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While crossing the street at Ventura and Sepulveda today, a 20-something indie boy wannabe passes me walking in the opposite direction. Not quite under his breathe, he mutters, "nice cans!" I don't know if he meant for me to hear that or not, but considering the lack of manners often displayed by a rather large segment of the wannabe indie boy community, I wouldn't be surprised if he did mean for me to hear it.
And yesterday, as Brett and I were crossing the street in front of Disney Studios on the way to Drew and Marcelo's Super Bowl party, the eyes of a middle aged guy blasting testosterone-sapping James Taylor on the radio of his compact pickup truck locked his eyes on my chest when we were about 1/3 the way across the intersection and stayed locked on that target until it became too uncomfortable for him to crane his neck that far around. Dude almost went Linda Blair on us, he was straining that damn hard.
Okay, guys have been staring at my chest since I was 13, I'm used to it to an extent. Hell, I met Brett after I noticed he was furtively staring at them while we were in Golden Apple Comics in Northridge, only he had enough good sense to look away when I spotted him, and to hide his prying eyes behind sunglasses so he didn't look like a total perv. And he damn sure didn't mutter "nice cans" at any point, or give himself whiplash. But, I say goddamn, I haven't encountered this level of rude since junior high school. And junior high school boys have the built-in excuse of being stupid, and a good beating usually cured that. These fools were grown, what the hell is their excuse, other than that they didn't see me carrying any obvious weaponry?
And yesterday, as Brett and I were crossing the street in front of Disney Studios on the way to Drew and Marcelo's Super Bowl party, the eyes of a middle aged guy blasting testosterone-sapping James Taylor on the radio of his compact pickup truck locked his eyes on my chest when we were about 1/3 the way across the intersection and stayed locked on that target until it became too uncomfortable for him to crane his neck that far around. Dude almost went Linda Blair on us, he was straining that damn hard.
Okay, guys have been staring at my chest since I was 13, I'm used to it to an extent. Hell, I met Brett after I noticed he was furtively staring at them while we were in Golden Apple Comics in Northridge, only he had enough good sense to look away when I spotted him, and to hide his prying eyes behind sunglasses so he didn't look like a total perv. And he damn sure didn't mutter "nice cans" at any point, or give himself whiplash. But, I say goddamn, I haven't encountered this level of rude since junior high school. And junior high school boys have the built-in excuse of being stupid, and a good beating usually cured that. These fools were grown, what the hell is their excuse, other than that they didn't see me carrying any obvious weaponry?
You'd think after 8 years of bike commuting to my office, 8 years of riding in the elevators with my bike, which I've been parking in the office since year one, that building security would know the damn score by now, but no-ooooo. I come in this morning, and the freight elevator, which is the elevator I usually take up to my office when I ride my bicycle to work, was broken (yet again!), so I took the garage elevator to the lobby so I can get on the passenger elevator, which I was explicity told years ago I can do by site security whenever the freight is out, which is fairly often.
Anyway, I'm waiting in the lobby for a passenger elevator, and the security guard starts to give me shit for having my bike, telling me I can't have it in the lobby. So I ask him just how else was I supposed get it to my office, but he's just going on about how I can't have it there, and blah, blah, blah, and I just can't believe that after 8 years, this guy is giving me a hard time. I'm like, hey, man, what the hell am I supposed to do, park it in the garage? Hey, my ass may be dumb enough to bicycle commute in Los Angeles, but I ain't no dumbass, I'm certainly not going to do something stupid like park my bike in the building garage, seeing as bikes parked down there tend to get stolen.
Well, I get on the passenger elevator anyway, and I'm hot enough that the first thing I do when I get to my desk is call building security and ask them why after 8 years and after having been told numerous times that my bike and I can use the passenger elevators whenever the freight isn't working, some guy in the lobby was suddenly giving shit for it. Well, I got an apology (which I didn't want) and was told that the guy was a "rover," who was just filling in because the regular security guard who works in the lobby was out. So I ask them if they could please make a point of filling in the "rovers" so they know the score and I don't end up getting hassled for nothing. Damn jerks.
Anyway, I'm waiting in the lobby for a passenger elevator, and the security guard starts to give me shit for having my bike, telling me I can't have it in the lobby. So I ask him just how else was I supposed get it to my office, but he's just going on about how I can't have it there, and blah, blah, blah, and I just can't believe that after 8 years, this guy is giving me a hard time. I'm like, hey, man, what the hell am I supposed to do, park it in the garage? Hey, my ass may be dumb enough to bicycle commute in Los Angeles, but I ain't no dumbass, I'm certainly not going to do something stupid like park my bike in the building garage, seeing as bikes parked down there tend to get stolen.
