Well, I haven't updated in a while because we're just been up to too much. Andrew is a pretty active person and sometimes I find it hard to keep up with him. In the last month, we've been to Masquerade Ball...
...and diving...
...and hiking...
I call this one "Seamus Scaring the Shit out of Mommy."
These little girls were very polite about asking to pet my dogs.
I asked the littlest one if she'd like to hold Carlisle.
She did a pretty good job!
Carlisle will never forgive me for betraying his trust.
...not to mention to a half-dozen other outings.
Like the Venice Beach Freak Show. Actually, that one was my idea.
And the truth is. I just cannot keep up with him. Being out and about with the twins is fine, but lately leaving the house at all seems like a chore, and going to dinner parties and visiting people all the time is really pushing the limits of what I'm comfortable with. (Excuse the poor grammar.) The only social interaction I feel like I really need is the 50+ hours a week I spend at work, combined with outdoor activities we three do. I don't need more than that. Actually I've been developing a touch of social anxiety.
What does social anxiety feel like? It starts in your throat and your heart. Your heart is pounding and you can't catch your breath. Your muscles tense, but feel liquified at the same time, and you no longer trust them to work properly. Your bowels gets a hollow, hungry feeling, a dropping sensation like a fall, but one that doesn't end. Your mouth is too wet and too dry at the same time, and that lump that rose into your throat is expanding and cutting off your air, and you feel suddenly like just beyond your vision is something with impossibly long fingers that wants to get you. You want to scream but that lump is still there, silencing you, and you ignore your jelly legs and your taut jaw and you smile and get another drink. That's social anxiety.
I guess there are a lot of things I can blame for causing this. There's Jenny, for one thing. I thought that had been resolved, but then Jenny started calling up Andrew again and asking to go out. Mind you, just the two of them! Of course, Jack was welcome, also. But not me. I had an anti-invitation. Andrew didn't see anything wrong with hanging out exclusively with his ex-girlfriend who still likes him and went out with her a couple times before I finally was like, fuck this shit. He's in a relationship with me and needs to put my feelings first, not hers. If Jenny would rather never see Andrew again than tolerate my presence (or even just extend a friendly invitation; I might not even want to go!) then I think she's a pretty shit friend. I feel like she used her "hurt feelings" and frailty in a very manipulative way, a way that made both me and Andy feel bad. I felt awful for being excluded and Andrew felt awful for excluding me but we went against that for her sake, which is nutso, as she isn't a member of our relationship (thank God).
Then you combine that ridiculous drama with the fact that I'm in a new places, meeting new people, with no real friends of my own yet, except maybe Ted, who I've hung out with a couple times and who is damned awesome. I'm very in friend with Ted right now. He, too, likes comic books and superhero movies, and he invited us to a pool party at his place and we went and had a swimming time (pun intended).
And then on top of all that, we have Andrew's mother visiting this week!
Pictured here plotting Snow White's death.
Andrew's mother and I haven't interacted much since she kicked me out of her house a couple years ago, unless you count her being rude to me the day after the twins' dad's funeral. (Classy!) I'm not looking forward to seeing her again because she always gets snippy and impolite to me, but always when the twins are in another room. It seems very intentional. Ideally, she and Jenny could hook up and spend the five days she'll be here complaining about me, thereby leaving me and Andrew alone to get in some more hiking.
So having all these conflicts made me come up with a couple great ideas, as follows:
Arbitration
A Bar "Where Justice is Served"
Concept: A bar where all the bartenders and waitstaff wear black shirts that read "moderator" on them. If two people have a conflict/argument/friendly disagreement, then they get a set amount of time to present their case (timed with a tiny sand hourglass, I like to imagine). The barkeep (an unbiased third party) then chooses the winner based on the cases, and presents the loser with the cheque. At the bar, you get 2 minutes, and at tables, 5. Reservations required for peak hours. You can "appeal" decisions to other bartenders as you like. This combines people's love of complaining, arguing, sharing shit with bartenders, alcohol, friendly competition, and gimmicks. It also encourages people to bring their friends to Arbitration, and to come during non-peak hours, when the barkeeps might give you additional time to present your case if they're not busy.
Inspired By: Noticing how everyone I explained the Jenny conflict to sided with me and wishing I had a platform to argue with him on. Also, wanting to drink over the argument and have an unbiased third party back me up.
