Teeth Lady

The teeth lady fills me with rage and then pity. She’s the teeth lady because two times a day (there could be more we don’t know about) she cleans her entire mouth in the office bathroom. My co-worker will pass by my desk and say “Teeth Lady’s in there.” It’s a kind of warning, but it’s also a signal to stare at each other and shake our heads, “Some people!”

Sharing the bathroom with a large law firm has been hard for us to adjust to. We used to have the floor to ourselves, and all the ladies had a favorite stall. We joked about getting name plates. Now you can’t frequent the same stall reliably because someone might have soiled it, so to speak. Also, I can’t unbutton my pants in the hall anymore. Intimacy with strangers is always fraught (I’ve written about it before), and these law people, it was decided, have no decency. One woman likes to stand by the sinks and comb her long weave with her fingers, watching it shed and form a pile around her. Then she leaves the pile so the hair can roam free, and for the rest of the day, I find her hair on me. But Teeth Lady is the worst.

The ole tooth in coke experiment.

She is in her thirties and mouse-ish: she treads lightly and looks at you like you might run at her. This of course makes me want to run at her. She knows she’s doing something unusual, but she can’t help it. At first I gave her the benefit of the doubt. I thought maybe she’d just had oral surgery and needed to clean after eating. Like really clean. First with the flossing, then brushing and then with some sort of gum picks. It’s a full scale attack, and she finishes with mouth wash that always sprays and splatters a bit on the marble counter. She also takes up half the counter with all her tools. You try to politely dodge around her and make your way to the sink without getting sprayed. Ironically, she keeps her dental tools in a Coca Cola toiletry bag, which always makes me think of the Science Fair in elementary school where I saw a tooth dissolve in a jar of Coca Cola.

Cat Whisperer

For Spencer:

Sina and Amelia: we found love in a hopeless place

When I tell the story of the whisperer, and I tell it often because it’s not something you can suppress, I first explain that we had no choice. My roommate and I are not ninny, crazy cat ladies. We were faced with an impossible situation that sadly happened because of love. Sina, my roommate, fell in love with an abandoned six year old cat he named Amelia. Her previous owner left Amelia at the vet: she couldn’t pay for her bill, so she told the vet to euthanize her.

We did some research about how to introduce Amelia to my cat, Francis (our cats are named Amelia and Francis. It’s as white as it gets), but nothing really prepared us for the fights. To watch your precious baby turn into a killer, shaking your roommate’s cat by the neck, was deeply traumatizing. Blood was drawn, and for a month Amelia lived sequestered in Sina’s room. That was when we heard about the whisperer, Wilbur Universe. That’s not his real name but it’s close enough. He has his own Animal Planet show. Were we going to be on TV? Before he came over, I cleaned the toilet and bathroom sink, even though Wilbur’s assistant specifically told us not to clean and alert the cats that something unusual was about to happen. Although cleaning alone is unusual.

I had been expecting Robert Redford the horse whisperer, but Wilbur is a different species. He is a cross between Mr. Clean and a heavily tattooed Cherry Poppin’ Daddy. He has two sleeves of cat tattoos. One arm has sweet, good cats on it. The other has snarling, bad kitties. He has facial hair groomed to resemble the genie in Aladdin. His ears are pierced with enormous hoop earrings. He should be called the cat genie. He also carried a guitar case adorned with a painting of a giant cat eye. Throughout our session I braced myself for a musical performance. If he was going to serenade the cats, I wasn’t going to be able to keep a straight face, and I was on my best behavior.

Running for Burgers

In-N-Out Rewards Young Readers

I would marry In-N-Out if I could. Since I can’t, I will consider following it on twitter. I already have their number in my phone. You can call them and they’ll give you directions to the closest In-N-Out. I once ran a race for a number 2 animal style. In college I was on the very intramural cross country team, and I didn’t want to compete because I was terrible, but there was an In-N-Out near the race. So I ran for burgers, but oddly, this didn’t make me faster. At the end of the race they had to announce, “We still have one runner on the field.” That runner was me.

Having been raised by people who grow vegetables, consuming fast food fills me with pleasure and then extreme guilt. I’m sure this isn’t an uncommon feeling, but I understand that children of hippies often experience extreme food rebellion/regression. Denied as a child, I still hunger for Lunchables and Gushers. We also didn’t have In-N-Out in Santa Cruz (there were months of protests when McDonalds moved in), so it’s always seemed like a treat, a celebration. Of course, I’m beginning to realize it’s also an addiction.

Wedge Cut, Blow Dried

Seems longer than 36 seconds. What is making her spin?

