons are political and have nothing to do with his race. In fact, I would have gladly voted for Colin Powell had he chosen to run. Now, President-Elect Obama is my president. He is the future president of this country and he deserves our respect and support. I don’t know what he is going to do in the next four years. I’m hoping that he proves all of the racists wrong and makes one hell of a president. If he doesn’t, it still shows what a great and evolved nation we are for giving him the chance. I am so proud of America. I am proud that a nation that once condoned slavery and internment camps can now see the error of it’s ways, and welcome a black man into the oval office. God bless America, and God bless President-Elect Obama, he’s got a lot of work ahead of him.

Tellers and Twats

Heather — Sun, 05 Oct 2008 00:09:50 +0000

So, I’m blogging because I don’t want to do the dishes, fold my laundry, or pack for Vegas. I’d much rather sit on my ass in front of this week’s Ugly Betty episode and write about my week. So, I offer you my story…

Yesterday, I had to pop into the bank for a quick transaction. I was in a swanky part of Newport Beach, so I was surprised when a lunatic bitch cut in front of me in line. Picture Mrs. Kravitz, but fatter, wearing a freebie white tee shirt, knit shorts, and an autobahn of varicose veins on her legs. Oh, and liquid turquoise eyeliner. Her two accessories, a cane, and a Mexican maid, completed the ensemble.

When I entered the bank, I was on the blackberry with my boss. As I got in line, we continued our conversation. When Kravitz cut in front of me, I was still on the phone and thus unable to utter the expletives that rose to my lips. I quickly swallowed them, and finished my conversation. That’s when the fun began.

There was one person in line in front of Kravitz, so she began shouting at the Personal Bankers (you know, the folks who sit at desks and open accounts) asking them if they could help her. When they said they couldn’t handle teller functions, she began shouting that another teller needed to be opened immediately. Since there was hardly anyone in line, it was her turn almost immediately. Lucky me, I was also next, and my teller was right next to hers.

Kravitz immediately started asking everyone in the bank if they spoke Spanish. Her embarrassed maid looked at the floor while Kravitz made a fool of herself and my teller, Sean, and I laughed. Finally she shouted, “how the hell do you not have a Spanish speaker here?” to which I replied, “this is Newport Beach, no one speaks Spanish here.” She ignored me. She finally decided that she would cash the check for her maid, and after bossing her around a bit, grabbed the check out of her hand, and started yelling at the female teller. At some point, she grabbed the check out of the teller’s hand, slammed her fist on the counter and shouted at her. The teller, a small Indian woman, politely told Kravitz that she would be unable to assist her because she was being rude and abusive. Kravitz asked for her name, then said “You should change your name, this is America. The funny part is you have no idea who I am! The manager is my friend.” Cunt.

Kravitz wasn’t nearly done. She started yelling at all the tellers, berating their service and the fact that “you bastards bought out Security Pacific Bank.” It was at that point that I politely suggested that she take her business to Washington Mutual. Again, she ignored me.

I suddenly realized that she was ignoring me because I wasn’t a bank employee and thus not bound by protocol to treat her deferentially. That’s when I decided to have some fun. I slammed my fist on the counter and started shouting at Sean. “This bank sucks. You bastards take over all the good banks. Why don’t you speak Spanish? Where’s the manager?” At that point, both Sean and I were in hysterics. Kravitz ignored us completely. Twat.

I finished my business, winked at Sean, and was on my way out. At the door, a nice elderly woman asked me where to find a mailbox, and while we stopped to discuss, Kravitz came out of the bank. I very politely called her a crazy bitch, and she ignored me and walked away with her maid in tow.

This is the day that the Lord hath made. I shall rejoice and get crunk in it.

Have a fabulous weekend, everyone! I will be sipping a fruity beverage by the pool at the MGM Signature tomorrow afternoon and thinking about where to go for dinner.

The Douchebag Files: 1

Heather — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 00:12:35 +0000

So, I’ve noticed that since I’m out and about quite often, I find myself taking pictures of things that beg to be noticed. Usually, it’s some variation on douchebaggery, either subtle or blatant. Suddenly, I have a collection of photos that are an excellent example of why abortion should be legal forever. So, I present you with the Douchebag Files. Installment number one. Enjoy.

