Entertainment Tonight: The Geriatric Hula

Every weekend, the City of Long Beach hosts some sort of entertainment throughout downtown. There are bands on street corners, and bands or entertainment at the little "theater," or sitting area really, down at the pier in Shoreline Village. Jesse had been jonesing for some Yardhouse french fries, so we walked down to get some.

The wait was 45 minutes. No french fries are worth that, though the Yardhouse fries might be worth a 20 minute wait. 45 is just asking too much. So we wandered down the rest of the pier (I don't know if it's actually a pier, it just sticks out over the harbor and there be boats, so pier it is now. As we wandered by the nightly entertainment area, this is what we encountered:



Aren't they the cutest things ever? I hope upon hope that I still have the wherewithal at age wrinkly to be doing the long-dress and boa hula, and that Jesse will still be thin enough to wiggle hisself like that. I don't count on either of those things, but a girl's got to have dreams, right?

Act of God. We are Doing the Right Thing.

Dude! So, while still living in Chico and working at Kirk's Jewelry, yet with the knowledge that Jesse was going to be a Chiropractor, a gentleman and his wife by the name of Dave and Lori B came into the store as friends of Kirk's in search of a ring. I helped them out with their search, and in chatting got around to Dave being Dr. David B, D.C. He is Kirk's old friend yes, but also the most prominent chiropractor in Chico. He is also the chiropractor for the entire Olympic team of Sierra Leone, not a small qualification. He told me to urge Jesse in the LACC (Jesse's school) direction, which Jesse obviously did. Dave gave me his info and told Jesse to call him if he ever had any questions or anything.

So Jesse's been thinking of visiting Dr B when he goes back to Chico at the end of the next term, just to kind of get his own foot in the door there - Dr. B is just the type of chiropractor that Jesse wants to be (successful). Jesse has to do an internship for the last term or two of his schooling, and he's hoping to do it with Dr B.

For a little more back story - I've been really having a hard time of it down here, and have been doubting the correctness of this choice. Maybe Jesse shouldn't be a Chiropractor - I mean, he doesn't really love school, and he wants to help old people, and he also wants to get his nurse-practitioner license as well. So I'm a little bit urging him to think about maybe going to medical school instead - I feel like as a medical doctor or N.P., you can have more sway in geriatric care. Also because the schools are closer to home... I could and would and want to go back in a heartbeat.

Then, and here comes the act-of-God part, I get a random phone call in the middle of my work day on my cell. Having a couple minutes, I actually answer it - and it is Dr. David B from Chico. He wanted to know if indeed my boyfriend ever made it to LACC and if we now live down in the LA area. As we do live here, he went on to tell us how his mother lives in Whittier (where Jesse's school is) and she's getting on in age. They're getting a little worried about having her live alone now, but she's not really ready for a home yet - just some assistance every day. He said he knows that there are services he could hire to help her out, but since he wouldn't know them or have a chance to meet them, he'd prefer asking someone he knows first. And since he knows me a little and Kirk trusts me implicitly, and Jesse is going to be a colleague of his someday soon, he would like to ask us to do it.

So... Chiropractor Jesse admires and wants to create a relationship with asks Jesse to help him with his geriatric mother, which is Jesse's area of interest anyway, as well as having a year of experience in the assisted living field anyway, near Jesse's school. Crazy, huh?!

This Will Only Make Sense to People who Have Been to the Naked Lounge with Me

This at first glance may just seem like an awkward picture of my roommate and friend Margaret holding my niece Samantha at the Aquarium of the Pacific here in Long Beach. It is, indeed, that. But it is SO much more than that.

Many of my friends from Chico have spent many an hour with me at the Naked Lounge, the best coffee shop in town and probably all of Northern California. It is filled with couches, atmosphere, the scent of good coffee, and eclectics. Many of them know the long history of myself and a certain eclectic man. I invite these friends to take a closer look at the gentleman in the upper left corner of this photo. I shall zoom in for clarity:


OH MY @!#$% IS THAT JEWISH MARK??? WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING IN LONG BEACH?? HOW ON EARTH DID HE TRAVEL OUTSIDE OF CHICO?

