Holy unintentional hiatus, Batman!

Yeah, I get it, my last blog post was literally last year. 

No, I didn't drop off the planet due to a very specific loss of gravity. No, I didn't lose my fingers In a freak thumb wrestling accident. No, I didn't become Amish and shun the ways of modern technology. 

The truth is I got super busy at work and most of my free time was spent sleeping. Like, the month of December, I had a total of 4 days off, 3 if you don't count Christmas day. I worked 113 hours into a two week paycheck period. I had several 11 hour days. Then it was Christmas, then it was new years, now we're here. 

The Boyfriend and I went to Thanksgiving dinner at Diane's house, Christmas parties for our respective works, we had Christmas together in California because neither of us had time to go home...I'm heading to Minnesota at the end of January. We celebrated new years, first with a big crowded party bar thing at Universal Studio City Walk, and the abandoned that for a quiet drink in a small bar for the actual countdown to midnight. The bar was better. 

Here is a bunch of pictures.

And most recently participated in the pantsless subway ride. 

Speaking of pants...(see, transition)

It is under my careful observation that there is no perfect pair of gray jeans. I've looked for the better part of four years for a pair of gray jeans that I liked. I had a pair, but every time I wore them it reminded me of David Bowie's pants in Labyrinth, and I am no David Bowie.

So, after buying and then returning several pairs because I refuse to try most things on because I'm impatient and hate stores...I finally found a pair that will get me by. 

But seriously, why is it so hard!?!!!!?! Most are too low, unless I want to dress like I'm 13 again, which I don't. Nobody wants to see my underwear when I sit down, the irony of that statement just a few paragraphs down from the pantsless subway ride picture. There is a time and a place for everything, and sitting is not the time or place for underwear. Also, I am not a 13 year old fashionista. I just want a pair of gray jeans that fit like the skinny jeans I own and love, just like that but in gray rather than blue.

So the ones I found weren't too low, too tight, and didn't invoke memories of 80s muppet movies..the problem? THEY HAVE NO FRONT POCKETS!!!!!!!!!! They LOOK like they have font pockets, but it's a lie. The pants lie. So, I still continue my search for the perfect gray jeans. Captain Ahab surrounded by the endless sea. Call me Ishmael. [insert Moby Dick in my pants joke here]

O.o

...anyway, here's to more regular posts again, now that my work has gone back to normal person hours. 

Where I've Been and Top 10 Signs Your Boss May Be A 1930s Mobster

I know, it's been a month.

First, I had my Wallmate (college friend) who I haven't seen in about 6 years, come out to visit with her girlfriend. SUPER EXCITING!!! They were here the week of Halloween. They were Alice and The White Rabbit, The Boyfriend and I were Magician and Assistant (The woman sawed in half gone wrong).

PICTURES!!!

So that was Halloween. It was great seeing my friends. Then it's been pretty much non-stop since then. I've been working extra hours and 4 to 5 hours on Saturdays as well, so writing sort of got put on the back burner. Once I got home, it was pretty much chillax and then bedtime. Other weekend activities, besides working were hanging out with a friend for a movie and lunch date and Disney with other friends that were visiting.

Then the weeks just sort of got away from me and now we are here; one week before Thanksgiving. Jeez.

On to part two of this post.

Top 10 Signs Your Boss May Be A 1930s Mobster

10. He has an accent, preferably from an eastern European country, like Russian or Armenian. Examples of sentences are "I took my dog to the vet last night to be shot" (translation, I had to have my dog's vaccinations updated at the vet." "Go and get the Johnny for me, I need my book."

9. He refers to the front office people as "girls" but not in a creepy or demeaning way.

8. He drives a black vehicle that is always perfectly cleaned and polished.

7. He has literally thousands of business contacts.

6. He has a legitimate business.

5. He is usually in a shirt and tie.

4. He has a second office that is somewhat hidden and sort of secret.

3. He owns guns.

2. He has contacts with the Police Department and makes monetary contributions.

1. He makes his own vodka.

Call The Poe-lice

*I'll explain after.*

Speakeasy #132

She is warned yet again through her closed bedroom door. “Ally, don’t wait until the last minute to write that paper.”

“I know, mom.” She sighs and taps her pen against her notebook.

So far all she has managed to do is write the name on the top of the page. She reaches under her bed and pulls out the walkman she stole from her brother the week before. With a shy smile she takes the mix tape Brandon made her.

“Ally, you better be doing your homework.” Her mom calls through the door again. “Don’t stay up too late.”

