DFC is Chirpin’

I was sitting around, minding my own business last week (read: binge watching Netflix), when one of my brother’s old colleagues from NY who I haven’t seen or spoken to in years private messages me on Facebook with some interesting info.  She had read my previous post, “You Dated HIM??” about my brief stint with one of the Barstool Sports guys (Devin, or DFC as I refer to him), and she happens to be a fan of them… a “Stoolie,” if you will?

Now I read this message and was like nahhh, there’s no way he’s talking about me…that was soooo long ago…why would he be bringing it up now? Plus, I had thought he lied and said he was living in Hoboken, not the Bronx.  Admittedly, this was like 9 years ago, so I really don’t remember exactly where he lied about living.  It very well could have been the Bronx; I just remember it certainly wasn’t at home with his parents.  I gave the Podcast a listen, and for five full minutes I’m thinking, “holy shit he’s totally talking about me.”  Literally, word-for-word, how I would have told the story myself (maybe minus the part where he called me a dumb bitch…but he also called me pretty hot, so we’re totally cool).  He even dated it, guessing our approximate ages at the time.  So unless he had the same exact event happen twice in the same year, with two people the same ages as we were, quoting the girl saying the same things I said to him, he was damn well talking about me.

Here’s a small clip from his full podcast on KFC Radio in which he tells the story during a segment about lying to girls:

Now here poses the question, what are the f*cking chances that we both happen to remember, and publicly share, the same exact story from nine years ago, within the same 6-week time period?

“He must have seen your blog,” one friend suggests.  But how?  I go to great lengths to block anyone that would potentially see something I write about them (yeah, I’m a huge baby, I know)… and wouldn’t he have called me out on that?  Or is he just stealing my story because it was obviously so intriguing?  Or, could this, in fact, be just a very large, strange coincidence??  Could both of us really be re-telling the same story at the same time 9 years later?

Ginge hears the Podcast, thinks it’s hilarious, tells me he’s 100% talking about me, and says he’s sending DFC my blog.

“NO!  Do NOT!”  I don’t like it when people know I’m talking about them behind their backs.  Then I think about it and realize he talked about me behind my back too.  We’re even.  I decide to message him and tell him about my post myself, and that I heard the Podcast.  I guess he hadn’t received the message to wherever I sent it yet, but he received someone elses….  (WHO ARE YOU?  REVEAL YOURSELF!)

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So wait… so he did, in fact, randomly tell this story on his Podcast last week, having no idea I had just written the same exact one.  Annnddddd….my details were wrong. Touche. We’re even? We chatted a bit, laughed about it, and I invited myself onto his show and he said no.  Rude.  Super rude.

Then, this morning, one of his “Stoolies” messaged me, and tattled on him.  He released his weekly Podcast this morning, and updated our story, with a full-read of my previous blog post.  I listened, I laughed (how are you questioning the fact you’re a little bit of a ginger) and he called me out on my details being wrong (dude, it was 9 years ago).  Ginge also listened, laughed, and I’m pretty sure his week was made…. OMG Barstool DFC talking about him on his Podcast! Ginge is totally famous.

And so am I?  Maybe? A little?  I’d like to thank all 12 of my readers for keeping me in the loop.  I’m glad our people were able to help us connect the dots even though I disguised DFC’s identity so well…  Devin, it’s been funny talking about each other behind each other’s backs.  But stop lying. You’re really not good at it.

Here’s a link to this week’s Podcast with DFC’s version of our updated story.  If you don’t want to listen to them bitching about the Master’s (and if you’re reading this blog, chances are, you don’t), then skip to 17:15.

KFC Radio:  Little Saturdays Are For The Boys

‘Til next time…

xoxo Gossip Girl

 

Cult Recruitment?

I must just have the face of a sucker.  I swear people target me.  I don’t know how to explain the frequency of puzzling interactions I find myself in with strangers.

Last week, I took my little 85-pound Goldendoodle baby, Oliver to the dog park at Balboa.  We go there often; he runs around, sniffs some buttholes, I keep to myself, and then we leave.  This time, however, I got in a conversation with a woman, probably in her early 30’s, named Linsdey.  She was dressed head to toe in Adidas, with a navy tracksuit and sneakers.  I saw her meandering, being friendly with other dog owners, and then she fixated on me.