"Moving On"
A Movie about a Women Whose Husband Is a Ghost But Is Less Stupid Than It Sounds
Concept: What if a woman's husband died and returned as a ghost to haunt her because he can't move on until he's sure she's going to be okay without him? Only she can see him. Unfortunately, she can't move on because she can still interact with him. Everyone around her insists she should move on and find a new partner, including her dead partner, but she simply can't get over him while he's there, but he can't move on until she has.
Inspired By: I still love Jack, a lot. We three have a solid understanding of our relationships and boundaries, and that understanding is resting on a solid rock of friendship, but the thing is, it still hurts after all these years. Unlike so many other people, I've been given a second chance (Andrew), but I'm scared to give it my all because I can't go through a second heartbreak after the first one. We're getting very serious, him and I, and I have a vague idea that I might end up in a completely normal, happy, fulfilling life, which I'm both eager for and terrified of. The whole situation is really beyond what they teach you in school about Healthy Relationships. (What they teach you is, specifically, nothing. Fortunately, if you get too confused, you can always go to Arbitration.)
Babies are usually bald and as they grow, so does their hair. A person with long hair has been growing it out for a long time; you can tell how long by the length.
What if it worked in reverse?
What if you were born with a full head of hair and it grew inwards very slowly, and you could tell how long a person would live by the length of their hair?
"We don't care if it's a boy or girl, as long as it's got hair!" they'd joke.
If a baby were born with very long hair, everyone would congratulate the parents and pat them on the back, but if a baby was born with very short hair or none at all...
"Jim had a baby last week," one coworker would murmur to another by the water cooler, "Didn't have any hair."
"Oh, poor Jim," they'd say sympathetically. "I'll have my wife bring them over a casserole... that must be so hard."
"Give his wife my condelences," says the first co-worker.
"Of course. God, I can't even imagine. All my children had hair down to their knees."
Weird, I know, but I felt like this was a cool idea. Someone ought to make a flash animation or a short story about this. (Not it!)
Not updating your blog is a bit of a
vicious cycle... you don't want to, but the longer you leave it, the
more you have to say, and a more daunting task it is.
The way to break the cycle is through
Resolve, which is a type of wine.
"I'M SO MOTIVATED!"
Happily, I can't say I have too too
much to say. The last month has been a whole lot of just living in
Los Angeles, a place where the air shimmers like fool's gold and
smells like fried chicken. A place like that is easy to live in, as
long as you don't take it too seriously. This is probably why
everyone buys such tiny, ridiculous dogs. Not that I should talk; we have a rabbit.
And there's a guy who shops at Ralph's who has a parrot named Taco. Cause, you know, Los Angeles.
Undaunted by this city's eccentricities, I've been taking care of business
lately; since my work insurance has taken effect, I've set up
optometry, dentist, and ob/gyn appointments, which is probably more
than you wanted to know. Today I got new glasses!
"Please, no photography." Funny incidental story: Went to a bar, ordered food. Accidentally took the delivery guy's pen. Ran out of the bar to return it and was ushered back in by the bouncer, who I'd met earlier this evening. Got asked by someone in line for the bar what I'd "been in." In Los Angeles, it's more likely that you're famous than simply nice.
Fernando continues to be a bit of a
prick. Truth be told I think he might have Intermittant Explosive
Disorder, because he's a nice guy, generally, but when he gets mad,
there's no real control; he's just really reactive, over every little
thing. If the dog gets out, he goes berserk. Never mind that it was
an accident; he's going to come over, yelling his head off,
threatening us, et cetera. This puts us in a bad position: do we
beat up a crazy old man with a heart condition or let him flail at us
while we shrug comically to each other and wait for the laugh track
to play? So far, I always manage to talk him down, and in a way,
it's nice for me (the reactive one) to be challenged to be put in
that position while Andrew (the pacifist) gets provoked. Still,
we've discussed moving, because we shouldn't have to worry about
being yelled at every month. There doesn't seem to be anything we
can do to appease him and I think the real reason he dislikes us is
for three factors we can't control: we're young, and we're white, and
we have dogs. (He's a cat person.)
Never have an Otherkin neighbour... they hate it when you throw parties on weekends.