She rolls her eyes, and turns to the blank page as The Police serenade her with their latest and greatest hit.

Why Edgar Allen Poe Is Relevant Today by Ally Stevens

The words mock her to fill the void of the blank page. He isn’t, that’s the problem. Some old, boring guy talking about birds. Lame. Totally, lame. She doodles in the margins for good measure, another five points taken away by the terrible Ms. Thomas.

Ally writes “HE ISN’T!!!” in big letters with a smirk. She rips out the page and carefully writes the title again. She’ll step in front of the school bus if she hears “points for neatness” one more time.

The first song fades out and the second one starts. She smiles again to think that Brandon picked those songs just for her. He is the most handsome boy in the entire school, in the enire world, and he picked Ally. Tiffany will scream when she hears about it in school in the morning. Ally can’t wait to see her face, that will put that blond fake in her place. Little miss my hair is naturally crimped and aren’t these new Reeboks just rad?

Something slams in the house and she slips the headphones off. Everything is silent, her mom must have dropped something or her brother is coming home late from work. Whatever, she has this stupid paper to write.

A song starts again and she pauses to look at the walkman as though it can give her answers. She’s pretty sure this song has already played, she fast forwards to the next one, definitely the same. Why would Brandon make her a mix tape of the same song?

She sighs and figures there must be some reason, so she keeps listening. “Edgar Allen Poe is relevant today because he writes about stuff that still happens.” It doesn’t even take up two whole notebook lines and she still has the rest of the page to write.

She finds herself humming to the tune of the song, now on it’s seventh play. She figures it’s meant to be romantic, but some of the words seem a little creepy. “…every move you make, every vow you break, every smile you fake, every claim you stake, I’ll be watching you…”

The sound of glass shattering from somewhere in the house isn’t heard by Ally as she focuses on the words of the song. It starts to play again and she’s definitely creeped out. Maybe it’s because it’s pushing midnight, maybe it’s because she has to think about that weirdo Edgar Allen Poe, maybe it’s because the cutest boy in school made her a stalker’s mixtape. She pulls off the headphones and tosses the walkman onto the ground.

The lights go out.

She is keenly aware of the sound of her breathing and she’s pretty sure she heard the floorboard at the top of the stairs creak.

The door to her room opens and the lights come back on.

“Brandon?”

He smiles, the boy of her dreams dressed in black and smiling like he knows a secret. “How’s your paper going?”

Ally can’t answer, this is too strange.

He walks over to her page, reads her first sentence and adds another. “The point you missed about Poe, is that he’s all about lost love and the tragic deaths of fair maidens.” Brandon turns with a strange gleam in his eye and a large blade in his hand “Oh, can't you see, you belong to me.”

He smashes the lamp to the ground and the room is dark again.

The knife clatters to the ground and a scream pierces the night.

*so, this is a weekly writing challenge, think of it as Fiction Friday, but with no continuity and not on Friday. Click HERE for more information!

Ain't No Showgirl.

So, I'm nearly recovered from the trip to Las Vegas last weekend. Nearly. Almost. Probably.

I learned one very important thing, I don't love Vegas like everyone else loves Vegas. I'll admit, I did have fun, like 75% of the time. The other 25% I sort of hated it.

The Boyfriend went because he was going to a Hypnotism seminar, so now he's all qualified to be a hypnotherapist, which is awesome. Like seriously, if you want to loose weight or stop smoking or be more confidant; he's your guy. (He also can make you do silly things if you want that, and magic.) So, pretty much contact him for everything, because I'm dating a certified hypnotherapist and highly talented magician.

Anyway, he was going for the seminar which would give him his official qualifications, complete with diplomas, and I was to go with him. We stayed in the Paris, which was beautiful. It had a fake sky which was lovely and it reminded me of my own trip to Paris in 2004 (let's not count how many years ago that was).

Outside the hotel though, it was an entirely different animal. There was more than enough stimulation for me inside the hotel, what with the crowds, lights, sounds, slot machines, roulette wheels, blackjack tables, and tourists. Once outside, I was completely overwhelmed. My poor little crazy brain couldn't handle everything.

The evenings were better. The Boyfriend was back from his classes, I was properly dosed with Xanax, dressed up all pretty, and headed to get a few drinks with his classmates and instructors; who are all pretty cool guys. So, to recap, I liked Vegas when I was xanaxed and somewhere in the hazy border of tipsy and drunk. Not quite the way I wanted to experience the world, but it was sort of the only way at the time.