**For those of you not knowing the history, Jewish Mark has been someone who has talked at me extensively throughout my days in Chico - since I was 19. It is difficult to avoid conversation with Mark, regardless of whether you are alone or with a group, walking or talking, drinking coffee or reading a book. Not to say that conversation is a bad thing, you know... but I am selfish with my coffee time. The fact that he may have shown up in Long Beach, CA, is similar to the appearance of Moby Dick in the same location, tooting one of those little party wooters and wearing a Mickey Mouse hat.

This is bizarre. This is surreal. This had better just be a doppelganger.

Write about Rabbits

I started at LBCC Tuesday night. Turns out I registered for MACROECONOMICS instead of Micro. Shoot.

This was my first foray onto the LBCC main campus - I had no idea what to expect. I did not expect to become a stalker within my first 10 minutes of arrival. Not like "every vow you break, every smile you fake" stalker, because I really don't like anyone that much, except for maybe Jesse when I was overtly stalking him. More like "every move you make, every step you take" towards your car. So that I can weasel my way into your parking place. SERIOUSLY. It was worse than parking near my house on street-cleaning night, worse than any other college I've been to, worse even than the MALL at CHRISTMAS. Dude. I followed some girl all the way from one end of the parking lot to the other, a centipede of cars behind me wishing my doom so that they could park there instead. I could feel the bad vibes emanating from the cars behind me.

After I finally beat the other parking gladiators, I found myself victoriously with an hour to spend. So I wandered the campus wondering WHY THE HELL ARE THERE SO MANY RABBITS HERE. I mean, the first little snip of lawn I came to, the size of the ones outside of your average KFC, had 15 rabbits on it. FIFTEEN RABBITS. Just chilling, nibbling the grass. Every lawn, the same. Sleeping bunnies. Frolicking ones. Mostly just eating. I wanted to take a picture, but I didn't want to be that girl, at age 26, ogling the bunnies on her first day of school with fervor and excitement and a camera.

I bet they NEVER have to mow the lawn.

MACROeconomics is going to be just fine. The teacher is a cute young man who looks exactly like you would think someone who really likes economics would look. Beard, jeans, hair the same length as his beard (short), brown shoes, earnest eyes. What I'm not excited about is Business Law. The first class took all THREE HOURS. The man makes Ben Stein look like an auctioneer. He does have a sense of humor, but having a sense of humor about civil suits and a genuine excitment about the OJ Simpson case does not an exciting class make. Whether or not I stick around for it all depends on whether I win the book for real cheap on eBay. If I get it, I'm stuck with a Business Law book and I might as well take the class. If I don't win, then obviously I'm not meant to take that intensive of a course my first semester back, and I will re-enroll later. I am determining my educational FATE using e-bay. Maybe though, I am not determining it - I'm leaving it up to the power that be to determine it for me.

There is also a crazy rabbit lady - she has folding chairs and bags of lettuce and carrots. WHOA.

Rocket Shoes

Jesse just bought hisself some new shoes. Ah, the draw of Nordstrom's Rack right around the corner. Not only did his last pair of "running" shoes pretty much disintegrate, his current shoe selection includes not one, but THREE PAIRS OF WOMEN'S SHOES. One of them is a pair of flip-flops, so they don't count, but the other two are TWO pairs of the same women's sneaker-type shoes in two colors. Oh heavens.

Also, because we are gaining weight as fast as the ice caps are losing them, I am supportive of his buying shoes that he can exercise in, hoping he will coerce/accompany me. I have my own running shoes that I put my new orthotics in and make my toe not hurt, so perhaps I'll move my jiggly bits around as well. **Note: highly unlikely

To me, running shoes generally have a certain aesthetic. Utilitarian, though sometimes those Nike ones have the little spring-looking thing that I invented at the fourth-grade mandatory science fair but now Nike did it so it wins (not like me). They are white or gray or black, and have a swoosh and involve both fake leather and mesh, and generally don't draw attention to the foot. That's what I think of for the running shoes. I do not think of ROCKETS. Jesse bought ROCKETS for his feet. ROCKETS WITH PUMAS ON THEM. In case the ROCKETS weren't fast enough and you needed to add puma-power to your stride as well. Also, they do not have springs under the heel. That is Nike's domain. They have SIMULATED CORRUGATED CARDBOARD, made of ROCKET PLASTIC. If he is not fast on these things, all of the ROCKET SCIENCE that went into them will be for naught. Here are the rocket shoes. They do not match anything in his wardrobe. Thank Heaven.