The conversation started out normally… discussing our dogs, etc.  She then quickly escalated to asking about my life, my job, my move out west, my relationship.  She seemed nice enough, so I continued to engage her.  She was there with her two Bichons and her German husband, who she pointed out across the park, also dressed in an Adidas tracksuit.  When I asked what she did… that’s when the conversation got a little weird.

“Oh, well when I moved out here I was a teacher for a couple of years, but then it’s kind of a weird story…” [ugh, here we go…she’s going to sell me something]… “My husband and I met this couple named Matt and Kelly.  They’re in their late 20’s and they don’t work anymore.  They’re financially set for life.  So we pursued them because we were both really interested in finding out how that’s possible.  We begged and begged, and finally convinced them to be our mentors.  So they took us on, and we’ve been studying under them.”

I didn’t know what to say.  “Oh, that’s cool.”

“Yeah, it’s really amazing.  We are so blessed to have them agree to be our mentors.  What about you and your boyfriend?  Do you ever think about that?  Being set for life so you don’t ever have to work again?  Do you have anything set up for yourself?  Would you  and Ginge be interested in doing something a little different to gain great rewards?”

“I mean, that would be nice, but no, I don’t have things set for life.  I’m not even sure what you’re referring to, honestly.  How are you financially set for life without working?”

Stupid, stupid me… I gave her an in.  She got me on her hook.

“Oh, it’s super complicated.  But is that something you and Ginge would consider?”

Is what something we would consider??  “It sounds like it could be interesting… I can tell you now, Ginge wouldn’t be into whatever you’re talking about.  He’s more of a traditional thinker who stays inside the box.  I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be open to it.” [I know him well enough to be able to visualize the face he would make at me when I proposed whatever this was…]

The conversation continued cordially for a minute or two more until it was time to leave.  I said it was nice meeting her and began to walk away to collect Ollie, when she called me back.

“Hey, so if anything I said interests you, I was thinking maybe I could talk to my mentors and see if they would be willing to mentor you as well.”

“I don’t even know what they’d be mentoring me on.”

“It’s all about relationships.  They may not even be willing to but its worth a try if you want.  If you’re not all-in and super excited, it won’t even work so don’t worry about it.  But give me your phone number and I can see.”

I freakin’ gave her my phone number.  Of course I did.

“Hopefully I’ll be calling you with good news in the next few days!”

I left the dog park with my head spinning.  Whatttttt was she talking about??  Why were they in matching track suits??  My girlfriends told me it was a cult recruitment or a swingers club and sent me photos of Adidas tracksuit options I should purchase when I join.

I came home and told Ginge.  “…And then I gave her my phone number.”

“You really can never say no.”

“I know.  I’m a salesman’s dream!”

She texts me that evening to follow up and say she’ll be in touch.  She then texts again on Sunday and asks if we could talk on the phone that evening.  Of course, I arranged to record the conversation.  If you have 6 minutes and 24 seconds, please, feel free to indulge in the full version of this super informative convo below:

 

Ginge had walked in right at the end, which is who I continued talking to, and I’m pissed I stopped the recording mid-statement, “She wants the cock.”  Where’s the eye rolling emoji on this thing?

So I get off that phone call being like WHAT…THE…FLYING…*%&($*%(#????  I’m so confused.  She still didn’t tell me anything and she seemed genuinely annoyed that I was asking questions.  What IS this?  What are you going to get out of this?  She claimed there was no financial obligation and that it was “relationship based.”  HUH?!  WHAT is??

My girlfriends did some further digging and decided this is 100% cult recruitment.  Brie discovered that when you google “Adidas Cult” this is what pops up:

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Heaven’s Gate is conveniently based in San Diego, CA and was responsible for a 39-person mass suicide in 1997.  Sweet.

Unsurprisingly, Ginge refused to go meet them for their requested coffee date.  Which leaves me at a dead end.  I need a Ginge to continue this.  This post is a double-sided plea.  One side is asking for answers or info.  Has anyone come across anything like this before?  Any insight as to what this could be?  The second side is casting for a part.  The part of Ginge.

—————————————————————

Casting Call

Role:  Boyfriend (Lead):  Male, Ages 29-39

Must be able to play the role of a personable, open minded, upbeat, loving boyfriend with a zest for life.

