Another apology letter to another (almost) stranger:
Dear Tony (If “Tony” really is your name…),
I’m
terribly sorry I called the FBI last week and told them that I thought you were a wanted sex predator. You must forgive me, but your likeness to the predator in question is
absolutely uncanny. Just in case you are wondering what likenesses I’m referring to, please refer to the following list.
| Wanted Sex Predator | You |
| Short and overweight (5’ 8, 245 lbs) | Short and overweight |
| Grey and balding | Grey and balding |
| Evil hazel eyes | Evil hazel eyes |
| Saggy jowls | Saggy jowls |
| Ties to CA | Well, obviously, ties to CA |
| Old (62 years) | Old (you look like you’re at least 60) |
| Pervert | *Pervert |
After going over the list above, I’m sure you won’t be able to blame me for calling
America’s Most Wanted and telling them you just might be the predator they’re looking for. Oh? I didn’t tell you I called America’s Most Wanted too? Well, I did. I had to cover my bases. You must imagine the terror I experienced for several days, believing that an armed and dangerous sex predator was attending my PARA1 class. The first night I “was on to you”, I stayed up until four in the morning, awake with the fear you may have somehow found my address and were, at that very moment, planning the ways you would victimize me. There are many ways you could have victimized me if you were indeed the predator, which is why I made sure my husband couldn’t sleep that night either. If you were going to victimize me, you would have to victimize him first—and I don’t think he would take kindly to a fat old man victimizing him.
Luckily for me, and for the rest of my class, you were not the sexual predator I thought you were. I very much hope that the FBI did not inquire about your criminal record at your place of work, or somewhere inconvenient like that. I’m sure they figured out that I was just paranoid, and you were not a sexual predator, without even having to contact you. At least I hope that was the case.
I hope you can accept my sincere apology. In parting, may I give you a little advice? In the future, try to be a little less fat and creepy. I’m sure that another paranoid woman, much like me, will compare your likeness to the likeness of a sexual predator again if you’re not careful.
Sincerely,
Charise
*My grounds for labeling you a pervert: On our way to the law library I saw you casually, yet intentionally, smack one of the other female students on the ass. Your hand lingered there a little longer than it should have, considering it shouldn’t have even been there in the first place. I was standing behind you when you did that, you dirty old man. You sicken me.
And I Caaaaaan't Staaan' 'Em!
Word I'm hating at the moment:fab·u·lous
( P ) adj.
Barely credible; astonishing: the fabulous endurance of a marathon runner.
Extremely pleasing or successful: a fabulous vacation.
Of the nature of a fable or myth; legendary.
Told of or celebrated in fables or legends.
Used in context:Today, on the Tyra Banks show, Tyra used the word faaabulous about 127 times. I think she may have
even used the word faaabulous when describing a girl on girl kiss, that, on film was anything but faaabulous. Faaabulously akward, maybe.
Isn't that fabulous?
Wait until you're older and have a girlfriend, I bet you'll wish she did the same thing for you....I just bet!
Colton, upon discovering a little book of painfully sappy love poems I wrote not too long ago, said to me:
“Mom, you
really do need counseling!”
You're Tearing Me Apart!
As I write, Cody and Colton are tearing at each other like a couple of wild Mexican dogs. The problem is, where normally I would scream at both of them at the top of my lungs, send them to their rooms, and take away a quarter from their allowance--I just can't. Why can’t I? Well, Belle and Sebastian is playing on iTunes at the same time. I'm torn between beating my children until Child Services knocks on the door or putting on a pair of rainbow adorned terry cloth shorts, a brown turtleneck, and riding the beach cruiser leisurely down the street.
What would you do in this situation?
Ode to 90's Songs About the Rain
Whoever said "It never rains in Southern California" lied to everyone. It does rain in Southern California. It has been raining for two days straight, which if fine by me because this time of year I start missing Utah and its penchant for changing seasons.
Did you hear that? I MISS UTAH!!! Not enough to move back...not just yet...However, I would move back to Utah long before I would move to Fres-NO! HAR! Get it? Fres-"NO"! Like, no way would I live there.