Other than Fernando, my commitment to a
drama-free life is panning out well. Jenny has decided to butt out
forever, and while I feel guilty that Andrew's lost a friend, I'm
also aware that it was not my decision, or his, but hers. I haven't
hung out with Brandon since he went Full Fernando on me, which is
alright, as I've been socialising a lot at work and also have made a
new friend, Ted. I met Ted online and he's 1) not a serial killer,
2) also recently relocated and looking for friends, 3) clever and
quippy, and 4) strongly opinionated on comic books.
You might say he makes a lot of boners.
Aside from that
I've been doing a fair share of socialising at home.
...by getting screamed at by Fernando.
Jack and I are doing well though I'm
worried our relationship hasn't quite been repaired since our fight.
This is exacerbated by the fact that Jack hangs out with Brandon a
lot and I just can't respect Brandon anymore. He is not part of my
new drama-free life. Andrew and I, however, are doing better than
ever. Andrew's a great person to emulate if you're going for low
drama because he's so good at being positive. Speaking of J&A,
the twins' birthday was last month and I took them out to Medieval
Times.
He couldn't resist doing a "Blue Steel" look for the camera.
So if you've never been to Medieval Times in Los Angeles, go, because
their princess (“Catalina”) has an inexplicable valley girl
accent so thick it could be cut like butter if butter weren't so
super, like, awful for your butt. “Catalina” was matched only by
the Black Knight, who was like, dude, totally not cool, man.
The three of us also went camping last
weekend in Cooper's Canyon, just outside of Pasadena. Cooper's
Canyon is a picturesque place of boulders, sands, soaring pines, and
a sky so blue you wish you could drink it.
I much prefer hanging out with just
them (and sometimes Ted) than others. We went to a pool party last
month, for example, with one of Jack's friends, Anita, and it was
dreadful. All of them were strangely immature, even the 40-yr-old
guy who was dressed like a pirate but also in a kilt (a Scottish
pirate?) and thought it was okay to hang out with all of the kids in
their shitty apartment where the main decoration on the walls were
anime posters. It was... bafflingly. It was something of a reminder
that Jack,while the same age as Andrew, is so much more immature than
him and at a different (lower) level in this video game we call life.
Personally I'm getting comfortable with being an adult and balancing
my chequebook and going to bed early and figuring out what my
mortgage will be when I buy a house, and I'm less and less willing to
hang out with people who are not at that level.
"That Level" here refers to a bar in Los Angeles.
But seriously, example: 16-yr-olds. Andrew's cousin
(Heather) and her best friend (Dylan) came and stayed with us last
month, and while they were alright, I couldn't get over the idea that
their mother had sent them across the country alone for a
mini-vacation. They weren't particularly great guests: didn't offer
to help with dishes, didn't offer to pay for dinner when we went out,
left an ENORMOUS mess when they left.
The kind of mess normally only made when yuppie assholes who are texting while driving slam their SUVs into fire hydrants. In Los Angeles, the nicer the car, the more of a danger the driver is. This happened last month, about six blocks over. This month, all the fire hydrants are okay, although someone got shot on my block two days ago and the crime scene investigation was phenomenally involved. Lots of cops and yellow tape and all that, just like on telly! The coroner was wearing brown slacks with a grey suit, indicting that he either dressed poorly because he works with dead people, or vice versa, or perhaps is actually super scared of death and constantly requires brown pants.
Having people visiting was hard because
of my social anxiety, compounded by the fact that after working a
10-hr. day I don't want to come home to entertain anyone or show them
about a city I don't know well yet. Also Andrew's family in general
makes me uneasy ever since his mother had a meltdown a few years ago
and kicked me out of her house and has taken ever opportunity since
to be really rude to me. The worst part, though, with having the
kids around, was that I couldn't cut loose and do any of the things I
normally do when I get home from work: take off my shirt and bra,
uncork a bottle of wine, et cetera.
Speaking of drinks, we went to a bar
last month and tried an Old Spanish, which combines tonic water and
riesling with a few jumbo green olives. Shockingly... not terrible.
Mind you, I don't want you to get the impression we do nothing but go
to bars. We went to Ikea recently, which was alright but I was
somewhat disappointed because everyone had set the bar so high.
Jack, for example, lost his shit over these coasters, which were made of 40% recycled material and 60% Swedish horse meat.
We got picture frames and hung up some
pictures about the house, including Carlisle's “certificate of
bravery,” which he got from his last surgery, and a series of 6
drawings Jack did of us three and the dogs hanging out together.