Ethnicity:  All ethnicities who can play off being from Michigan (no accents)

Required Media:  Headshot/photo

Pay:  A nice beer after a stellar coffee date performance

—————————————————————

I gotta get to the bottom of this, and I need your help.  Anyone…. Anyone…?

xoxo

Gossip Girl

 

“You Dated HIM??”

The year was 2008. Maybe. Something like that. I was living in an apartment in Hoboken, NJ with two of my girlfriends at the time.  I was single, ready to mingle, and living it up the in the young, fun NYC ‘burb.  I don’t remember exactly where I met him, some bar, but I remember we went out several times.  He was a little bit younger, and a little bit of a ginger (yes, I’m noticing this trend), and seemed super sweet.  I guess I liked him enough to see him a few times.  I didn’t really understand what his job was at the time, but I remember him inviting me out to a local bar for a function to support this website he was working on.  I didn’t really understand the website.  It was something about watching sports at bars.  I didn’t care about it, or give it much thought.  I didn’t go to the event.

One day we were hanging out at my apartment, having a conversation, and some of, (let’s call him Devin), Devin’s stories just weren’t adding up.  He had originally told me he was staying with a friend or something like that while he was in between apartments.  His new apartment “wasn’t ready yet?” Some sort of complicated situation I don’t remember completely, and had no desire to keep up with.  During this particular conversation, however, I caught him in some sort of confusing tale in which he finally had to reveal to me that he had been lying to me since we met, and he actually still lived with his parents in Northern Jersey.  He just visited Hoboken, and stayed on his friend’s couch while he was there.  

I was pissed.  I wasn’t necessarily pissed that he lived with his parents (ehhh), but I was pissed that I was going to have to stop talking to him.  He was pretty cute and nice and seemed somewhat normal, and I was having a good time with him.  But I don’t do lying. Hard no. If during the first several weeks of knowing each other, you’re basing multiple conversations around a fact that is not true (an alternative fact, if you will), what the hell else are you lying about?  I couldn’t.  I told him I didn’t want to see him anymore.  He was super apologetic and tried to explain his reasoning behind lying (obviously I get it; I know why you were lying, dumbass).  But it was over.  I’m pretty sure we didn’t speak again, besides maybe a couple of Facebook invites to attend events in which you watch sports at bars?  For this website he worked on?

Flash forward, the year is 2017.  I’m sitting on the couch with Ginge, he’s getting ready to play something he had DVR’ed on Comedy Central.  He’s been waiting for this.  The three main guys from his absolute favorite website are going to be on National TV.  He spends the majority of his free time on this website, while simultaneously listening to their podcasts.  The show comes on and the host introductions start.  I look up from playing Scattergories on my phone and am surprised.

“Hey, wait, I dated that guy.”

Ginge whips his head around and stares at me.  He then pauses the TV.  “You dated ‘DFC?'”

“Is that what we call him? Yeah, briefly.  Then I found out he was lying to me and he was living with his parents so I never talked to him again.”

“Well he’s rich now.”

“DAMMIT!”

That weird website he had been working on where you watch sports at a bar? Or something like that? Yeah, that was Barstool Sports.  And he’s one of the three main guys. How did I never come across this fact in the last nine years?  I really have no clue.  *#$(@&@#^($*&@#

I swear I’m Good Luck Chuck.  I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again. Date me, as brief as it may be, and you’ll eventually marry a model, become rich, or do both.  You’re welcome, Devin, you’re welcome. Yes, I’m giving myself some of the credit for your success. I’m glad that little project turned out well for you. Truly. Cheers to Barstool Sports.

barstool

xoxo

Gossip Girl

 

 

Hair Modeling and Date Night

I’ve been spending my time unemployed the same way I’d imagine most would be… I’ve made business cards for my dog, and watched 87 episodes of Gossip Girl (that’s not an exaggeration…I’m on season four, episode 22).  I’ve also created a profile for a website called Backstage, which casts for extras and background work.  I figure when I’m not busy going on real interviews and trying to make my dog instagram-famous, (follow him and tell all your friends), I can keep busy standing around in a crowd of wanna-be-actors and maybe make a few bucks here and there.