Minority Report

I just moved to Koreatown, but my neighbors are mostly Latino. It’s actually called the Byzantine-Latino quarter. I was hoping I might pass as Byzantine, but Greeks don’t usually have red hair. I grew up in a predominantly white community of hippies, so I’m not used to being a minority. I feel like a foreign exchange student.

It makes me very uncomfortable just to talk about the fact that I’m recognizably different than my neighbors. Years of living with the politically correct police makes me scared of saying or thinking the wrong thing. I also don’t want to acknowledge the neighborhood’s poverty. I won’t notice it until I give directions to my house by saying, “Turn left at the pile of toilets.” It’s as if I want to claim that I see no difference between myself and my neighbors–culture, race and class just don’t exist. I probably cling to this delusion because I’m afraid everyone in my neighborhood will accuse me of racism.

While You Were Eating

I can’t deny it. I’ve been MIA. I’m not sure what happened in December, but I suddenly felt like I didn’t have anything worth saying. This coming from someone who has blogged about her cat’s feces. Perhaps the pressure of two thousand eleven, two thousand heaven, proved too much. But then again two thousand nine, two thousand fine was a blog-worthy year. Two thousand ten doesn’t rhyme with anything, so maybe that’s why I blogged all over the place. Anyway, my blogging skills are rusty, so while I warm up (don’t want to tear a muscle), below is an itemized list of my happenings.

January-

• Discovery of 30 Rock on Netflix Streamable.
• Acceptance of Liz Lemon as my avatar.
• Papa Cristo’s Greek Restaurant on Pico and Normandie has fantastic food and is charming as hell. They have a signed poster for My Big Fat Greek Wedding, so you know they’re authentic.
• Car breaks down. Valve problems. Forced to take public transportation which is scarily easy. I vow never to look back.
• Join a gym. Wear my Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles T-shirt to exercise.
• In-N-Out puts calories on their menu. Doesn’t stop me.

February-

• Cravings for Panda Express increase.
• Cat has his testicles removed.
• Cat accepts offer of Valentine’s date.
• Nutella.
• Attempt to write a web series about crazy cat ladies and the prejudices they face. Experience difficulties orchestrating a plot.
• Prepare myself for the Academy Awards with rigorous pizza consumption from Tomato Pie in Silver Lake. They make the best New York style pizza in LA. It is the best part of the solo viewing party.
• My car is stolen, but then I learn it’s just been towed.

My Cat IS Hitting on Me

Dr. Poopy Pants, as he is sometimes known, strikes again.

This time in my bed. You know you love someone, or some cat, when you’ll let them shit in your bed.

Since I now do time as a cat psychologist, I believe he was marking his territory-claiming me as his. Oh wait, no I’m sitting in some leftover cat shit.

Oh, he shat on the couch too! I don’t feel special anymore.

Yet again, Poopy Pants a.k.a Youngblood, tells us something about human romantic relationships. Just because someone, or some cat, declares their love, doesn’t mean they aren’t declaring it all over the living room.

Also, I’m pretty sure YB is related to Kramer. He keeps making Kramer entrances-throwing himself through doorways and around the room. But he’s black, so he doesn’t make stupid racial remarks like Michael Richards.

Get your shit together Mr. Richards-you’re mad talented. YB, you also need to get your shit together.

This stuff really does work:

We need all three sizes.

Is My Cat Hitting on Me?

I know, I know. I owe you a piece about crazy Santa Cruz, but I interrupt that broadcast to bring you news of my cat-who I’m sure you’re all fascinated by.
The thing about animals is they teach us about ourselves. They make us re-examine the way we look at the world and YB (that stands for Young Blood, thank you very much) has definitely forced me to take a look at my relationship with sex–which is strange I KNOW!!

They are good at loving.

I did once dream I had sex with my cat-a dream I have stupidly shared with past boyfriends. They tried to make a run for it, but my dance moves brought them back.

YB loves vaginas. If you leave a pair of dirty underwear around, he’ll like roll around in them (he must be straight). If you ever crouch on the floor, maybe while you’re cleaning the shit out of his kitty box, he will crawl between your legs and try to nuzzle your nether regions. I THINK HE’S INTO ME!!! Did I also mention that he sleeps in my bed?

I've tried to avoid these as long as possible.

Then someone reminded me (probably wise Becky-who’s going to be an incredible therapist-get your appointments now) that he’s a feline. That’s what felines do.

So when a boy or girl starts hitting on you, remember that that’s what boys and girls do, and it has not a lot to do with who you are as a person. Let them flirt, take your time to see if you are interested and make sure they like you for all of you, not just your nether zone. Can I copyright that? Nether Zone? You heard it here first.