In closing news as temperatures continue to climb, we got Seamus got a haircut.
Before: The dog who loves unconditionally and drools uncontrollably. He leaves drool-hearts frequently, which is endearingly gross.
After: The poster boy for shelter dogs everywhere. "Consider adopting your new best friend TODAY!" ^_^
(This is what prolonged living in California does to you... MAKE OVER!)
Today I'd like to tell you a bit about my work, in part because I think I have a pretty unique perceptive on a hot-button issue, and also because I feel rather proud of myself for getting my career off the ground. In an economy where everyone bitches constantly about unemployment, it only took me three months and ridiculous tenacity to get my dream job.
"HIRE ME, DAMMIT."
Mind you, I haven't updated in a while because I don't feel like I have much to say but I don't want to disappoint my adoring readership (which, based on my IP tracker, is a combination of my boyfriend and my overly nosey parents repeated reloading my page.) (Hi Mom. Hi Dad. Just a friendly reminder: Don't read this blog if you don't feel like getting upset, and let's face it, you're going to find reasons to get upset. Please don't use my own words against me.)
So things are going exceptionally well here in California. Andrew and I painted the mailbox (robin's egg blue with a white fleur-de-lis... pictures to come, I'm quiet proud of it) and planted a cactus garden, and went rock climbing last weekend at the Malibu State Creek. We took Carlisle because why not; he and I went swimming down a canyon because I didn't trust him on the traverse (you have to climb a vertical ledge to get to the climbing site), but on the way back we just carried him in a backpack because he was tired.
Also, we've really managed to resolve things with our grumpy neighbour, Fernando. Turns out that putting your enormous pet rabbit in a floral dress harness and walking her about the neighbourhood is a fantastic way to engage your neighbours in friendly conversation. And, as far as Jenny goes, she's finally agreed to stop bugging us, which is nice, because getting bitchy letters in the mail every week was getting to be old.
I attribute most of the good things in my life right now to my gainful employment. They say that money doesn't buy happiness, but what it does buy is security, and it's very difficult to be happy if you don't feel secure. Also it's regulated my sleep cycle, my eating, and my drinking, which is doing wonders for my health, although my generous benefits package has probably contributed on that front as well.
"Nine out of ten doctors said, 'Who is this? Why are you calling so late?'"
My job (and I hope maybe career?) is as an Animal Technician, which makes it sound like I manipulate tiny animal robots but is actually less interesting.
Could've put a clip of Flipsy from the Simpsons here, or Robopuppy from Futurama, but instead watch this ketchip robot. I laugh everytime at this.
My job has three major components: directly working with animals, cleaning their poo off of everything, and then doing some very light paperwork and communication.
An average day begins for me at 5:35 am, when I leave the house to get to work at 6. Although I don't think of myself as a morning person, the truth is, I am. Once I'm out of bed I enjoy getting up early, I enjoy putting on a cardigan and walking the dogs in the cool morning air, and I enjoy driving on an uncrowded freeway toward the Los Angeles skyline, lit up like a Christmas tree and crowned in a smog-blurred sunrise. I also like the K-Earth 101 morning segment "Dude's Little Joke of the Day," which comes on a 5:40 am when the city is just to my left (right after the exit for the 60 to Pomona).
Announcer: It's time for Dude's little surfer joke of the day. Dude: HEEELLLLOOOOO, everybody! [prattling for 5 seconds] Dude: What do you call a camel without a hump? Announcer (sort of condescendingly): What do you call a camel without a hump? Dude: ...HUMPFREY. Announcer (groaning): Duuuude. Dude (laughing): Ha-ha, dude.
...only in California.
Anyway, I get into work and punch in at 5:55 on the dot, and immediately change into scrubs and a bunch of protective gear. Think shoe covers (blue), hair covers (white), a disposable gown (yellow), a respirator mask (blue but not the same as the shoe covers), and gloves (purple or tan). The scrubs are red. I hope that nightmare colour combos aren't distressing to animals because otherwise we have a serious confounding factor in all of the research.
...like, you know, whoa, man.
The facility ("vivarium") is in a secured basement, which you need a keycard to get into, and move around in. It's a very nice clinical setting, rather like a high-tech Avengers movie where maybe they're developing something awesome. Oh wait. They totally are. Like the artificial retina that can make blind people see.
