Million Dollar Meth Baby.

One thing my mother, to this day has always been adamant about besides me marrying a nice Jewish boy, was to never ever, ever have someone who is high on drugs in my car. I’ve publicly made my love for people on TV who are drug addicts known. While I’ve lived in three major, popular cities, I’ve never had a substantial amount of contact with real, true to life junkies. I’ve been around my fair share of stoners, maybe not a complete cokehead, but a couple of cokehands and I’ve never been offered anything other than marijuana, pills, or coke. I’ve never been around hardcore drugs until I started my present day job, where 13 days out of each year I get to hold such narcotics, as heroin, PCP and crack rock in my hands without fear of arrest, or instant addiction. I clearly have a big misperception of drug use. Even A&E’s Intervention has this kind of glam to me, maybe it’s because you don’t know these people, so you can’t make it a realization. My perception changed drastically last night. If I had gone through what I experienced last night when I was much younger, I more than likely wouldn’t have ever taken that first hit of weed from an apple bong on my best friend’s front lawn in the 9th grade.


I live in a house with four other people (as of today three other people). I have a pretty nice loft styled bedroom upstairs so I keep to myself a lot because there is always TV to catch up on and words to be written. I noticed about three and a half weeks ago we had gotten a new roommate. I hadn’t seen (for privacy issues names will be changed) Farrah before last night. Our paths never crossed, I had just learned her name the week before from our landlord. I got home from work yesterday, and like every other weeknight, beer, phone call to mom, two more beers, end phone call with mom. I began to watch the season finale of Cougartown, about five minutes in to the second half hour, someone knocked on my door, it was one of my roommates. She asked me if I could give our roommate Farrah a ride to her friend’s place since her car had just gotten towed, she would have done it, but she was on her way out. I told her that it wouldn’t be a problem, she then whispers to me “Do you know Farrah’s story?” I replied “No, I barely know your story.”


She goes on to tell me that Farrah was just dropped off by the LAPD, also that she is a meth head and that she’s pretty sure that Farrah is high right now. She is getting evicted tomorrow and it would be best if I could get her out of here as soon as possible. I say of course and throw some clothes on and head downstairs. I’ve never seen Farrah before, when I got to the living room her back was turned towards me and she was on the phone, she turns to me and this is what I observe. She’s about this 5’7” blonde chick, average weight, wearing black short shorts and a tight black t-shirt. I don’t really know how I was able to notice that with her face being covered in lesions that make leprosy seem real to me and her lips were so chapped that even Carmex would have a hard time un-chapping them. I didn’t say anything, I showed no facial emotion, because I wanted Farrah to know that I don’t judge (out loud) and asked her if she was ready to go. We get in my car and head to her friend’s place in Glendale. She asks if I have a bottle of water in the car. I tell her no sorry and ask her if she wants me to stop at 7-11. She then proceeds to tell me that she doesn’t have money because someone stole her debit card at the gas station today. It also happened to be the gas station where there was someome hiding underneath her car and the gas station attendant saw that and kept her talking with him about buying air in a can because he knew what was happening. We hop on the freeway and she tells me not to be in the right lane just stay in the middle so we can weave in and out when need be. She gets on the phone with her mom and the repeated phrases I hear are:
“I’m dead, I messed up.”
“They are behind us right now”
“They have been following me all day, they have 15 different cars.”
“He thinks I ratted on him.”
“Every one thinks I’m crazy, but I’m not.”
“I don’t know they don’t speak that much English.”
“I’m just going to have to deal with the consequences.”


Her mom then asks who she’s with and she says she’s with her roommate who she just met (that’s me). She then asks what my name is again “Khloe?” Do I look like a Kardashian? I correct her and then she shoves her iPhone my way and says, “Tell her you are taking me to the Burbank hotel.” I reply logically with a “What?” “My mom wants to talk to you.” So I take her phone even though I’m driving and it’s an automatic $159 fine for talking on your cell. This is how our conversation goes.