You know that whole "what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas"? Most girls, when they get way a little too drunk in Vegas end up with hilarious and somewhat embarrassing stories of dancing on tables, kissing strangers, and falling down. I ended up crying in the bathroom of our hotel room because "I didn't want to be drunk anymore" and "I wanted to go home". If that doesn't describe my inner introvert, than nothing does. (Also, naturally the crazy took the next morning to convince me that I ruined everything, stress and crazy are great friends). Then the flight home was more crying, because my bag wouldn't fit in the stupid overhead bin and I had to wait for everyone to board so I could bring my bag up to the front to be kept in a closet.

There were good things, though. There was meeting up with a friend I haven't seen in years, feeding ducks at a park, meeting new and awesome people, and having fun at shows (Anthony Cools, Kevin Lepine, and Penn and Teller. Here are pictures to prove that I did have fun.

And OHMYGOD guys! I have found heaven, and it is The Pinball Hall of Fame. I'm pretty sure that just about every pinball machine ever made has been restored to it's former glory and everything is completely PLAYABLE!!!! I played pinball for hours with my friend, and then The Boyfriend and I went there before our flight home. Oh man, when I die, I'm gonna haunt that place forever.

Even the handicapped parking is awesome at The Pinball Hall of Fame.

So, all in all I learned that I am no Vegas Showgirl. I am not made for Sin City. I do not love the lights. When I go back again, I know it will happen, I will bring books and stay in the room until I am lured out by the promise of a few drinks and a game of pinball.

Laundry Jerks

Tonight, I have to do laundry. I'll pause here for the appropriate responses of horror that follow that statement.

I've noticed, whenever people say they have to do laundry or they did laundry the night before, it causes the same response as though they had said they had a limb removed or were hit by a car.

Think about it.

"Hey, Jane, what'd you do last night?"

"Laundry."

*gasp* "Ugh, that sucks! I HATE laundry!"

"I know, right?"

...and so on.

But the thing is, laundry is a relatively painless chore as far as chores go. You shove it in the machine, turn a knob, press a button, and come back in 40 minutes; then repeat until things are clean and dry. You totally have time to do other things, like read books and eat cookies other chores.

There are circumstances that do make laundry more painful, though. They are thusly.

1.) Having to go up and down stairs to do laundry.

2.) Having to pay for laundry; inversely having to find enough quarters.

3.) Having a disproportionate number of people to washers/dryers.

4.) Laundry jerks.

I, luckily enough, have all four challenges in my laundry life. Most people who live in an apartment building or a college dorm have to deal with several of these unfortunate factors.

My washers and dryers are on the ground floor while I live on the second floor, stairs. Each washer and dryer costs $1.25 per load, paying for laundry. There are four washers and four dryers, there are more than four people living in my apartment building. And finally, laundry jerks.

What is a laundry jerk, you ask? Why, let me explain. A laundry jerk is a person who decides to do laundry, puts their clothes in the washer, and then NEVER comes back. Okay, "never" is maybe a slight exaggeration, but they definitely don't come back within the half hour or hour it takes to run the washer or dryer. They leave their clothes in there for at least an hour after it was finished; putting poor, anxiety riddled people like me in a predicament.

I am stuck in the laundry purgatory of waiting for all of eternity for them to come back to their forgotten laundry; or be insanely paranoid that they will come in just as I am putting their clothes on top of the washer and we'll have that awkward moment of one stranger caught holding the laundry of another stranger. Then I might have to TALK to someone. No. Unfortunately, I've been known to wait upwards of 50 minutes in the laundry room for a dryer or washer to open up, convinced that the moment I leave the person will return.

Tonight is laundry purgatory. There have been poor, damp clothes in a washer for 3 hours already; another load in the dryer completely dried and just waiting to be brought home.

Dear Laundry Jerks,

If you are not responsible enough to remember to get your clothes after the allotted washer or dryer time, then you are not responsible enough to own clothes. I will confiscate them until you have proven yourself to be able to at least pretend to be an adult for two hours; I somehow have managed to.

If you want to see your clothes again, they will be deposited in an undisclosed location and a small ransom will be required to get them back...preferably, the ransom will be paid in laundry quarters. Please, get your shirt together.

-Elayna

This Is Not My Story

This is the long promised post about the friends I had made, the friendship that was complicated and difficult for others to understand. Just so we all understand; I am not the hero, I am not exceptionally good, I didn't do anything other than make some friends which is something people do all the time, I am no saint, I am no samaritan. I simply did what I do with all my friends; we hung out, we talked about cats, we talked about books, I borrowed books to them, I looked forward to seeing them.