Well, I get on the passenger elevator anyway, and I'm hot enough that the first thing I do when I get to my desk is call building security and ask them why after 8 years and after having been told numerous times that my bike and I can use the passenger elevators whenever the freight isn't working, some guy in the lobby was suddenly giving shit for it. Well, I got an apology (which I didn't want) and was told that the guy was a "rover," who was just filling in because the regular security guard who works in the lobby was out. So I ask them if they could please make a point of filling in the "rovers" so they know the score and I don't end up getting hassled for nothing. Damn jerks.
The following rant from the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
blackfolk community just so perfectly expressed my feelings about certain non-Black folks who try to "act Black."
( Dear 'I think I'm black' white people )
And, it's nice to know that, should I ever go to Italy and an Italian person calls me a "dirty negro" and assaults me, it's not racist.
blackfolk community just so perfectly expressed my feelings about certain non-Black folks who try to "act Black."( Dear 'I think I'm black' white people )
And, it's nice to know that, should I ever go to Italy and an Italian person calls me a "dirty negro" and assaults me, it's not racist.
California 4XJY260
If you live and drive in the Los Angeles area and happen to see a tan Chevy Suburban with that plate number on the street at the same time you are, avoid it, whoever drives that behemoth is either a drunk or a complete asshole.
Brett and I were on Ventura near Corbin. The traffic is slow because it's not far from the 101 onramp. We're just starting to go forward and about 2 feet behind one car when this SUV, henceforth to be referred to as "That POS Who Tried to Kill 12 People," begins to squeeze into that gap and forced us into the next lane to avoid getting hit by him. Never mind that we just narrowly avoided being hit by traffic in the lane he forced us into.
So That POS Who Tried to Kill 12 People is now in front of us, and I tell Brett we oughta call 911 and report the guy as a drunk. Brett thinks about that a sec, then That POS Who Tried to Kill 12 People speeds up and proceeds to do the exact same thing to two other drivers. So I call 911, cuz I figure this asshole has to be liquored up to not notice he's nearly gotten 3 cars full of people killed, but 911 from a cell phone is close to useless because no operators are ever available (911 from a cell directs you to the regional CHP Dispatch center, not the local 911 operators, and they're just not set up for emergency calls, which is pretty fucking pathetic).
So, I'm on hold while That POS Who Tried to Kill 12 People, driving well above the speed limit in an humungous SUV, forces aside 3 more cars. Now at this point we've made it Zelzah and That POS Who Tried to Kill 12 People makes a left turn. Brett decides to follow. Keep in mind, I'm still on hold trying to report his guy. He races down Zelzah and turns left and races up Killion. As this point he has to see that a car is now following him and that one person in said car is on a phone, likely trying to report his reckless ass. Anyway, we finally lose him at a red light (he ran it) and just give up on trying to report him, cuz 911 really is a joke in this town.
(So get up, get, get get down
911 is a joke in yo town
Get up, get, get, get down
Late 911 wears the late crown)
So, all I got from it was his license plate number, which I offer to anyone reading in the LA area so they can be on the lookout for it.
If you live and drive in the Los Angeles area and happen to see a tan Chevy Suburban with that plate number on the street at the same time you are, avoid it, whoever drives that behemoth is either a drunk or a complete asshole.
Brett and I were on Ventura near Corbin. The traffic is slow because it's not far from the 101 onramp. We're just starting to go forward and about 2 feet behind one car when this SUV, henceforth to be referred to as "That POS Who Tried to Kill 12 People," begins to squeeze into that gap and forced us into the next lane to avoid getting hit by him. Never mind that we just narrowly avoided being hit by traffic in the lane he forced us into.
So That POS Who Tried to Kill 12 People is now in front of us, and I tell Brett we oughta call 911 and report the guy as a drunk. Brett thinks about that a sec, then That POS Who Tried to Kill 12 People speeds up and proceeds to do the exact same thing to two other drivers. So I call 911, cuz I figure this asshole has to be liquored up to not notice he's nearly gotten 3 cars full of people killed, but 911 from a cell phone is close to useless because no operators are ever available (911 from a cell directs you to the regional CHP Dispatch center, not the local 911 operators, and they're just not set up for emergency calls, which is pretty fucking pathetic).