Behind closed doors, each locked (you need a real key in addition to your keycard) are the animals. Most rooms are just racks with self-contained units of mice or rats, up to 70 cages on each side of the rack. Most of them aren't isolated; they like to have buddies in there with them. And yes, they have toys; mice get little fluff squares to rip up and make nests with, and the rats have tubes and pipes to play in. The racks are hooked up to air and water so the animals have controlled air flow, temperature, humidity, fresh water, et cetera. They're like condominiums, in a way. Aside from the racks, most rooms only have a hood, which you need to use if you're going to change cages or pull out mice to examine them.
In the mornings, I go to the rooms I'm responsible for and either change cages (hundreds and hundreds; mice get changed weekly and rats biweekly) or just check the mice to make sure they have food and are doing okay. I have to report overcrowded cages, separate mice that have been fighting, report any sickness, injuries, new litters (baby mice look like meat jellybeans), and change flooded cages. (If you ever change a rack, occasionally one or two water valves will leak. Since the mice get checked at least every 24 hours, they won't drown, but they will be soggy and grumpy and sometimes we'll put them on a heater to fluff them out and make them feel better.)
I found this picture of a mouse on a floaty on a page titled "The Benefits of Astaxanthin for Endurance and Fat Loss." Apparently flooding mouse cages are a big problem in other labs as well.
After checking on my mice (or rats; I have about 33 cages of rats) (we have all sorts of animals but currently I only work with rodents; the vast, vast, vast majority of our vivarium is rodents), I clean the rooms and fill out some paperwork. How many were dead, injured, sick? Is everyone okay? Most days, everything is fine. The most common injuries I see are dermatitis, usually caused my excessive barbering (when a dominant mouse or rat chews hair off the submissives). I e-mail both vets and contact people to let them know if I found anything off or needed to move an animal.
The second half of my day is cleaning. The facility's core is an elaborate assembly-line-type washroom. Well, two rooms. One is "dirty" and the other is "clean." Cages go in one room, are loaded on a conveyor belt, and move to the other side, clean, where we put bedding and toys in and then autoclave them for good measure, then put them away for the next time we need them. It seems like a little bit of a laugh that I needed a college degree to scrap poo off of cages, but hey, whatever.
"Thanks Penn State!"
Ultimately, though, I love my job. The characters are great; my boss announces himself when he walks into a room via birdcalls, and gives out candy on Fridays. Everyone is pleasant and kind and happy. The work should be tedious but isn't; you fall into a lull and get a lot done and it passes in a happy time warp of looking at animals gambolling about in furry piles. I like the hands-on type of work it is, combined with the science behind it. Also there's the sense of importance, knowing you're having some small hand in helping cures diseases, that you have to take your work seriously and be careful because you're the first line of defense for both the comfort of the animals and the integrity of the research.
As someone who owns animals and hasn't eaten meat in 20 years, I think it's interesting to consider animal research. I've always thought of it as a grey area, but having worked at this facility for the last five weeks or so, I can say my experience has been positive. When asked about it, though, I think it's important to note that, if ANYONE is qualified to work with research animals, it should be animal lovers. Animal lovers are the ones most likely to care about the comfort of the animals; these are the people you should be most willing to trust with the handling of your subjects.
One thing to consider is why test on animals. The simple fact of the matter is that in vivo studies are far and away the best models we have to see how things work. Experimental surgical procedures, for example, really have to be done on a living creature to know they work. You can't test pharmaceuticals on a cadaver; no amount of cold medicine will make that guy feel better if he's already dead. The "why" of animal testing is because it's the best and last resort for researchers, and the more we learn, the more that benefits all living creatures as a whole. Most of our animals are used for drug testing, drugs that should work and we hope work, and most of them don't appear to suffer any real side effects at all. Remember, most of these mice were bred with various conditions. A mouse might be born with diabetes and we're the ones curing that diabetes. That's a good thing.
It's also worth noting here that the president of PETA is a diabetic who takes insulin, and that that insulin injection research is a result of testing on dogs. And all that allergy and asthma medication that I take to allow me to work with the animals? Also a result of animal research. You'd be amazed at what's come out of animal research.
