The Dating Diaries, Story #2: Paging Dr. Douche

One vague night, clouded with vodka and cranberry juice, I was out and about with some friends consuming stiff drinks and being my typical loud self. A friend of mine eagerly introduced me to “Dr. Steve” and immediately left us alone, indicating this was some sort of unbeknownst set-up. Not above making conversation, we get to talking. Dr. Steve was a nice guy… from what I remembered. What I didn’t remember was giving him my phone number.

The next morning I woke up to a relatively pleasant text saying, “Hey. It’s Dr. Steve. Hope you made it home safe. I was thinking maybe the drive-in tonight? You mentioned you wanted to go.” Apparently Intoxicated Carrie loves the drive-in. I figured since I liked him when I was drinking, he should be a decent enough guy. Plus, The Bourne Ultimatum was playing and who doesn’t want to see beefy Matt Damon in a tight cotton v-neck? So, I agreed.

Later that night Dr. Steve picks me up in a newer Jeep Cherokee. Thank God it’s not  a Chevy Nova. He’s not as good looking as I remembered but that doesn’t mean much taking into consideration a great personality.

We roll up to the drive-in and Dr. Steve hands the teenage kid at the ticket window a $10 bill. The kid looks like he’s high and an uber nerd to boot. We’re talking braces, mouth open, heavy breathing, the works. In a voice eerily resembling Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High the kid says, “Uhhh, dude? It’s actually $6 a person.” An arrogant laugh bubbles from Dr. Steve, “No. Actually it’s only $5 a person.” Without hesitation, Spicoli fires back, “I know, it’s gnarly dude. But they just raised the prices. Sorry, bro.” Dr. Steve was not having it. “I saw in the paper this morning it said $5 a person and you’re going to honor that price.” Similar conversation ensues for another five minutes, or what seems like an eternity for myself and the three cars behind us, who have begun to honk. 

At this point, I’m starting to feel sorry for Spicoli. I’ve worked in customer service before and I know the ticket increase isn’t his fault so I start to get frustrated with Dr. Steve. I reach in my purse, pull out $2, reach over Dr. Steve and hand Spicoli the cash. “Thanks man,” Spicoli says to me with a single nod. I look at Dr. Steve expecting some kind of redemption but he grabs our tickets and drives off without a, “thank you.” It’s fair to say I am now thoroughly annoyed.

As if nothing happened, Dr. Steve continued our get-to-know-you session. “What, exactly, kind of doctor are you?” I finally ask.

“I’m a chiropractor.”

“A chiropractor? Do you have to do to medical school for that?”

“No.”

“So you’re not really a doctor?”

“Yeah I am. Well, kind of. See…”

This is the point where I start tuning him out. You may think I’m stuck up for getting irritated that he wasn’t a doctor but I felt duped. The incident with Spicoli coupled with being trapped in the car for the next two hours with Dr. Douche made me want to vomit. I couldn’t tell you what the conversation consisted of for the rest of the night because my mind was reeling. I think there were a lot of "Shhh, I'm trying to watch the movie" coming from my end. I couldn’t even concentrate on the gloriousness that is Matt Damon, which made me even more pissed.

The ride home was a blur. I don’t remember much except for when he dropped me off. I didn’t even flatter the guy with a courteous, “Thanks for the lovely evening,” since I paid for a third of my movie ticket. As I gathered up my jacket, purse and unlatched the seatbelt that felt, at this point, like a death trap, Dr. Steve had the audacity to lean over and try to kiss me. “Whoa there! I don’t think so pal,” is what I recall saying. I may have just laughed hysterically. Regardless, I grabbed my things and shot out of the Jeep.

I may not have been as big of a bitch as I portrayed because a few days later I got a call from Dr. Steve asking if I wanted to meet him for another date. I never called back. Last I heard Dr. Steve was still trolling around San Luis looking for a girlfriend. Dr. Douche, maybe you’re single because you’re a rude cheap ass. Clean up your act. But that’s just my two cents… Or rather, my $2.

The Dating Diaries: Ginger Baggage

 
I met Kit at work. He was an account executive for one of our clients. We met in person and the next day sent a few funny e-mails back and forth. I wasn’t immediately attracted to him because he was a ginger. Like, a super ginger. And I’d never dated one before. But long story short, we met for drinks, I laughed my ass off and we started hanging out. He even made me dinner at his house one night, where I was introduced to his friendly pup, Ren.