Shcizool

SO I've finally decided to go back to school... after years and years of wafting in the wind and working what I could (the jewelry store was pretty good, though), I looked at my future and was like "what representable skills do I have?" Not so many. I consider myself a fairly smart person, yet my resume at age 26 looks like the extended version of a just-barely-graduated Liberal Arts major with out the B.A. on it. And I'm tired of working just "jobs."

I applied to Long Beach City College and was accepted (MIRACLE.. oh wait. They accept everyone). I registered for classes. I borrowed dollars from my mom to pay for them. I start TOMORROW. I am nervous o nervous. I haven't been to class in many years. I don't even know where the campus is. I don't know where the parking lot is. I don't know how I'm supposed to know what books to buy, much less afford. But I'm doing it.

This semester will include THREE classes after work (well, TWO, because one is on the internet) - Business Law, MicroEconomics, and US Government. Sounds Awesome, right? Not right. But these are things I must get done in order to pursue a Business Degree of any sort, which is what I'm thinking of. And, if I just take night classes at this point, I will probably be done with my transfer degree right about the time Jesse is ready to transfer his booty back out of the city. I could transfer at that point to any state college we might land near.

I'm also thinking of trying for my Graduate Gemologist certification, which would put the letters G.G. after my title. Ms. Jennifer Crist, G.G., or Mrs. Jennifer Smith, G.G. I know that a G.G. from the Gemological Institute of America means very little to anyone reading this, but just know that those two letters are the diamonds equivalent of having a Massage Therapist, M.T., or just a back rub-er with experience. It would help my credibility in the future of jewelry, those two letters. Those two letters, however, are worth FIFTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. Oy. So there's a huge mental debate over whether I should get my G.G. at all, or just swing on having my business degree to start.

** So, business school?, you ask skeptically, and with reason. My thought process is this: Upon graduation, both of myself and Jesse, we will hopefully be moving back to Chico, and truthfully, I would love to move back to Kirk's Jewelry. Kirk has occasional bouts of disillusion with his jewelry business, and has often contemplated selling it or closing it because he likes real estate development so much better at this point. So, if it's still operational in three years and I have the credentials and training to entirely run his business, I'd like to get my foot in the management door, and perhaps eventually, upon his becoming too old and disillusioned, there might be a possibility of my taking it over for him. And even if not, I really feel like I have the mad skills, only to be enhanced by education, to have my own jewelry business in the future. Hence the necessary management training, though I'll hate it while I'm there. And, I'll actually have a degree. Whoa

Kevin Costner, Tom Cruise, Jackie Chan, and a guy named Sunny.

My workday is filled with drivers for various contractors signing in, delivering, mooching the free coffee, and chatting me up. Some of the drivers are silent, signing their names and completing their assigned tasks without so much as an hola. Some of them are Hola and that's it. Some of them try to chat me up in various languages. Some of them are RUDE. And SOME of them are Kevin Costner.

Kevin Costner, on the right, is a middle-aged Vietnamese man with one tooth. He speaks Vietnamese, French, and English, though I half the time he's speaking in English it's like some cryptic code that I have no idea how to break. My first day, he told me his name was Kevin, and Kevin Costner was his brother. I asked him, logically enough, why his parents named both their children the same name. He changed his story to that his own name, actually now that he thinks of it, is Kevin Costner. So we've called him that ever since. The really cool thing is that it has stuck and spread. Just the other day he brought in an invoice from an incorrect delivery from another company, and the sticky note on it said "Kevin Costner - please deliver to 7FAM" YESSSSS

Being a movie star, Kevin Costner has found his joy in the new receptionist's names. I, personally, am Janet Jackson, and later I have become Dr. Janet. I don't really even know who I am, to be honest. Jaclyn, the newest receptionist, is one Mrs. Jackie Chan, and he insists on speaking to her mainly in what little Chinese he does know. She's constantly like WHAT THE HELL KEVIN COSTNER. Jackie Chan is of Hispanic heritage, FYI. Additionally, I now work with Tom Cruise... also Mexican, about 5'2", with a fauxhawk and a lip piercing. I KNOW MOVIE STARS!