While I’ve so-far been too busy with Gossip Girl to actually do much with the Backstage website, I did get an email asking if I’d be interested in being hair model for Bumble and Bumble.  They wanted to style my hair and do some before/after pics.  I assume it’s because they looked at my non-brushed hair in my profile pic, and decided that so much could be done to improve that mane. I’d be handsomely rewarded with:  “A complimentary editorial style (SOLELY styling- no scissors or color used) + TWO full size Bumble and Bumble products to take home.”  OMG… TWO full size Bumble and Bumble products to TAKE HOME!  Sold.

Ginge and I have a thing.  Whenever I make an appointment to get my hair done, I let him know in advance that he’ll need to take me on a date that night, since you know, my hair will look so good.  So I confirmed my hair modeling gig, bragged about it for a week, and got a date night on the books.  I was gonna look gooooooooood!

I arrived to the salon on time and learned that people are rude to hair models.  I tried to make conversation, but no one wanted to talk to me.  Is this how all models are treated? Or just the hair type? They also didn’t tell me what they were going to do to me, and I didn’t ask.  I figured I’d just wait to be surprised at my fabulous new look.  Two hours later I took a gander in the mirror at the almost-finished product, and I kid-you-not, I looked like Elvis Presley.  The text went out to my friends group chat, who had to hear at-length about my hair modeling job for days, “I look like Elvis.” I wasn’t sure how to react.  The BB people took some pictures and told me how great it looked, I shoved my free TWO FULL SIZED PRODUCTS in my bag, and off I went… into public.

My first step out the door of the salon, I took a few selfies to capture my new ‘do.  Thank goodness, because by the time I made it to my car, it had fallen at least 3-inches.  I can’t even say photos do it proper justice…. My friends reacted:

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Because this is what I looked like:

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I can’t even fathom why they would think this is a good look for anyone in this decade?  My girlfriends told me my date night was ruined.  I couldn’t wait to show Ginge, but by the time I got home it was almost fully deflated (deflated?  is that what you’d call it?) I think that means they did a shitty job.  The Elvis look wasn’t sustainable once standing and walking occurred.  And the selfies continued:

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In the grand scheme of things… I have 7 pounds of product in my hair, but at least I got my date night.

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xoxo

Gossip Girl

 

Fork in the Road

Hello my old friend. I used to come to you to bitch about first dates gone wrong, and make fun of my mother. I feel like I’ve been neglecting you now that I haven’t had a first date in almost three years, and my mother now lives about 3,000 miles too far away to make fun of on a regular basis.

In any case, I’ve found myself in a situation in which I’m in-between striving for ordinary, and purchasing a one way plane ticket to somewhere… anywhere I’ve never been before, and figuring the rest out from there.  In short, the situation is called unemployment.  I’ve gotten laid off, yet again… a result of working for a start-up that got bought out shortly after I began my employment.  I didn’t cry when I found out.  I was somewhat expecting the call when I heard we were getting acquired.  (I’m lying.  I definitely cried… but only for like 3.5 minutes, which I think is basically considered not crying).

IS IT A SIGN???  IT’S A SIGN!  I’m destined for bigger things!  The past 3 years since I moved out to California have been tumultuous, career-wise.  Although, with every closed-door, a new one presented itself very quickly.  Sometimes it presented itself before I was even really ready to walk through it (that’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever typed).  For the first time in my career, I have found myself a full week without a job or even a lead.  WHAT.IS.GOING.ON?  HELLO?!  I’ve applied to every medical sales and sales management position on this side of the Mississippi (well, mostly ones in California), as well as signed up for websites that cast extras for TV and film… you know to pass the time while I look for a real job.

Expecting to be bombarded with emails and phone calls after day one of getting out my professional resume and my adorable self-taken head-shot (ok, it was a selfie),  I was sadly wrong, and baffled.  No one wants me.  I feel alone.  I feel lost.  Not in the sad, actual lonely, lost way.  Just in the confused, anxious, bored, what-do-I-do-now way (hey there…wine).

I’ve said countless times that next time I find myself unemployed, I will not jump straight to the next job again.  I’ve vowed to take an international trip, maybe back to somewhere in Africa, work my way around the world, and then come back and figure out my next move.  But when unemployment actually happens, I get this feeling… I don’t know what to call it… hmmm…panic?  Logically, I know I’ll find a new job eventually, but the thought of my severance running out in a month (tick, tick, tick… 3 weeks), and no direct deposits entering my bank account for the foreseeable future, just straight rubs me the wrong way. Seems wrong. Is taking off and gallivanting the world really the best move?