I thought about not using their real names, but I want people to see who they are, to know them like I do.

Another preamble to this story is that I don't talk to people. I don't like starting up meaningless conversations about the weather or whatever sports teams is doing well or terrible. I'd rather not be asked directions somewhere by a stranger, I generally don't say "hi" to people I pass. So, the fact that I even went up to her in the first place means it was just one of those things that were meant to be. When I say "meant to be" I don't mean in some devine intervention, I mean it in a "right place, right time" sort of way.

I had seen her on my way home from the subway station most days after work. Sometimes she was with a guy, sometimes not. Then she had a gray and white kitten with her. I have to admit, it was the kitten that broke the ice for me, because of my own horrible/adorable kitten at home. Her kitten's name was Chi, and we talked about how terrible they were, but so damn cute that you couldn't stay mad at them.

I guess from then on, we were friends. I'd stop most days that I saw her and we'd talk. We talked about how she couldn't stay at her mom's house because she had chosen to live with her boyfriend and her mom didn't approve. How even if her mom did let her in the house, she didn't want to deal with her step-father's abuse; but she did want to see her new baby sister. She apologized for "complaining" but I told her that everyone needs someone to listen sometimes; how it made her boyfriend uncomfortable so she felt she couldn't talk to him about it. She told me how they slept in Compton and it was scary.

Eventually she had to give the kitten to a friend, because it was too difficult for her and her boyfriend to keep track of her. She still got to see Chi, though, by stopping by her friend's house.

We talked about how she had turned 19 not too long ago, and it was a bad day. How she had been ignored all day, and there wasn't money for a present or anything special. So, I got her a cupcake, because it's my theory that everyone should get cake on their birthday. (White cake, chocolate frosting, and rainbow sprinkles) She insisted that have the first bite, because she had so little to share and because birthday cakes are meant to be shared.

It was hard for me to be her friend sometimes; I loved spending time with her, but I wanted to do so much more. I felt so inadequate to what she needed, that all I could do was listen and give her the ten dollars I had in my wallet, saved specifically for her and her boyfriend.

My own The Boyfriend was wonderful and supportive, he understood my desire to do more and convinced me that what I was doing was definitely enough. He said sweet things like when he started busking to practice street magic, he'd give his earnings to them because he didn't need it. (I'm pretty sure that I fell in love with him all over again after he said that) He fully supported me in growing in this unusual friendship and knew that if I had made two new friends, it was important to me and he knows that I do anything for the ones I love.

At first I didn't think her boyfriend was good for her, and I wished she would be able to get away from him. I thought he was an anchor. But the thing about anchors is that they also keep someone from drifting away and getting lost.

I hope she doesn't mind that I'm telling her story, the parts of it I know at least, I hope she will be able to see how important she is to me and how much I miss her.

The first time I met her boyfriend, he kept passing out, he was drunk, they got into an argument and she said it was best if I headed out.

The second time I met him, he was alert and awake and bright. His eyes were ice blue and wide with something akin to mania. I learned that he has a B.A. in english literature and has some short horror stories published in a small literary magazine. Nobody is what they seem. I could tell by the way he was with her, that he was hopelessly in love. She was his lighthouse as he battled with drug addiction, bi-polar disorder, anxiety, and depression. Not enough money for his medication, so he self medicated with whatever he could find. He talked about rehab and I fully believed him, because he looked at her when he said it. She was his lighthouse, but he was her anchor.

I love the days we talked about books, how much they missed having them, I offered to borrow some books of mine to them. I know they didn't have a lot of room and didn't want to be carrying books around because it's heavy; but I would happily loan them a book and when they were done switch it for another.

I think my favorite conversation, the one when I knew we were friends, was when we got talking about how we all suffered from anxiety and how panic attacks were the absolute worst thing ever. Kindred spirits.

The last time I saw them was the day I had the first two books for them. I had spent the night before carefully choosing books based on what they said they liked to read. She liked biographies and manga, he liked mysteries and fantasy. I wanted something with hope, something good.

I was excited, because they were so excited to have a chance to read books again. I came up to where I usually could find them, and saw them talking to a police officer. It was a mounted police officer, so tourists were taking pictures of the police horse. I was mad that people were taking pictures of my friends' life. Finally, after they had received warnings for loitering and panhandling, they had to move. They cut through the hollywood boulevard crowd with a practiced speed. I raced to catch up to them, the books in my hand.