The only person to remain seemingly unscathed is Kevin Costner's brotha from anotha motha, an older Korean dude with one fake tooth and a sense of humor to rival my own (pictured on the left above). Last time he came in to pick up his check and was all "You see my broda? You punch him, OK? Just go punch him, and me pick up his check too." Deal, Sunny, deal. One day after not seeing Kevin Costner at all (I usually see him 3-4 times a day), I asked Sunny where he was. Sunny was like "Oh Kebin? I deport him to Hong Kong" and then walked out the door. How do I love them? A million ways! They are the joy of my days at work.

Jen's Addiction

Working at a high end fashion designer as the receptionist, we receive a high volume of calls. I'd say probably 3-5 per minute, though there are periods where you won't get a call for 5 minutes.

However, I am not the one to answer them.

We hired a new second receptionist, who is fortunately (for the company)/unfortunately (for me) very sharp and on-top of the phone calls. Thusly, I am pretty much no longer needed. She can do my job for me, and does... which is her job to do.

As such a vestigial employee, I have developed a dangerous love for the game Freecell that comes with seemingly every PC created since the Tandy. Maybe even on that one, though I remember preferring Hangman in 8-bit during those years. The previous second receptionist at work had the same danger-love for the game, but really NOT the skill. When I first opened it up on some low-call-volume holiday, she had a success rate of 20% and a record 29 games in a row lost. Since I've been playing it (like a dog with a new peanut butter Kong),I've raised the percentage to 47%. The new receptionist prolly thinks I am a worthless lunatic (valid thought). I think I need to find me a gambler's anonymous. I've thought about clearing the record, but then I'm like NOOOOOOO JUST THREE MORE PERCENT. Which will take me a year to complete.

You may want to note that I actually do more than play freecell at work. I also read magazines, browse the internet, and refill my beautiful SIGG water bottle approximately 6 million times a day. I drink one and a half paper cups of black coffee each morning. It used to be out of a mug, but someone must have admired my Shakespearean Insult Mug so much they stole it.

Magazine Reading

Due to the aforementioned vestigial employment, I believe I stated that I read a surfeit of magazines. This is an understatement. I read more magazines than people who actually subscribe to magazines. I read more magazines than people who get PAID to read magazines. Though technically speaking, I am getting paid to read magazines.

I now know more about the love lives of the various up-and-coming young things than I do about the love lives of my actual friends. I know which $500 face cream I should be using to keep myself looking cardable forever. I know which perfumes flaps NEVER TO OPEN, and several of the most frequent model's names. I am filled with vapid information on how the new first lady of France is also the new Jackie-O but sexier, and how Mariah got her figure back. I know how I should get my figure back (though I won't do it, because who has free weights, an aerobic stair thing, an exercise ball, a personal trainer, and designer spandex all available at the same time?) I can tell the Olsen twins apart. My life has never seemed emptier. *Not true.

I also now am aware of an entire echelon of society that I had never even thought of before, much less cared to see in 8x12" glossy format. People with names like Tinsley, Celerie, Georgina, and Chiara. Toccara and Selita. Chanel Iman. Merriweather McGettigan. What the deuce were these women's parents thinking? Apparently, the more "creative" the name, the farther front you get to sit at Fashion Week. If I cared, perhaps I'd name my child Staccata. But then she'd actually have a private trainer and sculpted calves. I fear... no.

However, my magazine reading does help with the intense boredom of nothing to do all day except for talk to someone who, though she is really really nice, has nothing in common with me except for gender, occupation, and possessing hair. Also toenails.