Also, I’m an introvert. “WHAT?!?  STFU COURTNEY YOU ARE NOT AN INTROVERT.”  Yes I freakin’ am.  I’m slightly terrified to travel alone for an extended period of time.  I’m not scared of the unknown, or finding my way around, or flying by myself.  I’m scared of having no one to talk to because I’m sometimes bad at entering into social situations I’m not familiar with by myself.  If I have someone with me that I know, it completely changes my dynamic and my attitude, which is why some of you may not believe that I’m actually, deep down, an introvert.  You’ve never seen me in an uncomfortable situation by myself.  It’s weird, it’s strange, and I don’t like it.  And I’m being very open with all you random people right now for some unknown reason.  Probably because I’m unemployed, bored, and have nothing else to do but open my emotions to the world-wide interwebs.

So here I am… at a fork in the road.  Can you call it a fork if there are more than two ways to go?  I think you can, because actual forks usually have three to four prongs.  I had to replace my three-pronged forks with four-pronged ones because I was getting complaints from guests.  In any case… If I take this fork to the left:  I find another well-paying job within my comfort zone of medical sales. Sell my soul. Pay my bills. The fork goes right:  I take off and travel the world, apply for a volunteer opportunity or two and come back by Christmas or my family will have my head on a platter.  The fork goes straight, dead ahead:  Someone from The Bachelor Franchise realizes I’m destined to work for them.  I become best friends with Chris Harrison, and live happily ever after.

help.

xoxo, Chickadees.

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New Beginnings… And the Girl on the Other Side of the Fence

Last November, Ginge and I, who had been cohabitating (living in sin) in a house in Pacific Beach with two other roommates, decided it was time to move on, “grow up” a little, and get a place of our own. 

 Although I was very much at peace with the decision to leave the party-beach town I had called home for the past two-plus years, I knew very well there were things I was going to miss.  

Besides all of the roommates I had come to love over the years (ok that’s a total lie…those roommates were definitely hit-and-miss), our neighborhood developed a special place in my heart. Between the guys with no apparent day-jobs across the street who were constantly outside playing corn-hole or jumping rope, and the middle aged-man and his 30-year old “roommate,” Tyler, on the right side of us, things were rarely boring. The old man Howard, offered me new designer clothes that his friend had just “found” with all the tags on, which I graciously accepted, giving a $70 workout jacket to a petite old homeless lady promptly afterwards, and keeping the red sweater and workout pants that would come in handy at some point in my life, I’m sure… while his “roommate” Tyler, would stop by very frequently during nights we were sitting on the front porch chatting, while he was on his way to the gas station around the block, always coming back with nips of Fireball and dropping them off on his way home.

Malta, across the street, the German man who had invented fully recycled stuffed animals, and created a semi-successful start-up, was a frequent visitor whenever there was someone meandering on the front porch, or hanging out in camping chairs in the driveway, and Antwan, two doors down, an Athletic Director at one of the universities would always stop by to pet Oliver and have a chat while he was walking by. Irena and Chris became constants, as their daily walks of Bear (another huge Goldendoodle) took them passed our house, and the two doodles developed an immediate platonic love affair.  

The move out of the neighborhood was bittersweet. Our roommate Emily (a “hit” as in, the roommates being “hit-and-miss”), threw us a big going away party the night we moved out, in which Bear was an obvious VIP guest, and we got to say goodbye to all of our beloved neighbors who made a cameo at the Val party (please I’ll give you a dollar and a kiss if you catch this reference).

The new house is all we had hoped for… a big side yard which we furnished with new outdoor furniture, an extra refrigerator, my favorite twinkle lights, and a grill, enough space for a guest room and an office, and a place on one of the walls for our dartboard (totally classy, I know… but necessary).  

The location, although not in a beach town is pretty sweet… close enough to walk to the bumpin’ gay bars, a grocery store across the street, and the most delicious Thai place I have ever encountered just a few blocks away. Something was missing though… a neighborhood. Neighbors. People to converse with. Being on somewhat of a main road, we don’t sit out front anymore and talk to people walking by. We don’t let Ollie gallivant all over the front lawn and make friends with the mailman and all of the neighbors who become his friends whether they want him to or not. We are semi-secluded to our own backyard, giving us more couple’s bonding time to play lick-it-stick-it (don’t get weird ideas…think: “20-questions”), and have nightly dance parties, just the two of us.  