So, I'm on hold while That POS Who Tried to Kill 12 People, driving well above the speed limit in an humungous SUV, forces aside 3 more cars. Now at this point we've made it Zelzah and That POS Who Tried to Kill 12 People makes a left turn. Brett decides to follow. Keep in mind, I'm still on hold trying to report his guy. He races down Zelzah and turns left and races up Killion. As this point he has to see that a car is now following him and that one person in said car is on a phone, likely trying to report his reckless ass. Anyway, we finally lose him at a red light (he ran it) and just give up on trying to report him, cuz 911 really is a joke in this town.
(So get up, get, get get down
911 is a joke in yo town
Get up, get, get, get down
Late 911 wears the late crown)
So, all I got from it was his license plate number, which I offer to anyone reading in the LA area so they can be on the lookout for it.
Well, what to say, what to say. The BF managed to make me angry last week. Super short version, he tried to blame me for something that not only isn't my fault, but which wasn't even true. This is nothing new. He has made decisions over the years that haven't gone well for him, and he constantly tries to lay blame on someone or something else. In the past he's tried to make it my fault his credit card debt was so high, even though I wasn't the one who reached into his pocket and whipped the damn cards out every single time he purchased something. All he could put on me was a $30 dinner maybe once a week, I had nothing to do with the other $300 he charged up the rest of the week.
This is a bad boyfriend habit I'm sick of putting up with. He's blamed me for his inability to manage money. He blames me because we don't go out enough, even though almost every time he suggest we go something, we end up not doing it because he (not me) decides not to go. It's getting old.
Anyway, I was upset enough with this last episode that I told not to come by or call, cuz he was one wrong word away from not having a girlfriend. He still is. Right now, I don't have a lot of incentive to look at the upside of this relationship.
This is a bad boyfriend habit I'm sick of putting up with. He's blamed me for his inability to manage money. He blames me because we don't go out enough, even though almost every time he suggest we go something, we end up not doing it because he (not me) decides not to go. It's getting old.
Anyway, I was upset enough with this last episode that I told not to come by or call, cuz he was one wrong word away from not having a girlfriend. He still is. Right now, I don't have a lot of incentive to look at the upside of this relationship.
Getting testy
Nov. 24th, 2003 01:08 pmI'm getting testy with my boyfriend. I suppose I should preface this by saying Brett is a shitty housekeeper. Things in his apartment get cleaned under 3 conditions:
1. I clean it
2. He cleans it because I make him
3. He cleans it because the grime finally got to him.
(It takes a lot for the grime to finally get to him.)
This weekend we spent another Saturday night in watching TV, which I wasn't particularly bothered by this time, since I wasn't paying attention to the TV anyway, I was reading.
Brett wanted to watch "Oklahoma!" with Hugh Jackman on PBS, which was fine with me, since I wasn't paying attention (I'm not an "Oklahoma!" type of girl). I get up to get something to drink, and there aren't any clean glasses. So, I wash one out and am about to set it on the counter when I realize that Brett's kitchen is in desperate need of some cleaning, so I start cleaning it. I cleaned the countertops, sink, stovetop, put the clean dishes in the dishwasher away, and loaded the dirty dishes. It took about 30 minutes, and when I was done I made my drink and sat down again.
Well, I expect to get a thank you for cleaning someone elses mess. Instead, he got up, got his jacket and keys and said he was going to the store and he was sick of me doing everything except watching what was on TV. I should have said, "oh, piss off, you know I don't like watching musical theater on TV," but instead, I told him to buy some cleanser (he didn't). So he leaves, and I turn on Sports Center. He comes back with some groceries, and I still don't get a thank you.
Anyway, today, I call him on it. I e-mail him saying that if the stuff I do when I'm around him is so fucking distasteful to him, I'd be more than happy to take my leave of the field so he can find some dumb bitch more to his liking.
All that to say I finally did got a thank you for cleaning his kitchen. And an apology for his ingratitude.
I'm still not satisfied. He's getting a great big box of underwear for X-mas.
1. I clean it
2. He cleans it because I make him
3. He cleans it because the grime finally got to him.
(It takes a lot for the grime to finally get to him.)
This weekend we spent another Saturday night in watching TV, which I wasn't particularly bothered by this time, since I wasn't paying attention to the TV anyway, I was reading.