The Importance of Symmetry (in bed)

My roommate Margaret and I took a short walk to the drugstore the other night to get some stretchy bandaids for my grievous wounds. Of course, short trips to drugstores inevitably end up being lengthy perusals of every single non-feminine hygiene aisle in the store while talking about girl stuff.

After browsing most of the store, we happened upon a display of those foot detox patches that seem so popular with the As Seen On TV crowd. Being suckers, of course, we bought a box to split. I stuck one on my foot at about 9:30 that night, following the instructions to place on alternating feet every night or both feet every other night. By about 11:00, it had already started to turn brown and get moist. I was thinking OOH COOL.

So I went to bed. This is where I tossed and turned for hours, like a horizontal duck with one foot, paddling in circles in my sheets. My feet weren't even. I can't sleep with something on one side and not the other. I had to stick the patch to my other foot for an hour to make it "even," before I could be less restless. Obviously, if I want to continue looking at dirty foot patches, I'll have to resort to option #2, one on each foot every other night. Though I remain skeptical - I don't believe your feetskin has any capacity for releasing any toxins besides sock dirt, much less heavy metals through its pores. I feel like it's a sweat-related reaction to the brown stuff inside the patch, that makes it show up and look like it got sucked out of your peds. But I'm going to do it anyway, because... why not?

P.S. They smell just like beef jerky.

P.P.S. Maybe I'll microwave one under a moist towel and see what happens.

Squealing Like a Stuck Pig; or, Why to Never Scrimp on Band-Aids

I surely did not mean to start my first blog post as a complaint letter to the powers that be, but I just as surely did not mean to sign myself over to The Devil, D.D.S. Seeing as how I just got insurance, but not wanting to miss work for too many days, I just took one day off and did it all. Poor planning, I see in hindsight.

How many people are familiar with the concept of dental "deep-cleaning"? I would hazard a guess at "only people in metropolitan areas". Being not originally from such, I was thinking "ooh... deep cleaning... like a deep tissue massage for my teeth..." What I actually got was 14 shots of Novocaine to the mouth with one of those needles that looks ready to tranquilize a buffalo. Luckily, the news was on the TV above my head, so I could trivialize my personal trauma in comparison to someone who, I don't know, got HACKED TO PIECES on a bus. I left The Devil's office with a numb mouth and some serious thoughts that I may have just been had.

With said numb mouth (not front of lips, however), I drove to my next appointment, the dermatologist. After browsing through the pages of Cheerleader Magazine in the lobby, the doctor asks me what is my concern. I have a lot of spots. I just want to make sure that none of these spots invade. He asked which ones I was concerned most about, so I pointed out the four most scary ones. At the sight of my back, the kind doctor sort of fell off the table a little and said "Whoa... um... ALL of your moles are abnormal and suspicious". I know. Meanwhile, in my head I'm forming sharp and witty retorts to his comments, while out of my still thick-tongued mouth fall the words "dith wung yootht to be two, but now ith lake one". So he drew cross hairs on my most-wanted list of perpetrators, including one on my forehead that I wish I had a picture of, and his nurse injected them with numb, and he sliced them off for further review. I'll know in three weeks, about the amount of time to heal three grievous wounds and one minor one. P.S. electrocauterization.

Now, my poor husband has to apply ointment and bandaids to me every night and morning, because a.) I'm too much of a weenie to do it myself, and b.) I can't reach the one on my spine. I had purchased some cheapo plastic bandages not too long ago, thinking only of using them for blister protection and the occasional paper cut, which is the most bloody damage I generally do to myself. Now, these bandages are not made to stretch. Apparently not to protect, either, because the little "non-stick" part of the pad ends up sticking to my grievous wounds every time. And pulling out my back hairs. AND, the most grievous of all, the one on my spine, has to have the bandaid essentially stuck to the muscles on either side, thusly limiting my range of movement with a piece of cheap plastic the size of my flat thumb. Doctors should get in on this... if you don't want your patient to twist laterally or bend over at all, simply tape their lats together with tiny pieces of "flesh-tone" tape.