“Hello?”
“Hi. Who is this?”
“I’m Chandra, her roommate, I just met her tonight, I’m never really around that much.”
“Are people following you?”
“Uh. Not that I’m aware of.”
“Where are you guys going?”
“She wants me to take her to the Burbank Hotel.”
“A hotel?”
“Yeah, that’s what she said.”
“Okay, put her back on the phone.”


Farrah gets on the phone.


“It’s the only place I’ll be safe. They are coming to get me mom!”


Farrah hangs up with her mother and directs me where to drive, she makes sure that I stop at least a car length behind the car in front of us at red lights by yelling “STOP! STOP! STOP!” Her logic behind this was, if we are a car length behind they can’t box us in. She calls her friend whose house I’m dropping her off at. They start arguing about something because she keeps saying that “He said both you guys were there. Where am I supposed to go? I’m just going to have to take the consequences.”


Her phone then dies and she tells me her friend isn’t there so just get back on the freeway and we will circle back and her friend should be back at her place by then. We are now on the main strip in Glendale and at every light she keeps holding her phone out of the window, pointing to the drivers next to us and saying “Caesar? Do you know where Caesar is? Tell him I’m trying to call him but my phone died.”


We get to one light and this guy, probably in his late 20s, starts talking to her.  He said
“You are messed up.”
She replies “I know I messed up, I just need to get a hold of Caesar.”


He asked her what she was on “Meth? Heroin?”
Farrah answers “One of them.”
The guy goes with “Heroin?”
She says “No, the first one.”


The light turns green and the guy leaves her with parting, yet true words:
“You need help, look at you, you are disgusting, stop doing drugs.”


We continue to drive in silence towards the freeway with the occasional “Oh god there’s two of the them behind us, watch this car parked on the side of the street is going to pull out and box us in” chime in from Farrah. We get back on the freeway and I head in the direction towards her friend’s and she asks me where I’m going, I tell her back to her friend’s place. She says “No, let’s go home. She told me if I showed up there she would beat me up.” I say okay, and we head back. She tells me that I’m going to have to weave in and out of traffic, run stop signs and red lights, because we want the cops to pull us over, otherwise we are going to be killed. This is the point in this story where something flashed in my brain and my heart rate went up a bit. “Wait. We? We are going to be killed?” I did not sign up for “we.” So I start to floor it to get home faster so I can get into my bedroom, lock my door and never see this chick again. She looks out the sideview mirror and says “See that Suburban?” (it was a Jeep Cherokee) “That’s them. They have been following us for miles.” I saw the Cherokee get onto the freeway at the last on ramp. They get in the lane next to us, and Farrah starts freaking out “Don’t let them get next to us, don’t let them get next to us.” They get next to us. The occupants of this car were a young 20 something white couple both wearing hipster glasses.
I go “See that’s nobody, it’s fine.”


Fucking Farrah goes:


“Nope. That’s Dan.”
“Oh really? That’s Dan?”
“Yup.”
“Okay well we are almost home.”
“No! It’s not safe there. I can’t go back there, they are going to be waiting for us.”


There goes that talk, like we are in this together. I start driving through North Hollywood, I go to make a left and she screams “No! No! Go right! Go right!” We’ve been driving for about an hour and a half now. I’m starting to get a little perturbed.


“Where do you want to go? I can’t keep driving, I have work early tomorrow.”
“I know. I know.”
“Do you want to go to the police station you’ll be safe there?”
“Do you think they’re open?”


At this point I was ready to drop her off at a McDonalds and tell her that we were at the police station and speed away.


“Yeah they should be. I don’t know where the North Hollywood station is though.”


She tells me she’ll Google it, but for some reason it’s going to take her phone six minutes to get the directions.


Six minutes later we aren’t even in NoHo anymore, we have sauntered into Burbank. She asks if we are in Glendale, I tell her no, we are one town over where we just were. She tells me to stay on the busy streets because they won’t be able to get her. I tell her there’s a police station in Downtown Burbank we can go there. We get downtown and a car pulls up at a red light and she’s like
“It’s them! It’s them! Go! Go!”