One night when I asked what he was up to he told me he had a bachelor party and couldn’t hang out. Date night free for the first time in a few weeks, I happily gathered up a few of my friends and headed downtown for some cocktails.

Frog and Peach was packed. After a few drinks, my peanut-sized bladder could take no more. I grabbed my friend Katie’s arm and dragged her to the bathroom (because that’s what girls do).

Mazing our way through the crowds, I spot Kit across the bar. We make eye contact and he immediately waves. I asked what he was doing there and he said the bachelor party took a turn for the best and decided to hit the town. Elated to see him, I told him to have fun and that we’d chat a little later.

Per usual, there was a line 3 people deep in the ladie’s. Katie and I took position and waited. Both of us still reeling from the coincidence of seeing Kit at the bar, Katie asked me how things were going. Before I could answer, the girl behind Katie asks for her name. “Ummmmm, it’s Katie.” With squinty eyes and a slight sway, the girl asked what my name was next. “It’s Carrie,” I told her. “Oh. Hi,” she says. “I’m Sarah. Ren’s mom.” Ren. As in Kit’s dog. It takes me a second to piece the puzzle together, but I soon realized the drunken aggressor was Kit’s ex-girlfriend of 4 years. The same ex-girlfriend of which their relationship had just recently ended about six months before Kit and I met. A few beats later, Sarah pipes in and says, “This is awkward,” and stumbles out of the bathroom.

I shot a quick glance to Katie that telepathically said, “What the FUCK just happened?” and we both bolted to met up with our other friends, anxious to tell them the story. Like a tennis match, Katie and I went back and forth telling everyone the craziness that just went down. Shortly after the chaos subdued, Kit found his way over to me and said he’d heard what happened in the bathroom. He apologized profusely and said he’d talk to Sarah and tell her not to approach me ever again. As if God was looking down and saying, “What a sucker,” Sarah comes out of no where and wedges her way in between Kit and I. She just stands there, looking from face to face to face of all of my friends with an idiotic grin. A good 10 seconds passed before Kit asked quizatively, “Sarah… what the hell are you doing?” Without hesitation Sarah replies, “I met your new giiiiiiiiirlfriend in the bathroom. We’re friends now!” She clanks the drink I’m holding with her brand new beer, lifts the bottle as if to say, “salude” and then chugs. And chugs. Until the beer is gone. Like a car accident, none of us could stop watching. It's as if time stood still.

Kit grabs Sarah by the arm and pulls her away from the group. At this point, I start laughing hysterically. For once in my life, I’m not the craziest person in the vicinity. There was more conversation about “Crazy Sarah” as we called her, when I got a text from Kit. Sarah had escaped from the bar and was making, what I presume, were empty threats and he had to leave to find her. I wished him luck and finished my night with a double vodka tonic before heading home.

Turns out Kit found Sarah at her house where she confessed her love for him. I think she also puked. Not sure. Long story short, it didn’t work out between us. It wasn’t all Crazy Sarah’s fault, but she was  a big part of it. I think after Kit and I parted ways, he gave another go-around with Crazy Sarah. Last I checked, that didn’t work out either.

Crazy Sarah, if you’re out there reading this, I salute you. To being ballsy, being a nut job, and most of all, to justifying that every single thing I have done in the past has not been as bat-shit crazy as you are. Crazy Sarah, this Bud’s for you.

Why Eating Is A Good Idea

Sometimes it gets really busy at work. I said, ‘sometimes’ ok? Lay off me… anyway this one day I’m SUPER busy. Like, not-even-joking busy. These e-mails are makin’ it rain and before I know it, it’s 2:30pm. I realize I have not eaten breakfast, lunch, nor have I consumed any type of liquid since the night before (and said liquid was probably wine). If I don’t get some type of sustenance in my system, there are going to be consequences. Like me, face down, unresponsive at my desk. I grab my wallet, my company badge and my last ounce of strength and haul ass to the ground level of our building for some food. 