I guess I should never say never though, I used to say:
"I'm
never getting married again."
"If I ever get
married again,
no way would I want more kids."
"I'll
never smoke."
"I'll
never take psychedelics."
"I'll
never get so drunk that I make an ass of myself in front of my older sister's business colleagues while vacationing in Florida."
"I'll
never mix painkillers with alcohol...and enjoy it."
"I'll
never date someone I met on the interweb." (interweb...)
"I'll
never marry an RM that I met on the interweb." (har! interweb)
The list goes on. I guess I'm pretty closed-minded until it actually comes down to being open-minded. Does that make sense? If it doesn't, just "blame it on the rain...."
ZING!
Breaking Up is Easy to Do
I just found a little story initiated by my sister (Nick) asking the question: "What was your worst break-up ever?"
Enjoy...
Worst Break-Up Ever
Ah, the break up. Who hasn’t gone through a nasty oneat least once in their life time? If you haven’t, you haven’t been living. I have had a number of “nasty”break ups. To name a few:
• Divorce of ex-husband highlights include:profanity and accusations of sluttery, slapping,tearing up of wedding garter and throwing on hood oftruck, on going child support spats.
• Break-up with “Baby Huey” highlights include:Sister calling father to get said “Baby” kicked out ofapartment.
• Break-up with “Park City Dave” including: Tears and the statement, “I can’t do this anymore.”(Drama anyone?)
Although all of the above accounts are classic, the best of the worst would have to be with famous “Eric the Stalker.” The following is an account of the traumatic, yet hilarious experience:
It all began with online dating. Sometimes fun, sometimes dangerous, online dating is something not to be taken very lightly. I learned this the hard way after meeting “Erik the Stalker” on a religious website which will not be named. This website is famous for sexually pent up RMs to get their rocks off, while keeping up their celestial exteriors. In my opinion, probably 95 percent of the men on that website are there purely for the sweet, sweet picking of naïve church girls. These men set their sights on any number of cute little girls with the intentions of copping a feel and then hitting the road. If they get some brownies or a home cooked meal in the deal—even better! I thought myself to be smarter than that. First off, I wasn’t a naïve church girl. Some would even say I was“wild.” Secondly, I was in it purely for the laughs and meat market like environment. I like to pick and choose too. What I ended up picking was someone who seemed like a fun guy—blonde, going to medical school, sounded good enough to give it a shot.
*Now, one important thing to remember when online dating—people are not always, in reality, who they seem to be online. “Erik the Stalker” and I emailed back and forth for a little while before I felt safe enough to give him my digits. Soon, we had a date. “Erik the Stalker” showed up at the front door looking tall, tan, and a little out of the times. He was wearing a plaid, short-sleeved button down shirt, dark denim jeans, and BIRKENSTOCK SANDLES. Where did he step out of? The year 1997, I was assuming. Nonetheless, I decided to go out and have fun. Our dates (all three of them) were basically very lame. I could tell he was lacking in funds by the constant use of a credit (not debit) card, and I also found out he wasn’t a genuine medical student. He was“going to be” a medical student. What good is that? That’s like saying, “I’m going to have a penis implant.” These were no doubt signs of trouble.
With his increasing neediness (calling me over five times aday), and his decreasing sense of style (oversized letterman jackets and Colorado high tops) I was feeling we needed some time “apart.” (Charise’s definition of “time apart”: Leave me the hell alone forever!) I decided to tell “Erik the Stalker” about this idea one morning after he had repeatedly called my cellphone and home phone a dozen or more times within aperiod of 6 hours. His desperate messages varied from“Charise, it’s Erik. I’m just calling to see whereyou’ve been” to “Charise, Erik. I’m really worried about you little girl. I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re not hurt lying in a ditch somewhere. Please, please, please call me. I’m so worried.” Keep in mind,we had only gone out three times at this point. There was no wedding engagement. There was no promise to keep him posted of my whereabouts at all times. There was no commitment. Initially when I told “Erik the Stalker” of my wanting to spend time apart, he seemed cool with it. Little was I to know that in reality, he was not.
