MIA

I apologize for the lack of updates. Twelve hour workdays with a Gestapo style supervisor and a car mishap leaves me with little time for sleep, none for blogging. I will update this weekend.

Another Reason to Google

"So I met this really, really cute guy on Friday." A typical conversation with a girlfriend. And as a good girlfriend does, I made a small display of excitement and leaned closer for the (hopefully juicy) details. Cute, smart, funny, nice, kissing, hand-holding, texting, and so forth, not bad for a late Friday night random bar catch. When you cast your reel in a dim crowded bar, you never know what kind of bottom dweller you'll hook. Especially a bar on the Sunset Strip. "Soooo, what happened?" I replied in rote perfection. "I Googled him," she continued. This was going to be good, I could feel it in my toes. "And...he was ALL over dontdatehimgirl.com!" Married and a serial cheater, his rap sheet of crimes against monogamy was long. Plus apparently he had a reputation for physical abuse and snorting lines. Juicy. I managed to conceal my excitement, yes yes yes, finally I knew somebody who had actually turned up some dirt on dontdatehimgirl.com, a site that has been around for years but had yet to prove itself as a useful tool for weeding out the more problematic contenders within the Los Angeles dating scene. It's like a Yelp for daters, where you might come across a review of that nice guy you've been seeing for a few weeks, including name, picture, location, known monikers (both online and off), as well as an impartial account of his most shocking shortcomings. If he's listed with an aka of "Syphillis Sam," it's definitely time to delete his number and call your gynocologist.

Obviously, my friend intends on fabricating some awkwardness to rid herself of this charming pipe bomb. She did express some discouragement, and I suggested Match.com. As far as I'm concerned, dating websites are like gyms. You want at least a reasonable monthly fee in order to avoid some of the people you don't want to get sweaty with.

Love

I can't stop thinking about these shoes. I really can't. I know, I know. How impractical, tacky even. Giant puff leather hearts, laminated wood-effect blue platforms, what? Where would I wear them? If I wore them to work, I'm sure building security would be after me again. And at a challenging 5.1 inches, street lights would turn red while I was still mid-cross, leaving me in an awkward situation in the midst of angry commuters. And probably ticketed by my motorcycling mustached nemesis, Officer Douche, for holding up traffic. With an additional fine for violating city standards of good taste.

I was born with a eye for garish footwear. My father fondly recalls a day when my pint-sized self accompanied my parents while shoe shopping. I threw a tantrum when my mother refused to purchase a pair of rainbow glitter peep toes I carefully selected for her from the bland rows of tasteful calf leather. I don't remember this, but I do recall stealing glittery malachite and quartz crystals from my pre-school science teacher and burying them in the dirt in the school's front yard. I guess I just like shiny things.

I really need those shoes. Marc Jacobs, je t'aime.

Mollification

As my smallest pair of rigid distressed Paper Denim Cloth jeans has become the solitary measure of my success, I now frequent Trader Joe's to stock up on such stereotypical healthy items as baked tofu, navel oranges and baby carrots. My bland diet has permanently dampened my mood and stripped grocery shopping of all joy, and I lower my gaze to avoid locking eyes with boxes of chocolate dipped carbohydrates as I stalk the fluorescent lit aisles.

The other day as I unpacked my grocery bags, I was annoyed to discover that the bag of sliced green apples I had just purchased was missing. Reviewing my receipt, I noted that I had indeed been charged for a bag of sliced green apples. I checked my car. No apples. Where the fuck were my sliced green apples? Ughhhhh. Why is it that I must suffer for the incompetence of others?

Later back at Trader Joe's, I stormed customer service waving my crinkled receipt about, demanding a bag of replacement sliced green apples. As I left the store with my new bag of apples, I held the receipt up in the air once more, and murmured in annoyance at the inconvenience of it all. Upon returning home, I put the apples in my fridge and went about my day.

Last night, I explored my apartment for a snack. I discovered I am now proud owner of two bags of sliced green apples. Yes, I swindled Trader Joe's. Not only am I a black hearted bandit, but I also seem to be losing my mind. I also lack the ability to let unfortunate little mix-ups like this go, and therefore look forward to apologizing tonight to a balding vegan in a Hawaiian shirt who will judge me from now on as I shop for organically grown rabbit food. Oh well, my pride isn't worth much more than a three-dollar bag of fruit anyways.

On an unrelated note, I was thrilled to pull up next to this outside of 711 this morning.
Yes, I'm immature and too easily amused, but we've established this. Bimbo, Inc. Purveyors of bread and other baked goods. I couldn't help but be curious as to why a company would choose such an unfortunate name. The explanation isn't shocking. Founded in Mexico in 1945, "bimbo" had no literal translation in Spanish at that time and was chosen as a rough hybrid of Bambi and Dumbo, the names of the company's then two largest competitors. Bambi, Dumbo and Bimbo. Sounds like a bad porn involving stuffed toys from the happiest place on earth.

How was the company to know then that it's arbitrary and fanciful name would later be defined as "1. a young woman indulged by rich and powerful older men." A term used as early as 1919 in the United States, flappers in the 20s meant it as a compliment. "Bimbo" is derived from the Italian word "bambino," which translates roughly to young man or boy. It was only decades later that bimbo would be used in reference to busty blondes. Don't feel bad for Bimbo. As one of the world's largest food corporations, I don't think they worry too much about the occasional chuckle and the lone person compelled to blog about it.