This spring, I was in Santa Fe, New Mexico for a few months. BRUIN and I ran out of good places to eat after the first few weeks and one afternoon we decided to go exploring for a lunch spot in the downtown area. Sometime before our really shitty meal at the Atomic Café, we passed this Douchemobile parked curbside.

Ok, so at first glance, this is clearly a mode of transportation chosen for its ability to draw attention, not for its aesthetics or aerodynamics. What a stupid waste of rubber and metal. I’ve shit prettier things than this. I also love the little pouch behind the front seat. What the hell is it for? Bible? Antivirals? Soap? Whatever. I snapped a quick photo figuring that I could mock this piece of shit on my blog. As we drove past it however, I noticed a far more interesting feature…

Does it get any better than this? I have to wonder what this assclown was thinking when he put this on his three wheeled vagina magnet. I mean, sure, what girl doesn’t like it when a ponytailed, turquoise jewelry wearing latter day hippie visits her sushi bar? But does he really think that this is gonna get him laid? Does he think it makes him more manly? Does he think it stifles the whispers of homoerotic tailpipes that his bike inspires? I wish I could have questioned him, but sadly, he was walking to his bike-of-shame as we drove away and I never got to ask him why he eats cats in the first place.

Here Comes The Mirror Man…

Heather — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 00:16:10 +0000

Ok, so the Regeneration Tour 2008 was awesome. No, seriously, it was one of the best shows I’ve ever seen and I’d go back and see it again if I could. This was a once in a lifetime line up, Flock of Seagulls, ABC, Belinda Carslile and Human League. Dead or Alive cancelled on all of the North American stops because the lead singer got mascara in his eye. Anyway, let me paint you a picture.

Saratoga, California. This is a place where a quaint little town sits at the foothills of a beautiful mountain winery. Dot com millionaires buy unpretentious ranch style houses on streets with mature trees and Prius’ scattered along the curb. All the guys in the bagel shop wear IT-Casual polo shits and jawbones, with pony tails and nerd-chic glasses. Basically, it’s a haven for the guys who never made it past pledge week, but now hire the frat president to mow their lawns.

The Inn at Saratoga is a quiet little hotel built into a hillside. There’s no pool, but a delightful terrace where you can enjoy complimentary wine and cheese in the evenings, and breakfast in the morning. My fifth floor room, the Earl Banks Suite (what can I say, the lady at the front desk liked me and thus hooked me up with an upgrade) was like most hotel rooms, with a wet bar and a patio overlooking a tree covered hill and a small creek. Only one floor below me, a set of double doors led to the main artery in the town and provided my traveling companion and me with several dinner options, although most were some variation on Italian cuisine. Since we were starving from the long road trip, we chose a nearby restaurant with patio seating and a full bar. The weather was perfect, so we sat outside and started with white wine. Fast forward about an hour plus. I’ve had an amazing chicken picatta and tasted my first cous cous. We’ve polished off our white wine and a bottle of chianti and are contemplating stumbling back to the hotel. After a quick discussion with the very well informed bus boy, we gleaned the pertinent information for our foray to the concert the following day, and head back to the hotel with full tummies and a buzz.

Day two. For some reason, I woke up with the roosters and couldn’t get back to sleep. My roll-dog was still snoozing, so I quietly slipped out and headed to the local bagel shack where I got the best freshly made scallion/cucumber cream cheese ever! I got our bagels, and brought them back to the room where I sat on the terrace and read the local paper while I gobbled down my asiago bagel and green tea. Such a peaceful breakfast. Just me and all the birds drinking at the creek. It was around the time that I started on my second bagel half that I realized how very much I needed a few quiet days away from life.

So, because God has a sense of humor, I had a yucky allergic reaction to something (I’m still not sure what) and ended up in the urgent care that afternoon. Fortunately, I was in and out within half an hour, with a script for some steroid cream. Kudos to my FNG for being such a good sport about it.

Late that afternoon, it was time to head up to the concert venue. A 10 minute trip up the twisty one lane road, and we arrived at the Saratoga Mountain Winery. We had dinner reservations for a three-course meal on a terrace overlooking the Silicon Valley. Dinner was lovely, and that’s when I stopped drinking the wine and started on the old standby: Malibu and Diet Coke. After about two, I realized that I needed doubles poured in big kid cups, and I took my concerns to the bartender. She hooked me up, and I carried my glass right up to our front row seats in the venue. Ahhhh, it’s good to be the king.