Brett wanted to watch "Oklahoma!" with Hugh Jackman on PBS, which was fine with me, since I wasn't paying attention (I'm not an "Oklahoma!" type of girl). I get up to get something to drink, and there aren't any clean glasses. So, I wash one out and am about to set it on the counter when I realize that Brett's kitchen is in desperate need of some cleaning, so I start cleaning it. I cleaned the countertops, sink, stovetop, put the clean dishes in the dishwasher away, and loaded the dirty dishes. It took about 30 minutes, and when I was done I made my drink and sat down again.
Well, I expect to get a thank you for cleaning someone elses mess. Instead, he got up, got his jacket and keys and said he was going to the store and he was sick of me doing everything except watching what was on TV. I should have said, "oh, piss off, you know I don't like watching musical theater on TV," but instead, I told him to buy some cleanser (he didn't). So he leaves, and I turn on Sports Center. He comes back with some groceries, and I still don't get a thank you.
Anyway, today, I call him on it. I e-mail him saying that if the stuff I do when I'm around him is so fucking distasteful to him, I'd be more than happy to take my leave of the field so he can find some dumb bitch more to his liking.
All that to say I finally did got a thank you for cleaning his kitchen. And an apology for his ingratitude.
I'm still not satisfied. He's getting a great big box of underwear for X-mas.
Sometimes boyfriends are so not worth it
Nov. 8th, 2003 04:49 pmMaybe I nitpick this too much, but there are times when I think my boyfriend likes taking little digs at me. Before, when he was bankrupting himself by running up massive credit card debt, he tried to lay it on me because he took me out to dinner once a week. Hello, I wasn't the one who reached into his pocket, grabbed his wallet and whipped out an overextended credit card. And I wasn't the one who ran up his damn debt in the first place. It took a very loud fuck you bitch before he backed off that shit.
Well, now he's getting on me because we just don't get together early enough on the weekends for him. See, come Friday, I ask him when he wants to get together on Saturday, he may say he wants to get together early, so I'll ask him what he wants to do, and he'll have no fucking idea, and he'll poo-poo most of my suggestions since he's usually flat broke cash five minutes after he gets paid and doesn't have money to spend, and doesn't particular like having me pick up the tab. So, not wanting to spend an entire day sitting in his apartment doing nothing, I'll suggest we get together at 6. That way, we only sit in his apartment doing nothing for a few hours. Really, why the fuck should I waste my day doing nothing? I'd rather spend the day scrubbing the bathtub than sitting in his apartment watching TV, which I can do at home by myself, and be better entertained, since I have a DVD player, a big screen TV, and more movies than the average video store, thank you very much.
Now, if I was keeping him from going out and doing something he wanted to do, I could see him being peeved by this, but since that's not the case, why is he busting my ass for something that's not even a deal, let alone a big one. All I'm saying is if we're not going to do anything with the day, why get together at noon?
People wonder why I call him a high maintenance blond. Here's one reason.
Crap, he pulls piddly shit like this when he's got something on his mind, then I have to pull my hair out getting to whatever is on his mind to get him to stop. Well, I'm not doing that this time. If he has something on his mind, I'm not going to dig for it. He picks that nit again, he getting another fuck you.
Well, now he's getting on me because we just don't get together early enough on the weekends for him. See, come Friday, I ask him when he wants to get together on Saturday, he may say he wants to get together early, so I'll ask him what he wants to do, and he'll have no fucking idea, and he'll poo-poo most of my suggestions since he's usually flat broke cash five minutes after he gets paid and doesn't have money to spend, and doesn't particular like having me pick up the tab. So, not wanting to spend an entire day sitting in his apartment doing nothing, I'll suggest we get together at 6. That way, we only sit in his apartment doing nothing for a few hours. Really, why the fuck should I waste my day doing nothing? I'd rather spend the day scrubbing the bathtub than sitting in his apartment watching TV, which I can do at home by myself, and be better entertained, since I have a DVD player, a big screen TV, and more movies than the average video store, thank you very much.
Now, if I was keeping him from going out and doing something he wanted to do, I could see him being peeved by this, but since that's not the case, why is he busting my ass for something that's not even a deal, let alone a big one. All I'm saying is if we're not going to do anything with the day, why get together at noon?
People wonder why I call him a high maintenance blond. Here's one reason.
Crap, he pulls piddly shit like this when he's got something on his mind, then I have to pull my hair out getting to whatever is on his mind to get him to stop. Well, I'm not doing that this time. If he has something on his mind, I'm not going to dig for it. He picks that nit again, he getting another fuck you.