I look over it’s this Chinese guy who looks like he’s 16. I say


“It’s no one, you don’t know that person.”
“Oh yeah? That’s Dan.”
“Really? Dan? Again? In a different car? And a different race?”


We get to the station and the lights are dimmed, I’m kind of hoping she does a tuck and roll out of my car and I can just get the fuck out of there, I slowly pull over to the curb and she starts screaming, “No! No! They are closed! No!” I drive around the block three times, each time an adamant no. I notice on the fourth time a parking lot in back with police cars. I try to pull in and Farrah goes into hysterics “NO! NO! NO parking lots! They’ll swarm in on me.” I’m tell her it’s fine, there are cop cars there. She tells me no, and that these people are in a gang, then she followed up by saying that they are in the gang, and this is the neighborhood they hang out in. I go, “Really? The gang hangs in Johnny Carson’s old stomping grounds? Really?”


I am now fed up it’s like 10:30.


“What do you want to do?! I can’t keep driving. No one is following us. Do you want to go a 7-11 parking lot and we can call 911 from there?”


Farrah likes this idea. So we head to 7-11. She calls 911 as we pull in jumps out of the car and walks into the store. I stand outside contemplating whether I should just take off. I stay. She comes out, seemingly calm offers me a cigarette. Absolutely not, I don’t want anything from her, ever, ever. A cop car comes about two minutes later, two officers get out of the car and they ask what the problem is. I will give Farrah this, the first thing that came out of her mouth was “This is my roommate, she has nothing to do with any of this she was just giving me a ride. Farrah tells them people are following her, they are after her. The one officer asks if she’s afraid they are going to hurt her, she says she’s afraid they are going to kill her. The officer asks her what happened to her face, in reference to her super chapped lips and leprosy-like lesions all over her face. She tells a story of how she was on a bike with a friend and she fell of it into a trash can. The other officer then asks if she is on narcotics, she says she is not and he asked when the last time she took narcotics was. She asks


“Is weed a narcotic?”
“No.”
“Then 17.”
“17 years old?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you now?”
“22.”
“When was the last time you smoked weed?”
“Six months ago.”
“Do you have any psychological issues? Are you bipolar or schizophrenic?”
“Well when I was 14 they said I was bipolar, but then when I was 16 they said I wasn’t.”
“Are you on any medication?”
“Yes Symbyax, for my bipolar disorder.”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“Yes, last week for a DUI, but it’s getting thrown out.”
“Why?”
“Because I hadn’t been drinking I’ve been detoxing off my bipolar meds.”


Meanwhile a guy in a BMW pulls into the parking lot. Farrah says nonchalantly:
“That’s one.”


The female officer responds
“That’s one of the guys who has been following you?”
“Yup.”


The male officier has had it, apparently we have taken time out of his day from spitting and dipping.
“The guy is not following you.”
“Okay, whatever. Every one thinks I’m crazy, but I’m not.”


The male officer pulls me to the side and asks my side of the story. I tell him she thinks we were being followed, no one was following us, she was in hysterics every time I wanted to go left and she wanted me to turn right, yada yada. He asks me if I think I can get her home, I say that I think I can. He says we can’t take her anywhere because she hasn’t said she wants to harm herself. Briefly the idea popped in my head to say “Yes officer, she does want to harm herself she told me 15 times that she did” but I refrained. He told me to take her home and if anything happens just called 911. I thank him for his time. We go back to Farrah and the other officer, who is taking all her information down, as she is saying:
“It doesn’t matter, I’m going back home to Kansas tomorrow, LA just isn’t for me.”


My favorite part of this whole entire night happens now. The officer asks her:
“What is your occupation?”
“Huh?”
“What do you do for a living.”
“Oh. I’m a trust fund baby.”


ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!? THIS GIRL?! THIS GIRL IS A TRUST FUND BABY?! That has been my dream since I was 10 and my mom made me do chores around the house to “learn you need to work for your money.”