I don't want you to think I'm biased in any way toward or against this, though. It's still a grey area for me. I'm not trying to champion it or to change anyone's mind about it, but I do think that the public's general opinion is uninformed and very unfounded. These are just my observations. At the end of the day, animal research and testing isn't the same as it was twenty years ago (at least not in America and not at prestigious universities). It's not like in the book "Plague Dogs," that's for sure. In fact, I would definitely argue that the animals at our facility have better lives than the average "pet" mouse picked up at Petco by an eight-year-old's mother wanting to teach "responsibility."
You know how kids are. When I was 7 and got a pet kitten I played "Kangaroo" by stuffing him down my pants and jumping down the stairs. In the lab we would never do that. Not enough funding, for one thing.
It's true that, on Thursdays, I euthanise animals, but even that is done respectfully and humanely. (For example, when I go around the facility with a cart collecting the animals to be euthanised, I don't yell "BRING OUT YOUR DEAD!" or "DEAD MOUSE WALKING!" even though I just know it would be hilarious.) (For those wondering how we do it, gassing, followed by a secondary method just to make absolutely sure they don't wake up. The gassing is done in their cage with their buddies so they never really know what's happening; they just go peacefully to sleep. Secondary method is usually cervical dislocation, which I learned last summer at an internship working with injured owls who had to have their mice cut up for them.) This is not even the worse part of my day; the worst part is the commute home on the 10, which takes about 20-35 minutes depending on traffic and is a reminder that some people would be better off without artificial retinas since they clearly aren't using them to watch the goddamn road anyways.
So that's a pretty solid run-down of my average experience in a day. I get home from work by 4 at the very latest, affording me time with my home, dogs, and boyfriend, a nice evening meal, and a relaxing night of reading and sex. I have full benefits and weekends off, and truth be told I'm not always sure what to do with myself. I have had passing thoughts of joining a bowling league or getting a second part-time job just to sort of occupy my time.
Sorry for a moderately serious post, but you have to admit, this sort of perspective is rare. Last summer Dan and I went to the National Animal Rights Conference and the stigma associated with animal research is, at least in my opinion, completely undeserved; I think this is one of the most humane treatment of animals I've seen and I'm really glad to be a part of it. This combines perfectly my love of taking care of animals while contributing to a scientific endeavour; on Wednesdays we go to lectures in the afternoon and listen to topics like "Swine in Trauma Research" and "Clinical Signs in Rats." It's just what I imagined my adult life to be like: working with animals and diseases, working with my hands and hauling heavy stuff but also being in a very clinical setting, being active but also intellectual, and all the while knowing that I'm helping to minimise suffering in the world, not just for the animals whose bodies we're using, by also for the people who might one day benefit from that research and testing.
You know how good it's been? I baked a cake. Yeah. Me. A cake. Devil's food with cream cheese frosting that I put on before it was cooled so that it melted into an ooey-gooey moist mess of incredible confectionary wonder. If that doesn't spell out hopeful for you, I don't know what does.
Before I continue with today's
regularly scheduled post, I would like to take a moment to talk about
yesterday's nightmarish experience.
It started when I came home to find our
front door wide open. Our experience with Jonathan was a real
wake-up call, and Andrew and I agreed to begin locking the door. (We
never bothered to previously because of the dog, but since the dog
knows Jonathan and not much about betrayal, we decided it was time to
trust in something more... inanimate.)
Puzzled, I stuck my head in and called
out, “Andrew?”
That's when I noticed the dogs weren't
there. He must have taken them on a walk, I reasoned. But no—there
were their leads, hung over the hook on the back of the door.
Also the hook looked like this so I knew something was up.
Suddenly chilled, I realised Andrew
wouldn't be home at this time (about 3 pm). Being blonde and having
lots of horror films, and having already broken the cardinal rule
about entering a seemingly abandoned house after calling out “hello,”
I decided I needed to nut up. Grabbing the baseball bat next to the
shoe rack, I began a circuit of the house: dining room, living room,
kitchen, utility room, bathroom, and finally bedroom.
Like all blonde girls exploring haunted/invaded houses with baseball bats,
I first stripped down to my underwear.
When I opened
the bedroom I was immediately attacked... by Seamus.
Pictured here being too cool to guard the goddamn house.
Relief flooded through me, followed my
confusion.
The dogs hadn't escaped because they'd
been locked in the bedroom, but the front door was wide open. What
the hell?