FoS was onstage first. The lead singer no longer has his trademark coif, but now wears a baseball cap likely hiding a receding or nonexistent hairline. Still, he managed to belt out the old favorites, and left the stage to loud cheers and applause. I quickly bolted to the bathroom lest I miss ABC and the glorious Martin Fry enter the stage.

Unfortunately, the line at the bathroom hampered me a bit, and by the time I walked back into the venue, Martin et al were onstage. God he looked amazing! A white suit with a rhinestone fleur de lis on the back, black dress shirt and snazzy black square toed patent leather shoes easily made up for the crows feet. In a word, yummy! He did all of my favorite ABC hits and I was on my feet for When Smokey Sings. ABC rocked. Really.

Another trip to the bathroom, and another double Malibu later, and Belinda Carslile was on the stage. She looked freakin fabulous. I know she’s had work done, but she is a gorgeous as when she was in her 20’s and she still has the command presence to fill the stage with her tiny person. Her voice is as unique and talented as it has ever been and the crowd was on their feet throughout her performance.

Final bathroom trip and Malibu in hand, I made it to my seat in time to see the Human League hotties bolt onto the stage. Strangely, they have far fewer recognizable hits than the other bands, but their performance made me realize why they were the final act. They are an amazing stage presence and their vocals have not deteriorated with age. I had completely forgotten about their hit “Mirror Man” and yet I cannot get it out of my head now. Quite an impressive performance from an old school band that probably hasn’t done a live show in 20 years.

Overall, I was thoroughly impressed by the performances, the venue and the trip. If I could have stayed for another week, drank more wine and spent more time exploring the little hamlet of Saratoga I surely would have. FNG and I have decided to see as many performances as reasonably possible at this venue in the future. I am ready to go see Margaret Cho in the near future. Friends, if you have the opportunity or the inkling, I highly recommend the Saratoga Mountain Winery as a unique and cozy venue to see a show. It’s so totally worth the drive!

Self Preservation or Paranoia?

Heather — Sun, 20 Jul 2008 00:22:51 +0000

I’m not a completely risk averse person. Sure, I’m afraid of heights, and I don’t get crazy with the stock market, but I’ll throw money on a craps table and drive fast cars at double the speed limit. Taking risks with my life and finances is something I do with educated caution and for the most part, I make good decisions. Taking risks with my heart is something entirely different.

In general, I like to think of myself as pretty heartless. It takes a lot to fluster me, upset me or hurt me. Sure, like everyone else, my family is my main source of emotional vulnerability. If something is happening to one of them, my heart is 100% involved and I’m completely distracted and overwhelmingly concerned until their issue is resolved. Although I wish I had no vulnerabilities, I’ve learned to live with the fact that my family is my Achilles heel, and I deal with it.

Every once in awhile, I think about letting someone else into the inner circle. It isn’t often, but a handful of men in my life have meant enough to me that I have let them in, and trusted them. For the most part, that trust hasn’t been abused. The problem is, in the last year or so, I’ve found that the emotional ethics of some men aren’t what I’d expect them to be, and as a result I get burned. It’s not a bad burn, mind you, more like an unpleasant scrape. Modern single men have sexual ethics that range from Little House on the Prairie to Sex and The City, and everywhere in between. Even my close friend BRUIN and I have had discussions about dating ethics, and we totally disagree on some issues. Believe it or not, his rules and ethics are more stringent than mine, and he’s a man.

I’ve also noticed another disturbing trend. Men like to bill themselves as “nice guys,” when in fact they are anything but. A self professed “nice guy” that I briefly dated, turned out to be a stubborn, selfish, closed minded, controlling, arrogant prick. I even called him out on it, and challenged his “nice guy” moniker, and he had the audacity to argue. Asshole. I mean seriously, just own it.

So now, I’m starting to consider self preservation for the first time. I’ve never really gone to great lengths to protect myself from getting hurt in relationships. Frankly, I’ve pretty much done all of the dumping until recently. About a year ago was the first time someone actually said THEY didn’t want to date ME anymore. I was a little crushed at the time, but now I think that it was a great experience for me to learn what it’s like to be on the other side, and also for me to start seriously considering the fact that I need to be a bit more cautious with my emotions. The guy who dumped me wasn’t in the inner circle yet, and I hadn’t gotten to the point where I could be emotionally devastated, but it really made me start to think…when is it ok to let down your guard?