We get in my car and head home. We get about a half a mile from 7-11 and she says,


“The cops have my phone, we have to go back”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”


I turn around we go back, and literally, as soon as we pull up to their car, she goes, “Oh. Nevermind I found it.” I peel out, worried they think that I may be on something and with a small fear I may have an outstanding warrant from 2005 having to do with a hobo and a knife.


We are driving back home and she warns me that they saw her talking to the cops and they are going to get her. I tell her


“Everything is fine, you’re going to fine, no one is going to get you.“
“You’ll see, they are going to block the freeway on-ramp so we can’t get on to it.”
“Farrah, we’re a street away from our house, we don’t need to get on the freeway.”


We pull up to our house and she starts freaking out and says the car that just turned onto our street is “one of them.” She tells me to pull into the alley. We have a back entrance that goes directly into our backyard. I ask her if she wants to go through there and then I’ll go whip my car around front and park, or does she want to come with me. She tells me she wants to come with me. We go back around the block and I park. There was a car parked in front of the house next door with people in it, and for a moment I have to admit, my heart rate sped up a bit. I was trying to figure out an exit strategy. I did everything I could do for this girl, if these people were truly “after her” and were in that car I would peel left and sprint across the street to the school jump the fence and never look back. Turns out the neighbors had people over and they were leaving. We get into the house I lock and deadbolt the door. I told Farrah she was safe, nobody can get in the house and to go to bed and by the time you wake up it’ll be morning and you’ll be on your way back home to “Kansas.” I go upstairs to my bedroom and lock the door, I crack open a beer. I hear the quick thump of someone running up my stairs. There is a rapid knock at my door, I open it. Guess who?


“Look at my door. The light is on in there, someone is in there.”
 “No one is in there, it’s just the reflection from the spotlight on in the living room.”


She is now glaring in my room over to my balcony.


“Is that door lock? Can someone climb up here?”
“No and even if they did, I would be the one murdered and you could hear my cries and that would give you enough time to run. You are safe no one is going to get you.”
“You think I’m crazy, but I’m not, you don’t get it because it’s not happening to you.”
“No I don’t think you are crazy. I totally believe that you believe people are out to kill you. It’s just that they can’t touch you here.”
“Oh really? Well there is a guy out front and one in the back right now.”
“No there isn’t.”


I go downstairs to look out the front window


“No! Don’t get close to the window!”
“There’s no one there Farrah.”
“Can you look out back and in the bathroom too?”


I look, nothing.


“There’s nothing, I really have to get to bed.”
“I’m sorry I know. Can you just check my room?”


I go to her bedroom door, this is the third time my heart rate increased that night with fear that someone may actually jump out. I turn the knob, and push the door open before walking in like they do on CSI and all those other cop shows. I then take my hand and feel for the light, I turn it on, all there is in her room is two cans of Fosters on her headboard and about 11 empty prescription pill bottles on her bed. I tell her there’s no one in there and just to go to sleep. I say goodnight and go back upstairs. Two minutes later I see the sensor light go on out back. I look out my balcony door and see her out there. It looked like she saw me and was about to scream so I go out on the balcony and go:


“Are you alright?”
“Yeah. Are you alright?”
“Yeah. Goodnight.”


She leaves me with a


“If anything happens scream, okay?”


Okay Farrah, okay.

Into the Psyche: Jelena

I have a degree in Psychology, so I can like analyze things that are psychological and stuff pretty well. Since completing my degree four long years ago I have diagnosed three of my friends with bi-polar disorder, two with schizophrenia, and one who is a complete sociopath, and will be coming into their place of work one day and shooting it up.  To say I'm qualified is an understatement.   I can analyze through handwriting, body language and I can also read lips.  I decided to look beyond the surface of the pictures from the Justin Bieber paparazzi scandal that happened this past weekend and give you the 100% real scoop of what happened after the altercation.

"Bro, you made me lose my shoe!"



 

"What the hell am I supposed to do now bro?  My purple shoe is lying in the gutter."



"I told you these were stupid pants, J."  "Selena, I don't care.  I have one shoe on and my purple hat is still lying in the gutter."