I checked to make sure our valuables
were accounted for, and they were. Even more flabbergast, I called
Andrew and told him to come over because I was pretty sure someone
had entered our house.
He arrived remarkably quickly,
confirmed that he'd left the door unlocked like an idiot but had most
certainly not locked the dogs into the bedroom, and went through the
circuit again with me.
We found one single thing different
than we'd left it, other than the doors:
The toilet was clogged.
I was going to put a funny caption here, but I don't think I need to. What the hell is she smiling about? I bet this is the same psycho bitch who came into my house and clogged my john.
That's right. Leaving our front door
unlocked in South Central, we had a vagrant wander into the house,
casually put the dogs into the bedroom (presumably so they wouldn't
bother him/her), and use the toilet.
So. Creeped. Out.
We considered calling the police, but
since nothing was taken, we opted out. Our current top theories are:
Some sort of service technician (a
Comcast guy, maybe) came over, used the toilet, looked around for
the telly, realised he was in the wrong house, and left in a
panicked hurry.
A drug user, older person with
dementia, child, or other person of compromised mental health came
in to use the toilet and forgot to close the door when they left.
A person stopping by another
person's house, perhaps answering a Craigslist ad, came over,
waited, and when they realised they had the wrong address, bailed.
Andrew forgot to let the dogs out
of the bedroom and to lock the door. The wind blew the door open,
no one entered, and it was happy coincidence that the dogs didn't
escape. This doesn't explain the clogged toilet, though it should
be noticed that our toilet is so shitty that it clogs if you even
mention burritos to it.
In any case, it was frightening, and
we're EXCEPTIONALLY lucky that nothing was stolen and the dogs are
okay. I hope it was also a wake-up call for Andrew. (I said, not
bluffing, if anything like this ever happens again, I am moving out.
I can't live in a home that's unsafe for me or the pooches.)
Also I think this is a typical weird
Los Angeles story. (Stoner Takes Dump and Nothing Else.) (Hobos
Find House Wide Open, Give a Shit.) (Crap Not Worth Taking, But Crap
Taken.)
(I could just keep
going, but I won't.)
Los Angeles is a
pretty weird city in a lot of ways. For example, neighbourhoods
merge into each other in a weird tapestry of interwoven socioeconomic
levels. It's not uncommon to take a wrong turn and end up on the set
of Game of Thrones, or a meth lab, or both. You have to take the 10
to get just about anywhere, and everyone calls it The Ten instead of
I-10, and it's one of the few real divides in the city; below the 10
is clearly poorer than north of it. Getting on a bus you see divas
and druggies, hipstas and gangstas, and getting off it you are almost
guaranteed to trip over a chihuahua in a sweater, unless their owner
is holding him in a BabyBjorn.
But perhaps one of
the strangest things (for me) is the ridiculous accessibility of
liquour.
Now, maybe I'm
biased, having spent the last six years in the middle of
Pennsylvania.
But here, you can
get booze at liquour stores, grocery stores, markets, convenience
stores, book stores, gas stations, barbershops, thrift stores, and
probably Toys R Us for all I know. And it's not like they don't have
bars; Los Angeles is practically swimming in them, pun intended.
One of the big
“themes” around here is the speakeasy. A lot of bars are themed
like 1920s speakeasies, complete with a douchey bartender in a
waistcoat and cummerbund on his arm. Personally I sort of like the
vibe, but after four months I have found that some bars more than
others pull it off.
And so, for your
consideration, here are some noteworthy speakeasies, both famous and
infamous:
The Speakeasies of Los Angeles
Best Speakeasy:
R Bar
Overall Rating:
5 Stars
The R Bar is a
corner bar situated in Korea Town, and so far I have never been
disappointed. You need a password to get in and once inside you'll
find the atmosphere to be perfect. There are nooks with comfortable
couches, low lighting, and curious decorations that have a geek chic
sort of feel without being too overbearing. The food and drinks are
all reasonably priced and fantastic. Sometimes the music is too
loud, but the areas in the back are quieter and very comfortable.
This bar is never empty but rarely packed. Last time we went, “The
Big Lebowski” was playing on the television. Drink specials change
daily and always have inexplicably nautical names like “Siren's
Call” and “Jolly Roger.” Their bartenders are really
down-to-earth. Ask for Dan; he makes a pizza shot with basil vodka
that literally tastes like pizza. There is no parking. This is
probably one of the only cons.