Due to ADD and time restraints at work, this summaryis going to be cut short. Highlights of Charise’s break-up with “Erik the Stalker” include, but are not limited to:
• Cancer afflictions
• Scary medical ID bracelets in the mail
• Forged medical documents
• Books about girls being murdered
• Romantic DVDs
• Threats of suicide
• Clever quips such as, “you’ll get what you deserve” and “ you’re a f-ing whore”
• Court dates and fines
Needless to say, that was my worst break up ever. The End.
Why Move?
So lately I've been bitching and moaning about the housing market here in RB, CA and how we're NEVER going to be able to buy a house here. Well, unless me or Anthony dies--FYI, we have large life insurance accounts. STOP right there if you're thinking about off-ing us, because Cody and Colton are heirs to the bling. In a way, I wish I could die just to see how good they would be living off of their dead Mommy's policy. Anyway, I'm being macabre. Back to my bitching and moaning...
It's expensive here. And fast paced, and most people drive Mercedes or BMWs or top of the line mini vans. I don't know if I can compete. But last night, something happened to push me to stick around, if only for a little while longer. Guess what it was...guess! Ding! Ding! Ding! I saw movie stars...in my neighborhood...on my evening walk!!!
Have you all heard of the O.C.? If you haven't, please cease reading this and go back to your hippie commune. Well, a lot of times I've seen them filming scenes for it down by the beach and on the Pier, but last night I was walking and saw HUGE lights in the sky. I thought that maybe there was a nightime carnival, police raid, spur of the moment car lot opening, or something like that. But, it was none of those. It was a movie set, ON THE STREET THAT I WALK ON. Har! Naturally I had to walk by and do some rubbernecking. Who did I see standing only a couple yards away ready for their next take? Seth and Summer! Seth and Summer from the O.C.! I don't even know their real names, that's how down I am with the stars, but I thought it was pretty cool.
So my motivation for staying in Redondo and feeling like poor, rich, white trash? Seth and Summer.
I'm too old to be excited, aren't I? DON'T KILL MY BUZZ!!!
Sweet Lady "A"
I’ve recently come to terms that I have a new addiction. No, it’s not Bacardi and Vanilla Coke—that was so 2002-2003. And no, it’s not Sweet’s Brand chocolate covered raspberry sticks—although, on second though—I may just start that addiction back up. Lastly, but not leastly, it’s not coffee. I enjoy and love coffee, if coffee were not ground up into a fine powder and mixed with scalding hot water, I would consider marrying it (except then I would be a bigamist). This addiction is more scary than any of the above, because on the surface it seems healthy. But, like so many other good things in my life, I’ve twisted and contorted it so much that it has become healthily unhealthy.
Ladies and Gentlemen: I am addicted to avocados.
It all began one night a little over a month ago when my landlord, a longshoreman at LA/LB Harbor, informed me that a HUGE shipment of avocados was coming in that evening. He asked me if I liked avocados, because if I did he would hook me up with some. I responded, “Like a baby likes a binkie covered in frozen custard!” That meant yes. A resounding YES! I’ve always enjoyed avocados, but growing up in Utah they were seasonal, and when they did end up in the grocery store they cost almost as much per ounce as gold. So, needless to say, avocados were and are a treat to me. Until they started to control my life.
Anyway, back to the story…
That night after my landlord got home from work, he brought over a bag of about a dozen of the most perfect, mouthwatering, large, god-blessed green beauties. They were just on the edge of ripeness, so I stuck them all in a brown sack and tried to forget about them for a day or two. At that point in time, I hadn’t tasted them yet and I was even charitable enough to dole out about six of them to some friends. If there is anything in life that I will regret upon my death, it will be that. I should have kept them all for myself!