"Just put your shoe back on and calm down."  "I have one shoe on, how do you expect me to calm down?!  The bottom of my sock is dirty now!"

Do you need help babe?"  "No I need to get this fucking shoe back on!"



"Wait, yeah I do need help.  Can you help me?"



"Keep it together Justin, don't cry, hold the tears in, hold the tears in." "Justin I've got your hat."

"I don't care if money is falling out of my weird pants. Just don't let them see you cry.  Don't let them see you cry."

"Babe.  Wait for me.  Babe. Babe."

"I hope your happy.  Of course he's pissed, you made him lose his hat!"

"Seriously! What did you expect?  His hat fell off!"



"Justin. Justin.  Honey, I got your hat."







"Are you okay sir?  I'm sorry, I can't control his temper, he's still trying to get his testosterone levels in check."



"Hey girls, I'm just going to blend in with you guys for a bit, if that's okay.  Are you guys Wizards fans?"



"Oh that cop is summonning me over, isn't he?"

"Maybe if I show a little leg, we can get out of this.  I wonder if this guy's daughters are Wizards fans."



"Nope, leg didn't help, and he has no children."

"...and then he called me a Hispanic racial slur, which shocked me because I mean, her name is Selena. Gomez."

 

Photos courtesy of OceanUp.  Thanks OceanUp

Random Googlings: Part 1

I’m not afraid of sharing my internet search history (between the hours of 9 AM and 2 PM).  Here are some of the things I have Googled of late:

signs that you are a sociopath - I often wonder if I'm a sociopath.  Traits include, narcissism, shallow emotions and impulsive nature, which are traits I possess proudly.  But since I've never wanted to kill an animal and play with its insides as a child, I’ve decided I’m not.

metamucil - I thought this was for old people, but recently, a blocked childhood memory came to surface where I remember my mom putting this tan/brownish powder in my orange juice every morning.  It was always too much, the texture of the juice became thicker, and there was a certain discoloration, and I could taste it.  This may explain my irregularity problems now as an adult.

teddy herpes 90210 – I read an article interviewing Trevor Donovan, who plays Teddy on 90210. He said that Teddy comes back to Beverly Hills to tell all his former lovers he has herpes.  A couple of days after the season finale, I realized, Teddy didn’t once mention to anyone he has herpes.  I went to the article again and read more than the first three sentences this time.  In the fourth sentence Trevor is quoted as saying “I’m joking.”

diagnois- I wanted to know how to spell diagnosis correctly.  Thanks Google!

reasons for short term memory loss at age 27 – This was initially going to be a different search but I forgot what I was going to search, which lead me to look for the reasons of short term memory loss.  I forget what the reasons were besides blunt force trauma and early onset Alzheimer’s.

2011 detroit tigers – Some guy I kind of dig, is a fan, and I wanted to make fun of him and the Tigers but I had to see how they performed last season compared to how the Phillies did.  I never mentioned anything to him.

french press – I was tired at 1 PM one day and realized I hadn’t had coffee in four hours, so I wanted to see what a French press was all about and if one could fit in my cubicle.  Clearly it can, in my head I had mixed up the picture of a French press with the picture of a printing press.  I also came to the conclusion that I would likely be exerting more effort using the press than taking the elevator up eight floors to the store.

can you die from drinking 3/4s of a diet coke that expired 12 years ago – Turns out you can’t, it just tastes really, really bad.

SIDENOTE:  to the person who wrote a question on Yahoo Answers asking what can happen if you drank a two week old can of diet coke and you proclaimed you were experiencing such symptoms as dizziness and stomach pains…quit it.  Let me direct you to my psycho-therapist.

amelia shepard – She’s a doctor on ABC’s Private Practice. I get a kick out of  two things.  Television characters that are drug addicts and watching interventions.  She had an intervention earlier in the season due to the fact that she was shooting up and snorting Oxys.   The episode was art.  Her and her junkie fiancé, Ryan decided to go to rehab, but did the rest of the Oxys they had left.  He overdosed and died.  Amelia went to rehab.  I stopped watching.  Turns out she was pregnant with Ryan’s baby.  The baby developed with no brain.  She delivered the baby in the season finale.   I was hoping the situation would be so traumatic she would relapse, so I searched to see if she did.  She didn’t.  Yet.

how to be sure you’re not a sociopath – After I searched to see if a person would relapse on prescription pills and was pulling for her to do so, I decided to explore this topic once again.

photos of zac efron – I mean.

is spitting on someone assault – I just want to know where I can draw the line.