Most
Historically Accurate Speakeasy:
Varnish
Overall Rating:
4 Stars
Varnish is a bar
downtown located in the back of a restaurant called Cole's, which
also has a bar. Varnish is a tiny one-room bar entered through an
unmarked door that strives to be accurate in its appearance as a
1920s speakeasy. The bartenders are in costume and there's usually
someone playing a jaunty tune on the piano. Their drinks are limited
and take forever to craft, but are very well done. They're expensive
but worth trying. Seating is very hard to come by and it's often
crowded. There's also usually at least one jerk wearing a fedora in
the crowd. Parking is on the street, but not hard to find. If you
have time and money and don't mind waiting and standing for a table
(or waiting for your drink), I would actually recommend this place.
I think it says a lot that the atmosphere is so cool I was willing to
wait for $13 drinks. Also, despite being expensive, you get your
money's worth: the drinks are LOADED and taste great.
Least
Historically Accurate Speakeasy, but Great Hole-in-the-Wall Dive Bar:
The Living Room
Pictured: The exact oppositeof what it's actually like.
Overall rating: 2 ½ Stars
I'm not even
sure if the Living Room is a speakeasy. Located on Crenshaw Blvd.
below the 10, The Living Room is a small dive bar. You need to buzz
in to get in and it's easy to miss. Once inside, it's often crowded
(but rarely packed). There is always live music, mostly jazz and
blues. The people are fun and friendly. My bartender's name was
Summer and she was the nicest person I ever met. I went back and she
was there hanging out, but not working, and she actually made me a
drink when I had trouble ordering. The bartenders are just super
accommodating like that and will make just about anything.
Everything is good and affordable, and more than anything, the
bartenders here are outstanding. If you're on a budget but want a
place with music and atmosphere, this is probably your best bet.
Worst Speakeasy:
Villains
Over-all rating:
1 ½ Stars
(Because Ernie
the bouncer was nice. He was the coolest guy we met all evening.)
So I went to Villains earlier in the week and here was my experience. First let
me state the pros: they have a parking lot. Now let me state the
cons: everything. The atmosphere is great if you can get past all
the hipsters. This bar is struggling very, very hard to be cool.
The front is just open and everyone's smoking, which I hated. When I
went to order, I asked for a couple standard drinks (like a Bloody
Mary, Dirty Martini, et cetera) and was told they didn't have any of
them. They said they didn't make liqueur drinks. (You might notice
that a Bloody Mary is a vodka drink.) When I asked for a suggestion,
I was handed a menu of 6 mixed drinks, ranging in price for $13-20.
I asked for one and was told they didn't have the right ingredient
for it. (The drink was a peach something or other and they didn't
have the peaches.) Look, assholes, if you're only going to have SIX
drinks, you could at the very least ensure you are stocked with the
right ingredients. We were told the prices were expensive because
all the ingredients were high-quality and natural. Apparently, the
reason my peach drink couldn't be made was the orchard hadn't been
planted yet. That's how fresh their over-priced crap is. Did I
mention they serve it in Mason jars? For $20, I expect anything
other than a fucking jar. That's not “hip.” That's tacky. So I
asked about wine and found that their least expensive wine was $18.
You know the difference between an $18 bottle of wine and a $5 bottle
of wine? $13. A fucking PBR was like five dollars. This place was
so insanely expensive and the bartenders were adamant about refusing
to make recommendations, offer suggestions, or deviate even slightly
from their 6-item (de facto 5-item) menu. When I finally ordered a
different drink, the bartender mixed it and then tried it with a
straw. Listen, asshole, you're not a mixologist if you can only do
five drinks. And if you can only mix five drinks then you damn well
better be able to mix it without tasting it. You should be able to
get into a car accident and have irreversible brain damage and still
mix a weak drink in a Mason jar if you have only 5 choices and make
hundreds of them a night. I had two drinks, both of which were
disappointing, and a side of chick peas, which were decent. Our bill
was $50. There was no music, but it was loud because of the hipsters
playing Jenga and Connect Four, which Villains has enormous novelty
versions of so that you can be even more of a dickhead there. This
bar is clearly meant for upper middle-class university twats who
recently turned 21, are spending their parents' money, and are
studying liberal arts.
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
