Monthly Archives: October 2013

LA Crash Course 101

fenderbender

Anyone who knows me knows about the kind of car I drive: A 2007 blue Toyota Corolla with roll-up windows (at least I have strong biceps), no power locks, some dents and scratches and three plastic Walmart hubcaps. And yes, I meant THREE. That pretty much describes my car to a tee. If you mistake it for one of those little bumper cars you see at county fairs, no offense taken.

Before you assume that I am about to hate on my car, you should know that this blog is not about that. In fact, I am so beyond grateful for my little “Engine That Could” that I just had to write about our experiences together.

I never really realized the meaning of the term, “LA driver” until now. Now, anyone who knows me also knows that I am and have always been an LA driver. I won’t even get into the description of what an LA driver is just to save myself from a lengthy lecture from the parentals. So, use your imagination.

To get down to the point, and just my luck, I have gotten into two car accidents in the last month alone. One being my fault, but the other one, I’m going to admit that I’m a little glad it happened. But the catch? Both of these guys barely spoke a word of English…

Accident #1 occurred right after I got off work, I was tired, the sun was in my eyes, I could list all the excuses in the book. Anyway, I rear-ended the car in front of me whom I thought was turning right from a red light, but the second I look away, he makes an actual stop. Now, who in their right mind doesn’t do the “California Roll?” Oh, right… someone who isn’t from California. We pull over and get out of the car.
Xi Sun Chin is the name on his ID (or something along those lines). Awesome. No English. Oh, but his American name is Tim. Don’t ask.

So, this one tiny fender bender left a dent the size of a dime on Tim’s bumper. After he texts me later that night, he asks me for $850 under the table to cover the damage. Excuse me, Tim? You really must not be from here. Your Hyundai Sonata’s plastic bumper is not worth $850. I may be fake blonde, but I’m not stupid. Then he tries to reason with me: $750. Gee, thanks for the $100 reduction, Tim! Still, total bullcrap. He starts giving me major BADitude and decides to go through insurance (by the way, this was all via text message… otherwise, there would have been a crap load of, “Huh? Wait, what? What did you say?” going on). After I told him I would just pay him what the body shop estimated, he said he didn’t have time to get an estimate. Bless you, Tim. Long story short, it was only about a $400 damage in which case my insurance company covered, and he got no money in his pocket. Success.

Accident #2 occured when I was driving up to the Griffith Observatory one night and apparently wasn’t seen in my lane, so this homeboy in his snazzy Audi rammed/side-swiped me. We get out of the car, and I exchanged information with Harashahmed Ashkensrsfj Sjfoijfslkjk (or something along those lines), as he is blaming me for not seeing him. Well, Harashahmed, I want to thank you for ruining the entire passenger’s side of my car, causing me to drive a total upgrade of a rental car (4-door Chrysler something something) for a week and making my county fair bumper car look brand-spankin’ new! Plus, it was so nice to feel like a “royal” for a few days with power windows… I may have spent a good couple minutes pressing the window buttons on my car in awe, saying, “Whoooaaaaaaaa!” It’s the little things in life…

At the end of the day, these incidents ended up being fortunes, instead of misfortunes. Thank you so much Tim and Harashahmed! Your services were greatly appreciated 🙂

It’s also safe to say that I will NEVER own a car worth over $16,000 in the city of Los Angeles.

Lesson of the day: One man’s trash is another woman’s bumper car. #thankful

Punk’d by Cupid

Screen Shot 2013-10-24 at 8.25.46 PM//
It’s only necessary for a blogger to discuss the topic of dating at least once, right? Well, after my ONE dating experience in Los Angeles, I assure you that this will be the ONLY dating post for a long time.

I would just like to start off by saying, my friends are great. They always have my best interests at heart, including men… Unless they were just so sick of me ranting about my non-existent love life, that they decided to take matters into their own hands and create an online dating account for me. Yeah, that was probably the case.
So after they created my account and added my best head shots (duck-face selfies) to my profile as I sat across the room in utter disbelief, we spent a decent amount of time “shopping” for men. Thank God we all have similar taste in guys, because every so often, we would unanimously yell in excitement, “Oh my gosh, he’s cute!”

After a couple weeks of aggressively clicking the “No, I don’t want to meet you” button, I was just about to give up on finding my dream guy… until… McHunky popped on my screen out of nowhere.

Male
Fitness Model
Age 23
Athletic Build (uh, you think?!)

SOLD!
Let’s just say, the amount of time it took me to click the “YES, I WANT TO MEET YOU” button was record-breaking.