Things That Concern Me: May 22nd, 2012: The Life of Friends

You're either a proud watcher of Glee, or claim it’s a guilty pleasure. For me, this debate wavers week to week, just like my personal hygiene, my work ethic and my work productivity. Okay, okay, work productivity stays at an almost stagnant slim to none level daily. I guess what I’m saying is, I watched the season finale of Glee, and like most TV graduations, it brings you back to those “this is everything and defines me as a person” high school days, especially when the show has songs that were burned on your graduation mix made on Memorex CD and it made me think of friends.

The season finale of Glee made me feel things I’ve never felt before. Not like the things I feel when Justin Bieber says “hello to falsetto in 3, 2...” but real feelings. Maybe it’s because I’ve aged since the last TV show graduation episode I watched. The last ones I can remember off the top of my head are, The OC’s with an AWESOME Imogen Heap song playing (RIP Marissa) and One Tree Hill’s with Haley going into labor (sweet Jaime Scott). I don't know, maybe these feelings are stronger because I’m maturing. It’s probably the former but it seems, at least for me, you become more reminiscent of your past each day you grow closer to your death. You start to think about the people. Oh, what does “the people” entail you ask me? Oh, I’ll tell you. The people encompasses, the friends you have, the friends you wish you were still close with, the friends you lost, and those who could have been.

The Friends You Have

These are the friends you still have after high school and college who decided they could still withstand your shit. If you think about every single friend you have ever had, these people are few and far between. And I’m not talking about the ones you are just Facebook friends with, it doesn’t count. I’m talking about the friends you can still call/text at any moment in time and it wouldn’t be awkward, even though you may have not seen or talked to them in a beat. These people are special. These are the people that help shape you into a person. They helped shape you into the person you want to be, or the person you didn’t even know you were yet. The college friends help shape you even closer into the person you want to be. Within this time, you change, usually multiple times. And those true friends from high school accept that. As do your true friends from college. And that’s why, no matter what, you are there for them and them, you. That’s why you fly back home for their weddings without questions, it's why you Skype with them, it's why they pick up your phone calls at 1 AM when it’s three hours later where they are, and it's why you click ‘like’ on the photos of their children.

The Friends You Lost and And the Friends You Wish You Were Still Close With

These two type of friends can be intertwined to a degree. These are the friends from high school and college that you are Facebook friends with now. At one point in your life you were super close, sometimes inseparable with these people and thought that would never change, but somewhere along the way, you grew apart. With some of them you just knew it was inevitable that you were going to part ways. With others you don’t know what went wrong and wish you could go back. You stalk their Facebook pages and stare at the screen wondering if you should just post a “Hey” or “Thinking about you” and then realize that would be too awkward, for both of you. While you do write the annual obligatory “Happy Birthday” on their wall, you always continue to ignore the fact they made an impact on your life and you actually, kind of miss them. It just seems you have grown so far apart you could never get back to that "comfortable" aspect of being friends. It would be like you were trying to befriend a stranger.

The Friends That “Could Have Been”

These people are also stalked by you on Facebook, and these are the people you went to elementary, middle, and high school with. It’s those people that either a) friend requested you and you thought “why the heck is this person friending me?” Or b) “I’m going to friend this person and see what is happening in their life because their Facebook page is private and I can’t find out unless I click on request friend.” A and B can clearly be flipped flopped. After the “acceptance” and a complete stalking of photos, info, mutual friends, and wall posts. You go, “wow have so much in common, or “wow, he became so cute” or “wow, I can’t believe I was okay with people picking on him/her when we were 11. They look like they are really well adjusted for what they went through. Surprising, but very happy about it.” (Sometimes they don't, but I'm all about the benefit) You think to yourself “Why didn’t I talk to them more when we were always around each other? Why did I care what my 'friends' that I'm no longer friends with thought if I talked to them?"