One night a couple of weeks ago, we were sitting in our yard with the lights on, and out of no where, a little blonde head pops up over the tall fence separating our yard from the condo complex next door. “Hello!”

“Holy crap!” I was scared shitless.  

“Hi! I’m Ashley! I’m your neighbor! Can I come over?”

“Yeah…sure!”

Ashley came over with the guy that had lifted her high enough to pop her head over the eight-foot fence. She told us she’s been wanting to meet us since she discovered she had new neighbors and saw the strings of lights lit up on a nightly basis. We sat outside for a little, had a beer with them, and Ashley and Ollie became fast friends. She offered to watch him whenever we needed, and “lend us a cup of sugar or booze WHENEVER!”

We didn’t get Ashley’s number that night… which we realized when we were in LA the following week and were trying to find someone to let Ollie out to pee. I figured we’d run into her again at some point. I just didn’t realize the some-point was going to be a few days later, when she had yet a different guy lift her up over the eight-foot fence to announce her presence, as I yelled “Holy crap,” yet again, startled by her head above the refrigerator.  

She came over, introducing her Tinder date, Nick, who was rugged and handsome, but apparently boring as a paper bag, as we learned shortly thereafter… the third time Ashley bounded up above the fence, held up by a third guy, who came over to go out to dinner with her.  

We spend our visits talking about our love lives, careers, and travels… not to mention the woman with the mullet who lives in the apartment above Ashley, and growls and slams her window every time she hears us outside. One night, Ashley’s roommate, Britt was walking by the other side of the fence, and we recruited her to sit and join us for a bit. We’re growing to appreciate a new neighborly feeling that’s developing, and learning that if we keep the lights on, we’re bound to have a cute blonde appear over the fence… (come to think of it, I’m going to have to make sure the lights are unplugged when I’m out of town… ahem)… and on the flip side, we’re learning to turn the lights off when we’re not so much into a random visitor on a Tuesday night.

It’s encouraging that a new friendship is starting to develop, and I’m learning that things take time to get used to and start feeling more like “home.” Oliver still barks at the mailman from the window, instead of getting to chase him down the street, and he misses Bear’s frequent visits, but now he has a side yard to lounge in, and special play-dates and babysitting weekends set up to spend more time with his buddy.  

As for the girl on the other side of the fence… I’m grateful to now have my own, personal “Wilson…” I mean how many people can say that? I’m sure more surprise visits are in store, and hopefully the next guy who lifts her up will be a keeper.  

  
xoxo

The Time We Went to the Chinese Consulate

It was just about a year ago that I was sitting on my old front porch on Oliver Ave, on my second (or sixth?) glass of wine, that I said to Ginge, “So, do you want to go to China?”
He answered with a simple, “Ok,” which nearly made me fall off my chair (or maybe that was the wine).
See, I had gotten a really amazing Travel Zoo deal in my email inbox a few days before, for a 10-night trip to China, including airfare, meals and a 4-night river cruise, which I had forwarded to Ginge with no response. When I heard, “ok” come out of his mouth I immediately jumped up and told him to give me his credit card and passport. He obliged (also having indulged in a few beverages that evening). I got to work, booking two travel packages, and we set the trip date for the following April… almost a year away.

“Almost a year away” is basically here now, and we procrastinated a bit applying for our travel visas. Last week I realized we really needed to get on it, factoring in processing and mailing time, so I got my passport pictures taken, finished my application, nagged Ginge a bit to get his done, and then looked for a mailing address.

There was no mailing address. You apparently need to submit visa applications IN PERSON, at a Chinese Consulate office. The closest one to us happens to be in Los Angeles, and the office is conveniently open from 9am to 4pm, which didn’t really give us a great window of time to work with. We realized we’re cutting it close, now that we’re leaving in 3 weeks, so we sucked it up and made the trip up to LA yesterday.