I hit up my go-to: San Francisco Soup Co. It being 2:30pm and all, there was no line. I quickly grab my food and start heading back. Before I’m even halfway to the elevators, my phone starts vibrating. It’s vibrating so much that I thought I had a call. Turns out it was just more e-mails. Back. To back. To back. To back. Being the star executive assistant I am, I multi-task by holding my food, pushing the elevator button with my elbow, reading emails and responding (using only my right thumb, mind you). The doors open and I scurry in, trying to send a few e-mails before the doors close and I lose service. 

I take advantage of not receiving e-mails for the next few seconds as I ascend and read through more e-mails. DING! The elevator doors open. Great! I look up. I’m on the 7^th floor. I work on the 3^rd floor. Not so great. I forgot to hit the 3^rd floor button. Crap. There were others on my elevator and it was going to continue to go up. So I get off and push the button to go down just as my phone starts buzzing again. More e-mails. Seriously?

 

Feverishly responding, I get into another elevator minutes later. I’m alone. Perfect. Read some more e-mails and prep responses. DING! Finally… Only I forgot to push the button to my floor AGAIN and I’m back in the lobby. Shit. 

Not sure if you’re familiar with elevator etiquette but when the doors open at the lobby, you let the current riders out before entering. The four people waiting in the lobby to go up stood there staring, waiting for me to kick rocks. “No, I’m actually going back up. Come on in.” 

I push the 3^rd floor elevator button what seems like 17 times to make sure I don’t wind up on another floor. I continue reading e-mail. Not sure what the others were discussing when I hear one of the gentleman say, “…well at least none of us forgot to get off the elevator.” Cue uproar of laughter. Very funny.

Damn, it feels good to be hipster

Hipster [hip-ster] noun, Slang. "Hipsters are a subculture of men and women typically in their 20's and 30's that value independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation of art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence, and witty banter."

I like to write. Duh. And I don't think I'm too horrible at it. So last month while on a double date at Anchor and Hope, my one and only hipster friend Casey asked if I'd be interested in participating in the Write Club series. For those of you unfamiliar with Write Club, their tagline says it all: "Literature as bloodsport. Prize money to charity." Essentially you are assigned one of two conflicting topics (i.e. left vs. right; up vs. down; dark vs. light). Each author writes on their assigned topic and the audience decides whose piece they liked better (it usually comes down to a battle of wit). The winner gets to donate a portion of the nights cover charge to a charity of their choosing.

I've never actually written anything and physically read it out loud so I was a little weary. But despite my hesitation, it only took a few "you'll do fine's" and "it's no big deals" in combination with copious amounts of wine to convince me to participate.

What I have yet to mention is that Write Club commences in San Francisco's Mission District. A little unsettling for a Marina girl who sticks out like a sore thumb amongst hipsters and pick-pockets. Shudder!

I tried to get pumped for the competition by telling myself that if those hipster elitists don't like my style, then they can go screw themselves. But I soon found out that my actual fears stemmed from the potential reaction of the crowd. A mob of hipsters is fairly unpredictable. My guess was that after my reading they would either shower me with tomatoes (certified organic, of course), or my words would resonate with a blessed patron in the crowd who would begin a single, slow clap growing into a monstrous uproar of applause. Either that or they would just snap at me.

Many of my best ideas occur to me while laying down, either in bed or when I wake up from a restless night's sleep. My idea to harness my inner hipster before entering the the writing competition was no exception. I started writing this post at 1:09 am. Good. Already on hipster-time. But instead of sitting in bed, I wished I was at a local cafe, using their free wifi and sipping a skim latte. Shit. Bad start.

To my surprise I found myself euphorically lost on my hipster journey. To start, I purchased a pair of thick framed Zooey Duchschanel-esque glasses. Who doesn't like Zooey Duchschanel?! Automatically I've got that going for me. Additionally I already had an array of patterned clothing that I could mix and match with tights or leggings, my black Toms and a mustard yellow Urban Outfitters cardigan. As it is, I'd always wanted to try color blocking.

I reach for my iPhone for inspiration to start writing my piece (I've been assigned "fast" to my opponent's "feast"). The only music I have on my phone that can be moderately considered hipster is "Pumped Up Kicks" by Foster the People. This is good enough for me. Repeat. I love the whistling part.