High school is literally like a rest stop in Arkansas that is surrounded by nothing but tumbleweeds and an elderly man with five teeth, yet he has a heart of gold. Yeah I don’t know what than means either but...

When you are in your 20s, watching a TV show filled with 20 somethings playing high school characters, this is when you realize that high school wasn’t the beginning/end of your life. 

So, to you that I’ve lost, or missed out on, is it too late? Yeah? Okay, still going to continue to stalk you out on Facebook. Kisses.



...And then there are the friends you make along the way...

Do You Give Me Anxiety?

Of the many undiagnosed issues I have, I can say with conviction that my social anxiety is the biggest one.  While it’s not a debilitating, crippling anxiety, it has caused an uncountable amount of white shirt discolored armpits, dangerously high heart rates, loss of potential friendships, feelings of nausea and binge drinking. 

The three types of people who give me the most anxiety:

1.      People of Authority

2.      Friends of Friends /Acquaintances

3.      People I Admire

The three types of people who give me the least anxiety:

1.      Men Ages 42-68.

2.      The Elderly

3.      My Mother

Let’s start with the people I’m least anxious around.  I’m looking at this group right now and I’m shaking my head, and chuckling uncomfortably because this is the most insane group ever, and I'm sure my reasoning is insanse as well.  The only way this group could be odder is if I included my gynecologist, or Scientologists, basically any type of gists.

Men Ages 42 - 68- I’ve always gotten along and felt comfortable with this group ever since I was a kid.  Growing up a widowed-child (yup), you may not consciously know it, but you’re always kind of searching for that father figure you most certainly can’t find in your Uncle Will because he is creepy and you’ve been told time and time again to “never be in a room where it is just the two of you” and “he will touch you, he touched your cousin.” I could always joke around and play with this group, just like I saw my friends do with their dads.  These men made me feel safe, like if my Uncle Will ever cornered me, they’d kick his ass.  Granted as I cruised my way into mid to late 20s, the relationships changed a bit, the line of appropriateness had been blurred and got a bit confusing, but that’s a story for my memoirs.  

The Elderly – I mean, come on, they are too cute to be anxious around unless they are having heart palpitations or telling you how they don’t believe that integration should exist, but that’s only happened to me like four times.  This is a really easy group to be comfortable in front of.  My first job was at a nursing home so maybe that’s why I’m so comfortable around the elderly. Those senior citizens were so nice to me. Maybe it was because I served them their food and if they made me angry I could have starved them to death, but hey, I guess we will never know if that was the reason. All you have to do with these people is just stay super polite to them and laugh at their jokes, in return, they will laugh at yours and they will eat you up.  And that’s just want an insecure, narcissistic person with social anxiety needs to build themselves up.

My Mother – I realize that my mom is in every post I write and that is something I will soon be taking up with my therapist.  But she is the only person I will sob in front of and the only person I will yell at if she is being stupid, and I do so because I know I can’t lose her, like legally, she signed those papers when I was baby saying she had an obligation to me until death do us part.  Okay, it was until 18 years old, but it’s the 21^st century, till death is the new 18.  The only time I’m ever anxious around her is if she thinks she is completely in the right and I’m wrong.  When that happens the only way you can calm her down is to start crying to the point of convulsions, she will then start to feel bad for losing her temper and will hug you for two minutes straight.   She may have a soft spoken Dutch accent, but when she throws those f-bombs in there, she could give the Latin Kings a run for their money.

Now, on to those who make me buy new white shirts quarterly...