LA is geographically not that far away… but mix in normal SoCal traffic, plus the blessing of ever-so-rare complete RAIN STORM, and we drove for over three hours to make it to the office on time. We stopped in the ghetto of Chinatown to get Ginge’s passport pictures taken, and finally made our way to a large office building. We gathered all of our documents and photos, got in the elevator, and right before the door opened to the third floor I said, “I have a really bad feeling we’re forgetting something. I just feel like they’re going to tell us we’re missing something.”

They didn’t tell us we were missing something. They didn’t tell us we were missing something, because we arrived at the office door, and it was CLOSED… with a sign on the front stating the hours from 9am- 2pm. It was 3:10. I looked at Ginge, he looked at me. There were no words exchanged. I wasn’t sure, but there may have been steam coming out of his ears. I didn’t give up yet. This couldn’t be right. I had read on the website 4pm. I was sure of it! I saw people coming out of a door down the hall which was connected to the same office, and I scurried down there. I waited for someone to come out and I piggy-backed and shoved my way in as Ginge stood staring at me going “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I was getting in, that’s what I was doing. Well, I was getting in, until a large dark man in a security outfit caught me entering through the exit door and promptly stopped me in my tracks, blocking the hallway with his extra large body.

My begging and pleading and straight up charm was just not cutting it. The security guard informed me all the windows were closed and locked. I asked if he could see if someone could just make an exception and he said there was no way. All of the machines were shut down. “Butttt we just drove over three hours to get here! And your website says 4pm!”

“The website does not say 4pm.”

Ugh. We (I) finally gave up in defeat and started walking away. Ginge didn’t say anything. I was wondering if he was waiting ’til we got outside to fly off the handle. I processed the fact that we just drove for over three hours to get nothing accomplished. Also, I processed the fact that at this time it would take about five hours to turn around and go back home.

“Are you mad at me?”

“No. Let’s find a happy hour spot.”

What the……… At this point I really didn’t want to check the website. I knew in my head I had read 4pm, and I told Ginge that. I also tried to blame it on him for not double- checking himself, but realized I was encouraging him to not trust my reading comprehension skills, so I decided to just blame the Chinese Consulate for not posting correct information. As we’re driving out of Chinatown looking for the first non-ghetto neighborhood with a good happy hour, I couldn’t help myself. I pulled up the Chinese Consulate Visa and Passport Office Website to check the hours.

There it read… Office hours: 9:00 am—14:00 pm

WHAT THE FLYING F***LFSJKDLFKJ:…. WHO PUTS OFFICE HOURS IN MILITARY TIME!

“Ginge LOOK! You can barely even see the number 1!!!! This is SO not my fault!”

“You can definitely see the number 1, and this is 100% your fault.”

I’m still holding on to the fact that this is not.my.fault. We were planning on driving back to San Diego after dinner, but due to the events of the day, we decided to make a night of it. Our first stop was a place in West Hollywood with two-for-one deals, and a female professional football player slash musician as our bartender. It was just the two of us in the whole place, plus a cute young male gay couple, who promptly moved their bar stools so we could all touch shoulders, and we drank our sorrows away with a few cocktails, while being serenaded by the large woman with the guitar and an amazing raspy singing voice. In between songs, she would break to refill our drinks, and listen to the young guys next to us cry (literally) over their last breakups, and tell her how fabulous she was.

Our new friend, Kyle asked the bartender, “So are you gay?”

She stared at him for a second and said… “Ummmm… yeah I’m gay- I’m wearing a leather jacket.”

I looked down, held my leather arms out over the bar and exclaimed…”Well… wait….”

The bartender put her head down and laughed for about two minutes and then admitted that straight girls can wear leather as well.

After a couple of drinks and a huge, fresh, steaming hot bag full of un-touched, delicious Greek food handed over the railing to us by a business man who said he ordered too much, we said goodbye to our new friends (after exchanging numbers with the one who lives 3 blocks from us in our Gayborhood), we headed to Hermosa Beach for a random concert we somehow finagled our way into for free, not knowing it was an actual concert. We called my sister to see if she could feed and let the dog out (she could… #blessed), found a hotel, slept in the clothes we were wearing, then woke up and drove home in the clothes we were still wearing.

So here we sit, three weeks from out departure to China, with our passports and visa applications still in hand. We’ll have to try that again. What did I learn from this experience? I’m not sure. Military time is confusing.

Until next time… xoxo

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