I had two weeks to prepare for the competition and in true Carrie fashion, procrastinated until the night before. For lack of better words, my piece sucked. I was starting to get nervous.

I arrived early to The Make Out Room (clever hipsters) and was immediately informed that I would be up against Casey's co-Write Club founder: a guy who not only looks, but writes, like Zach Galifianakis. Thanks for the pairing, Casey.

As suspected, by piece blew. Zach kicked my ass. But he was really good so I couldn't wallow in my loss for very long. And the hipsters did laugh at a few of my anecdotes, especially the part about being elbow deep in a bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos. Hipsters apparently love Flaming Hot Cheetos. Who knew?! There were no hipster mishaps, no tomatoes, and no snaps. Nothing but encouraging applause. Also, I didn't get pick-pocketed. WIN.

Participating in Write Club was a fun experience. It challenged me to step out of my writing comfort zone and do something different. I highly recommend you check out their website and not only attend a show but to be a part of it, whether you're a seasoned writer or a lone blogger like myself.

Being a hipster was a lot of fun. I still rock my Zooey glasses, listen to Foster the People, and color block. And why shouldn't I continue to enjoy it? Am I not in my 20's - 30's and someone who values independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation of art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence, and witty banter? My friend Justin has pegged the phrase "preppy hipster" in his efforts to categorize me. And I'm not gonna lie... I kinda like it.

Revisiting a Mockingbird

It's odd to think about how something can mean so much to you at one point in your life but later on mean something completely different. My first car was a roaring speedster when I bought it, and thinking back now I wonder how I managed to play it so cool in that piece of crap. In college I was glued to my newest pink Motorola Razr flip phone, making me cringe as I now blog, Instagram, Tweet and run temples on my iPhone 4s.

After hitting a reading dry spell upon completion of the Hunger Games trilogy, I decided I wanted to brush up on my writing skills. As someone who finds their best mode of communication via the written word, I thought the best way to continue my rogue education was to explore what most consider classic literature. I can remember myself as an awkward 8th grader, sketching out what I imagined the infamous Boo Radley to look like as depicted in Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird. I vaguely recall creating a gentle, monsteresque figure not unlike Edward Scissorhands, holding a pair of bloody sheers for a reason at the time of reminiscence I did not recall. Most of the story escaped me but I was sure that it was a book I would enjoy. That's all I needed to know. I traded in Mockingjays for Mockingbirds. I picked it up and felt instantly at home, transported to an unfamiliar time in Montgomery, Alabama.

For those of you who slept through 8th grade (because we didn't have Spark Notes back then), To Kill A Mockingbird is a story about "growing up and the human dignity that unites us all." It's a tale of attorney Atticus Finch in the court trial of his life trying to raise two children in the south, pre-pubescent Jem Finch and the narrator, Jean Louise "Scout" Finch.

Not having been able to recall the story line, one thing stood out to me above all else: I loved Scout Finch. I didn't remember why but I kept this in mind when I started reading round two. I now realize that I liked Scout at the time because I could relate to her. The narrative she displays expresses to the audience her innocent adolescence dealing with adult situations and not completely understanding them. I think I related a lot to Scout because the first time around, I was somewhat oblivious to the adult nature of the book's subject matter (Atticus is representing Tom Robinson, a black man accused of rape).

Now having read more than half of the book (no, I'm not done yet), I find myself painstakingly drawn to Atticus Finch. I also find relate-ability to be the cause of this. Besides the obvious facts of being exposed to and enjoy learning the subject of law, I relate to Atticus in a way that I can understand. As mentioned, I haven't finished the book. I don't remember if Tom is convicted or Atticus sets him free. But my lesson from the book has already been learned: no matter how many people speak out against you, or who don't agree with your actions, standing up for what you believe in and what you believe is right is the most important lesson of all. And if Tom is killed at the end of the book, at least Atticus can know he did what he could to try and save him without regret.

What the hell is the point of this post? I'm glad you asked. Books that evoke thought are good, but stories that everyone can relate to in different ways are genius. And I think that's what makes To Kill A Mockingbird so brilliant (besides Lee's beautiful writing style of course). You can chalk this blog post up to change. I changed what I took away from the story, having related more closely to Atticus than Scout. Maybe next time around something in my life will challenge me to look closer at Jem's character. I'm sure in 15 years I'll wonder how I ever drove around my Honda Civic for so long, or mock the "newest technology" of my iPhone 4s. But all I know is that change is good. Change means growing, learning, moving forward. And isn't that what life is all about?