I caught them at a red light. I asked if they were okay, she said they weren't. They thankfully didn't get a ticket and even more thankfully didn't get arrested. I asked if she needed a hug and she accepted. (Those who know me, know that I rarely hug and never initiate the hug) I gave them the books and their eyes lit up. I pressed ten dollars into her hand. I walked with them until the intersection of Hollywood and Highland, he was already reading his book like it was an oasis in a desert.

Then they were gone in the crowd. Just another two, young homeless people on the streets of Los Angeles, their entire life in a duffle bag.

I haven't seen them in about 2 months. I hope they're okay. I hope that their absence is because he has found the help he needs and she found a job and a little apartment. He said she's an amazing cook, she said she's a terrible baker. I hope they have a little place with a horrible adorable kitten. I hope they're safe and that's why I haven't been able to find them.

So, anyone in LA, if you see a girl with straight black hair and an Australian accent. Her name is Anastasia. Tell her I say hi and that I miss her. If she's with a boy with ice blue eyes bright with dreams and thoughts and grand plans, and tangled blond curls, his name is Justin and he's so much more than he seems. Please, please tell them that I hope they're doing okay, that I have the next books ready for them, that I would love nothing more than to see them again. Tell them I look for them every day and think about them often. Tell them that I consider them some of my very good friends and all I want for them is happiness, love, and safety.

If you see Anastasia and Justin, just talk to them and let them know you're a friend of mine and that I've been missing them and then please let me know how they're doing.

It's The Comeback, Kid.

You're not mistaken, it has been about two months (to the day) since my last post. Yes, I have completely shattered the idea that I would post once a week. I'm going to try to get back to that, and I swear, for the one person that I know reads Fiction Friday...I won't leave Kent and Violet hanging.

So, here's what's been up.

Ah, man. That opening sequence...gets me every time.

For realz, though.

So, the beginning of August, I was let go from my job. Yeah, came as a total shock to me, too. Like, TOTAL shock. But, looking at it (and with the proper dosage of Paxil) it wasn't the right place for me. I was incredibly stressed out by the office vibes, paranoid, and jumpy. I didn't have the right background to do well, so everything I was doing (thought it was my best) just wasn't enough. It sort of felt like trying to do a simple surgery after studying an anatomy book, watching a few episodes of ER, and being pretty good at the game of "Operation".

So, anyway. That was on a Monday...happy Monday! And I got home, was sad for a bit and then applied to places like The Natural History Museum and Whimsic Alley. I didn't get those jobs, but it was fun to apply. I was officially unemployed for a total of one week. I also suspect that a lot of my "this is a new opportunity, I can do whatever I want" came from the awesomeness that is The Boyfriend. To be all mushy and lovey-gross for a moment; he makes everything better and when I freak out about how I'm going to end up strung out on skid row because I don't have a job...he reminds me to take a Xanax and also that he won't let that happen.

I got a new job as assistant to an owner of an auto body shop, a bit random, I know; but the title also comes with the job description of "writer". Any letters, voicemail messages for the after hours phone number, emails, and memos...I have the opportunity to write for him. It's actually nice being able to use my B.A. in Creative Writing for good use. I'm happier, more relaxed even though I have to deal with more people, and happier. It was one of those situations, where I didn't realize that I wasn't happy until I was somewhere else.

Also, I'm about 4 blocks away from Whimsic Alley.

Lately I have been thinking of blog posts I want to write, random things, as is my style. But I knew I owed you this one, first.

And, I sprained my foot last weekend. I was walking, wearing flats, tripped on an uneven spot of sidewalk, nearly recovered, and then fell completely to the ground. Yes, I'm that graceful and talented.

My mom asked if I fell off my shoes, and that was the reason...again, I was wearing flats. My boss asked what else I was doing besides walking...nothing, just walking.

The x-ray proved it wasn't broken, though it felt like it and a week later it's still sore and bruised. Go me!

That's about 3 days after it happened...yeah.

Anyway, that's about all that's happened. A complete job shift in addition to the usual Lupus temper tantrums (they only last about a day, if I can sleep them off) and the usual Felix mischief. Speaking of, she had a birthday last week, one year old. Now she can grow up and calm the hell down.

I'm not sure if fiction friday will return this week, I've been staying late at work to try and get ahead of the Christmas card project; somewhere in the neighborhood of 9000 cards...yeah. Anyway, things are good, different, but good.

Here's to weekly blog posts again and getting back into the normal routine of life.

So, Halloween is coming up fast...and I've done little other than think about how I want to do a femme version of Alex from A Clockwork Orange.

I think I just want an excuse to wear suspenders, a black bowler, and carry a pimp cane.

Whatevs.

See you next week.