After waiting anxiously for McHunky to chat me, I got a friendly notification that read “1 New Message” at the top of my screen. I may have done a little happy dance around my kitchen… Ok, my entire house.
Before I even chatted him back, I thought to myself, “OK, there’s gotta be something wrong with him… he’s an online dating subscriber, for Christ’s sake.” Oh, wait… so are you, Alex. So are you.
So I decided to reply. We got to talking… a lot. This guy was flawless. Seriously, what the heck is wrong with him? I had to get to the bottom of it.

When it came time to meet him in person, I forced my best friend to be there with me, just in case he was some 54-year-old chubby, bald escaped prisoner. OK that might be a little over-the-top, but you never know.

My first thought when I first met him: “Nice work, Cupid!”
We went out with my friends, had a great time, all that jazz. I decided he was safe and that I can pursue him a little bit more.

After we had been talking and hanging out for a little while, he informed me he had a modeling gig in LA coming up and that he wanted to take me to dinner after (which was fine with me, hoping he would come over with leftover oil still streaming down his beautiful abs). It was a win-win. Dinner AND a nice view? Again, SOLD.

We were at dinner, having a great conversation, when all of a sudden the topic of babies/kids came up. Before you get all weirded out, the topic was NOT about McHunky and I having kids (although they would probably have turned out beautiful). Just then, the six words that NO girl wants to ever hear came out of his mouth: “I should probably tell you something.”
My initial thought: ABORT! ABORT! GET OUT NOW! MAN WITH CHILD.
I decided to not be too quick to judge and hesitantly asked, “What is it…?”
“I kind of have a child.” Shit. Called it. But wait, he kind of has a child? Are some limbs missing or something? He then proceeded to tell me that he is, in fact, a sperm donor. Ha. Ha. Ha. You know those nervous laughs you didn’t even know you had, and that you just can’t control, when something so awkward occurs? Yeah, about ten minutes later, I was finally able to control myself. Apparently the woman who selected his sperm is pregnant. So, yes, he kind of has a child.

After thinking this was probably the last time I would see McHunky, we got back to my house to get settled in. As he unpacked his bag from his modeling gig, I think I hallucinated for a quick sec. Laying on my bed was a pair of brand-spankin’ new “tidy-whitey” underwear AND a few compacts of MAC makeup. “Cupid, am I being Punk’d?”
One part of me was quickly thinking of a way to fake an illness. The other part of me was thinking, “Is that my shade of makeup?” Snap out of it, Alex. There is nothing “normal” about a “straight” man who owns better makeup products than a woman.

After this ridiculous night, it’s safe to say, I haven’t spoken to the male-model-tidy-white-wearing-sperm-donor again. Oh, AND I also deleted my online dating account. For now, I am going to cherish my solitude and keep entertaining with my wild experiences. My Mr. Right will come out of nowhere… and he won’t share his sperm with the rest of the world. Too far? Sorry, mom and dad.

Good one, Cupid. Good one.

Lesson of the day: Don’t trust anyone who takes half-naked bathroom selfies with a dirty mirror.

Hammers and High Heels

heels

As my first main blog post, I decided to think back to when I first moved to Los Angeles…

I think the first thing I ever learned after I moved to LA was to never, EVER take electricity for granted. And since then, I cherish the crap out of it. When I first moved into my apartment, the electricity hadn’t been turned on yet. Thinking this was totally fine since I’d be at work most of the day was just downright stupid of me since we use electricity only at night. For about a week, I lived like a cavewoman, showering with two flashlights (thanks, mom and dad for the flashlights) standing up straight on the bathroom counter and eating dinner on my bed with a few candles burning (oh, and I should add that my roommate hadn’t moved in yet). I had gotten used to tripping over boxes and hanging out on my balcony, because, let’s face it: LA is like one big powerhouse. But don’t worry, it built character!

So now, you’re probably wondering why this post is titled “Hammers and High Heels.” Bare with me because it gets pretty good, if I do say so myself. And before you think I took this straight out of a movie, all of these blogs are inspired straight from my life.

*Cue the god-like music*
When I got home and flipped on a switch to check if my power had been turned on, it was the happiest I had been in a while. It was like Christmas morning. I was so excited to decorate my room and put all of my frames and wall decor up. As I took out my pink tool kit, I noticed that the most important tool of all was missing… my hammer. Oh, no no. That didn’t stop me. Now, anyone else would’ve given up and called it a day. But I am the type of person who, once I start a project, I can’t stop. I hate unfinished work more than anything. So what do I do? I think outside the box… or in this case, inside my shoe box. Yep, I hammered every single frame, wall ornament and Pinterest decoration in my room with my red Steve Madden high heel (poor things… they’ve really taken a beating). Thank God I had my pink level handy, because my frames may not be held that sturdy, but boy are they straight! To sum up, my first week living in Los Angeles was a total success.

Lesson of the day: Steve Madden’s rock hard heels serve more purpose than making girls’ lives miserable at the end of a long night out.