People of Authority – bosses, teachers, police, anyone with some kind of power to fire me, give me detention or arrest me, you make me physically ill when I'm around you.  I fear all of you, I don't know why.  I have one of the nicest bosses in the world, the most chilled, laid back guy ever, but I cannot keep a conversation of substance with him for the life of me.  Our Monday morning exchanges go something like this:

Mike:  Hey Chandra, how was your weekend?

5 second pause. 

This is how I set up my response in my head

Chandra:  It was pretty freaking good.  Took a hike up Runyon, probably had the best tacos I’ve ever put in my mouth at this place in Pasadena.  How was yours?  Did you do anything fun with the family?  Did your daughter finish up her finals?   I can’t believe her first year in college is over already.

This is what comes out of my mouth:

Chandra: Good.

People I Admire – To me, everyone I look up to and admire are so much smarter than me and have a lot more to bring to the table, they know exactly what is happening in the Gaza Strip and they know who the Prime Minister of Great Britain is.  What could I possibly say to them to bring value to a potential conversation if I ran into them at a local blood drive, or at like a Coffee Bean?

 I went to a Chelsea Handler book signing right after her second book had come out.  The book store made us purchase a book from their store even though I had both of her books in my purse and was going to not only ask her to sign both, but also ask for a job on her show.  I was feeling confident, which usually is the case when I down four beers as quickly as I did.  Finally it was my turn and I walk up confidently ready to change the course of my life and this is how the exchange goes.

Chelsea Handler: Hi!

Chandra: (I could already feel myself slurring) Hey, they made me buy another book, I brought my own already.

Chelsea Handler:  I know, I’m sorry about that.

Chandra:  It’s cool, you are so hilarious.

By now my confidence has left my body and walked out the front of the fucking building.

Chelsea Handler:  Thank you!  I can tell you are from Jersey!

Chandra: (ecstatic she recognized the “accent”) Yeah, I am! But I’m from South Jersey and you’re from North Jersey.

I couldn’t tell you the rest of the conversation or if there even was a rest, I just remember the immense feeling of shame for the next week or so.  Like, there I was standing in front of the person who made me realize what I wanted to do for the rest of my life and all I come up with is that we are practically from different sides of the Mason Dixon line?  Needless to say, I didn’t get a job working for Chelsea Handler.

And finally my biggest source of anxiety...

Friends of Friends and Acquaintances – Your peers are the group that you want to win over the most.  So it’s only natural my biggest fear are my peers. I have a couple of super hilarious friends (just a couple, we’re not a dime a dozen where I come from) in my life who can literally light a room of people they just met 30 seconds ago on fire with their jokes. It makes me extremely jealous that they can do this because I, on the other hand need to read a person first.  I cannot be introduced to someone who looks like they want to jump me and immediately turn on my charming wit.

Now, I’m not going to be one of those assholes that says “oh yeah, I have such a knack at reading people.” But I do kind of have a knack for reading people. Although, it’s not a knack of reading if they are inherently good or bad people; it’s a knack at reading if they are going to receptive to me or not. Let’s see if I can use the word knack one more time.  There, I did it, I used knack again. 

I see myself as a funny person, probably like in the 99^th percentile in my group of friends.  My humor is all that I’ve really got going for me (that and my collarbone), so if you don’t find me funny, I’m not helping you in any way and you are certainly not helping me in any way, its best we stay clear of each other.  

I can’t tell you what the exact criteria is that I use to size up a person and get a feeling if they are going to love me or hate me, it just happens, kind of like how Rain Man can count those toothpicks.  Once I read you, 1 of 2 things can happen:

a)      If I get a positive vibe the jokes start rolling, and they can roll anywhere from ugly babies to the Magic Johnson HIV conspiracy.

b)       If I get that negative vibe I shutdown, almost into a metaphoric fetal position, and sit there quietly, drinking my beer in an unusual fast pace.

And it’s a shame that you give off that negative vibe, because I really feel like you would enjoy hearing my Magic Johnson HIV conspiracy theory.

 The moral of this post is, if you meet me, initially be very nice to me, because not only will I guarantee to make you laugh, you'll save me a bunch of money annually from white shirt purchases.