When the avocados reached ripeness, I was so overjoyed I almost cried. For almost a week straight, I would cut one up, squeeze on some lime and a little salt and pepper, and eat one for dinner, with tears in my eyes. It wasn’t long until they were gone, and by then it was too late. I had formed a habit. Every inch of me an addict. My cells hungered for the Vitamin E, potassium, and other addicting agents contained within that bumpy peel.
One of the local grocery stores here, Vons, had avocados on sale—10 for 10.00. So I bought 10. They didn’t even last a week. The sale is over now so I had to buy them four for 5.00. I have four beauties sitting in my kitchen right now, I can almost hear them ripening my senses are so acutely avocado oriented now. It’s gotten to a sickening point actually. All I want to eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner are avocados. The habit is almost as expensive as cocaine! I don’t know what to do. My friend Carolyn’s next door neighbors have an avocado tree in their backyard. Can you believe that?! It’s almost as good as having a money tree if you ask me. Every time I go to Carolyn’s, I gaze longingly at the tree—willing for one ripe jewel to fall directly into my hands. That tree is a reminder of everything that is wrong in my life. That tree taunts me. It shows me all of the good in the world that is just out of my reach. It got so bad tonight, that when Carolyn called to ask me to move something off of the porch of her house, I did—but then, I walked further into the backyard to test my luck with the tree. Its branches just barely hanging over her yard almost close enough to touch. I saw an empty bucket by the fence. I took the bucket and carefully climbed on it—yes, I could reach the tree. I quickly, before anyone could see, grabbed the first avocado I could reach, and then I jumped down. It wasn’t ripe. I felt cold and empty inside. My only consolation was in the fact that I did have avocados at home—one of which I’m going to eat the shizz out of as soon as I post this blog.
This is one of the longest blogs I’ve posted in a while, and it’s about a freaking avocado! How sad am I? I will drown my sadness in, well, you know what. Time for another hit off the A-bomb…
Coming Clean
I have a bad habit. Well, I have TONS of bad habits. But I'm only going to talk about one of them today. This bad habit is watching "Maury Povich" almost every day after my morning walk. I know, I know--what a waste of time. I may as well be watching "Jerry Springer." Well, I've gotten older and softer--so Jerry is a little harsh for me, but I still need my white trash fix. To me, Maury is the PG Rated version of Jerry Springer. Lots of hoes and beyotches, pimps,and trailers but the guests keep their clothes on and there aren't as many "beeeeeeeeeeeeep" "beeeeeepity" "beeeeeeeeeeps" throughout. Only a few sprinkled here and there.
Lately most of the shows have centered around the theme of "Paternity Test Results Revealed." Disgustingly delightful. The stars of these shows usually fall under three categories:
1. Uneducated young trailer mother who "is 1,000% sure that
he is the father." Usually wears too much eyeliner and pants that are wayyyyyyy too tight.
2. Skinny, white (or heavy black and/or mexican) male who is "1,000% sure he
is not the father." Says "bitch" and "ho"
a lot!3. Poor, innocent baby that will forever be scarred by the two selfish retards that spawned him/her. My worst fear for the child is that he/she will grow up and find the old Maury episode where his/her father denies being said child's dad, and the child finds out that there were a possible of 12+ men that could have been his/her father. If the child didn't already know his/her mother was a total hoochie slut, he/she would after watching the old episode. Talk about a bombshell! My prediction is that 27% of our future felonists and/or serial killers will have appeared on the "Maury Povich Show" as unaware infants.
But there is a positive spin on all of this depressing sociatal decay. I have decided to come clean on something that I have been hiding for a couple of years. Now, this may be a bombshell to a lot of you--and I'm asking for your support through all of this. I've been keeping a deep, dark, stinky, damp, moldy secret from my dear devoted husband Anthony, and the secret is this:
Anthony, this is terribly hard for me to tell you, but there is a possibility you may not be the father of Cody and Colton.There, I did it. Total freaking honesty. It feels good. I just hope that Anthony is willing to forgive me. I don't know, maybe a DNA test is in order? Shall I call the Maury Show? I hear they give them for free.