In the past, I’ve known women who go on two dates, fall hard, and then are devastated when the guy breaks it off after a few more dates. They were already mentally picking out china, and he was just on a test drive. As much as I want to fault them for their stupidity, I realize that while there are many hard and fast rules to dating (no sex on the first date, unless you’re really, really drunk and can believably blame it on the booze) but not for when it comes to figuring out when it’s ok to put your guard down and let someone in. Some would argue that you can leave it up almost inevitably, but I believe that that prevents you from connecting on a deeper emotional level, and for a relationship to progress, don’t you need to connect? So how then, do you know? And no, the answer is not somehow related to sex. Sex is something that happens in modern dating culture sometimes as soon as the first date. Is it after a set amount of time? That’s doesn’t really apply either, since some people see each other more frequently than others when they first start dating. So when is it? How do I know its ok? Will I always be concerned that I’m sharing too much during pillow talk? Will I always wonder if it’s too soon to let someone in?

In general, I’m a guarded person. By necessity, I’m precluded from talking too much about my job and what I do at work. Sometimes, this overflows into my personal life, and I am very guarded about the people I love most, my family. I recently met a man who wanted to know some specific details about my family. I was vague, but gave him the gist of what he needed to know. He pressed harder, practically demanding to know a specific that would compromise their identity, and frankly, I wasn’t ready to do that. I barely knew the man. At that point, he was dead in the water. I gave him the “this isn’t going to work out” speech, and moved on. Nobody bullies me into talking about my family. I know that I did the right thing, but I had to ask myself, when does being cautious turn into being paranoid? Obviously, in the world I operate in, you can’t be too cautious, and I don’t believe that I’m paranoid (what paranoid person does?) but again the question arises, when is it ok to open up?

Emotional ethics, relationship ethics, sexual ethics…what a pain in the ass. You’d think that as you get older and more experienced, dating would get simpler. Not so much. I long for the simple days when my first boyfriend, who was almost as innocent as I was, could be allowed into my heart so easily and without suspicion or concern. Now, there’s an exhausting vetting process that still leaves room for doubt. Perhaps if I’d gone into another line of work. Perhaps if cynicism hadn’t worked it’s way into my heart so long ago. I guess I’ll just have to keep trying to figure out the answer through trial and error…with maybe a few scrapes and burns along the way.

Thirteen, Plus One In The Chamber

Heather — Sun, 13 Jul 2008 09:37:18 +0000

Apparently, whoever our greater power is, She decided that I was getting a little too cocky. Perhaps I like myself a bit too much. Perhaps I’m a little too secure. Rather than the usual “burning bush” message, tonight she sent her messengers in the form of douchebags, to tune me up just a bit

So, when I am at work, sometimes I need to get places very fast. Tonight, as I was sitting in a parking lot, a colleague called and advised me that I needed to be somewhere. Very fast. I started my car, and windows still open, I zoomed through the lot. As I neared the exit, a tall, skinny man, and his wife and child were about to cross the lot. As I zoomed by, he yelled “slow down!” Since my window was open, I politely yelled “suck it!” and continued on my way. Apparently, Fuckstick has anger issues, because he lost his shit and screamed “Fuck you, you fat bitch!” and angrily flipped my receding taillights the bird. Wow! Someone’s wife is gonna have bruises to explain on Monday morning. He totally lost his head in like 2 seconds. I contemplated stopping and suggesting an anger management course before his little boy starts killing squirrels, but I had somewhere to be.

Fast forward about an hour. I’m recapping my incident with Fuckstick to my colleague, CAPTAIN. As I finish with the punchline “Fuck you, you fat bitch!” he turns to me and says “but Heather, you were in your car, how did he know?”

Tomorrow, CAPTAIN will be washing, waxing and detailing my car, with his toothbrush.

After being called a fat bitch not once, but twice, I was finally on my way home at around 1am. It was about 71 degrees outside, and I was holding red at a stoplight with my windows open and the new Usher CD bumping. My only thoughts were on the nice cold bottle of cheap wine in my fridge. To my left, a silver Impala full of African-American teenage boys pulled up. Their windows were also open, and I heard the driver ask the passenger “is she hot?” as they all looked over at me. His response: “Nah, she old.”

I’m going to drink a bottle of wine now. Maybe two. Tomorrow, I start wearing a paper bag to work. No, no. Not over my face. The bag is to cover the Sig Sauer P228 9mm pistol that will be in my right hand. Good night.