"I'm a Big Kid Now" or "Why Not To Get The Comcast Self Installation Kit"

For those of you hiding under a rock, I recently moved into a studio in San Francisco. I got the call a few weeks ago that I scored the place and I literally screamed out loud. It's been a little bit of a challenge finding an apartment that was both in my budget and in the Marina, but I somehow managed to pull it off.

A little about the place: My next door neighbor is practically the Exploratorium (how awesome is that?!), hardwood floors, laundry in the building, a walk-in closet and... wait for it... a parking spot. Cue angelic music. This place is everything I hoped to find and more. It's always quiet, I feel completely safe, and most importantly, I'm a short walk (or bus ride if I'm lazy) away from my friends.

I'm going on my second week here and I love it more and more everyday. I'm finally settled and it's beginning to feel more like home. After a slight tug-of-war with Comcast, I finally have tv, internet, and a phone line so I can buzz people into my building (debatably my favorite part of living in San Francisco).

Move-in costs in the City can be pretty phenomenal. One place I looked at wanted what some people in the Central Valley pay for a down payment on a home. Luckily, I was able to get in here with more reasonable costs. But since I spent all of my money on a deposit and first month's rent, I decided to opt for Comcast's "self-installation kit." When I got the box in the mail that was large enough to sleep in, I began to panic. Luckily (or unluckily, however you want to look at it) they sent me the wrong order so they scheduled a technician to install everything for free. After two calls to Comcast, one missed appointment and 3 hours this morning with Ali, the Comcast technician, I'm finally up and running.

I like to describe my place as "quirky." You have to be under 150 pounds to even fit through my foyer (yes, I have a foyer) and the sound of my shower often mimics the screaming mandrake root on Harry Potter. But I can lay in bed, eating ice cream and watching The Bachelorette; I can blast the Dixie Chicks while I make a Trader Joe's dinner; and I can leave my dishes in the sink for 3 days and no one will care. This place isn't perfect. But it's perfect for me.

Just when you thought our living situation couldn't get any weirder...

I can summarize my Saturday in three words: Baseball, beers, bars. Consequently I had a rather unfavorable Sunday morning, however, for more reasons than just my hangover.

Tim only lives 6 blocks away but he stays over at Ashley, Dave and Sofia's a close second to me. "At 2am, that's a rough 6 blocks." I wake up and see him on the loveseat. Knowing neither of us are going anywhere anytime soon, I turn on Dumb & Dumber. Two hours and 4 glasses of water later, Tim and I have the standard 10-minute discussion on who is going to venture out to Safeway for eggs and bacon. After a coin toss, rock paper scissors, some pretty unconvincing arguments and having it closer to noon than 8am, we both decided we'd venture out to the Italian Deli on Chestnut for lunch. Being the diva I am, I required a shower first.

So fresh and so clean, I immediately grab my towel and wrapped it around me. While still in the shower, wringing out my hair, the door between Ashley and Dave's room and the bathroom flies open in full force. There stands Dave. Naked.

My initial reactions in chronological order are as follows:
1. Gag reflex
2. Rubbing my eyes to make it go away
3. Scream
4. More gagging

Dave bolted out of the bathroom and before I can even get my upchuck reflex under control says from behind the door, "If you like what you see, speak up."

Getting dressed with the speed of light, I head back to the living room. Wanting to put it all out there (no pun intended) I stop at the entry way, look Tim in the eye and say, "I just saw Dave naked." He stares back at me then says, "Well... what did you think??"

With zombie-like demeanor I put my PJs away in the closet and head back to the couch. In a last ditch effort to avoid Post Traumatic Stress Disorder I sit down and try to watch tv. Before I knew it, Tracy Chapman starts blaring and it's coming from the bedroom. Again, the door flies open (cringe) and out comes Ashley in nothing but a blue towel dancing the jig to "Talkin' Bout A Revolution."

The four of us, plus Jarrett who came over shortly after, eventually ended up heading to the deli for lunch. I did not order salami.