Monthly Archives: August 2012

Why I Love Not Having a Smartphone

I have many pretentious arguments as to why smartphones are the end of social progression, but I’m going to exempt you from my rant, and go straight into my small anecdotes, those of which would probably not have happened if I owned a smart phone.

Side Note: I don’t understand why “smartphone” is one word, so to embrace my obstinate side, I am going to refer to them as “smart phones.”

I often find myself needing to stop to ask for directions, since I don’t have a GPS in my phone or car.  We all know that I just let loose, take the ride, and find myself in some unexpected places.  Due to this, I have woken up to the, where-the-fuck-am-I, thought on more than one occasion.  Because I don’t sleep, it’s usually at an absurdly early hour, between 6:00am and 8:00am, depending on how late it was that I passed out (generally between the hours of three and five).  With all of that being said…

Anecdote 1:

Girl’s night out with my friend, Maia.  Long story short, I woke up the next morning on her couch, in my tiny little dress, and had no idea how to get home.  I splashed my face with water, flung my heels into the car and drove to the closest place that would be able to provide me with answers as to my location.  McDonald’s.  Brilliant.  French fries and milkshakes are the perfect hang-over cure so I was killing two birds with one stone.  I walk in looking fucking beat.  I asked the cashier for directions, but he was young, and clearly had grown up with a smart phone, so was equally as clueless as myself.  I sighed and dived** into my milkshake and french fries.

A sixty-something-year-old man who had apparently heard my unsuccessful exchange with the cashier, approached me and asked where I was trying to go.  I explained, then so did he… giving me flawless directions.  Here is where it gets fun.  He said, “You look like you had a hell of a time last night.”  Yup, yes sir, I did.  I said something about how I was feeling the consequences of it, and he went on to say that the best hang-over treatment is another drink.  He brought me out to his truck, where he retrieved a flask from the glove-box, and poured a healthy amount of bourbon into my vanilla milkshake.  Fuck yes.

To paint a small picture, it was literally 7:05 in the morning, and I was in this dress…

high heels, smeared make-up, sweating alcohol, obnoxiously large sunglasses to hide my blood-shot eyes, and not giving a FUCK about any of it.  To see me in a McDonald’s parking lot, accepting a shot of bourbon into a milkshake at 7am, from an overweight man with a mustache… all I’ve got to say is, I hope someone driving by appreciated it.  We ended up talking for a good ten minutes about how billboards have destroyed road-trips, and then I went on my way, feeling 100% better and laughing out loud about what just happened, as The Smashing Pumpkins played on my car stereo.

Anecdote 2:

Got lost driving back from a person’s house who I should definitely not have spent the night at to begin with.  Again, I was wearing some absurd outfit at seven in the morning, and pulled over at a Denny’s because I figured I’d grab a coffee to remedy my pain and then ask for directions.  Before I was able to walk in, I met TJ.  TJ was an old mother fucker.  He looked like he was eighty, but from what I learned about him during our conversation, he couldn’t have been quite that old.

He was crouched down in front of the door smoking a cigarette and said, “where you tryin’ to get to young lady?”  How did he know?!  I explained in the best way that I could, considering that I was absolutely still drunk from the night before.  He told me how to get back, and then we just started talking….

The conversation led into how he came to be in California.  He had literally jumped on a moving train from somewhere in the Mid-West (I forget where exactly) and ended up in California where he has been working for the train yard ever since.  The mentioned train yard was directly behind the Denny’s we were at, and he went on to say that he’s there almost every morning during his early break because he’s “sweet on” one of the waitresses.  I told him he should ask her out and jokingly offered to be his wing girl, completely forgetting the generational gap, and that he would have no idea what the hell a “wing girl” is.

It didn’t matter.  We bonded over shit coffee, and the unspoken recognition that both of us were willing to befriend an unsuspecting stranger.  Something that seems to be a dying practice.

Anecdote 3:

I have an odd fascination with barges, and also find giant industrial style landscapes to be beautiful.  So, I was driving down I-110 some late night, and noticed the colossal port of Los Angeles.

Just a section of the LA Port.

I turned in and drove through it for AT LEAST an hour.  The place is huge, (7,500 acres) and I would stop every half a mile or so to stand up on the roof of my car and look out onto the vast landscape of man-made beauty to remind myself that I am happy and free.  During these moments of middle class white girl introspection, I decided it was my calling to somehow work at the docks, but I had no idea how I was going to make that happen.

My first challenge however, was going to be finding my way out of the deep maze that I had just drove myself into.  I just started driving and hoped I’d eventually find a sign pointing me to some recognizable highway.  Instead, I saw a bar.  I figured that almost every patron inside would be a port worker, so I shrugged my shoulders, thought what the heck, went in, and walked up to the first man I saw.

“Hi!  Do you by chance work at the port?”


From there, Greg, a late thirties Mexican American man told me all about dock life and how to get into the Union, which is very interesting but I won’t get into that now.  We had a couple of drinks, I learned about his family and truly enjoyed his company.  He didn’t get creepy at all, and actually checked a couple of his friends who interrupted a few times with inappropriate innuendos regarding the two of us.  Why can’t two people of the opposite sex have a conversation without it appearing romantic?

Greg then gave me directions out of there, and left me with his work number in case I ever wanted him to show me around the docks.  The following week I gave him a call, and he happily showed me around the areas he works, and it was amazing.  I loved every second of the visit.  Mark my words, I am destined to one day, somehow be involved with a city port.

Final point: None of these wonderful encounters would have happened if I owned a smart phone.

**Did you know that “dove” is not a real word?  To be grammatically correct, the past tense of dive is, “dived.”  Fun fact.

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Five People Living or Dead

I’m big on questions books.  I used to throw a lot of parties, and one of the key ingredients to being a good host, is making sure everyone feels included.  Weird tension and segregation between groups of people who don’t know each other is a buzz kill.  One of the best ways to get everyone talking is question books.  There are the fun “Would You Rather” books, which ask ridiculous questions like, “would you rather pee your pants or drink a glass of spoiled milk?”  Then there are the more serious question books, which is when things get interesting and you find yourself bonding with the most unexpected people.

One of my favorite questions that I have come across is, “If you could invite any five people, living or dead, to a dinner party, who would they be?”  Which brings me to our discussion.  I like this question because it’s ever evolving.  My five seem to constantly be changing, and I find myself thinking regularly, “hmmm I would probably consider bringing (insert cool person here) to my dinner party.”  The most recent consideration was Johnny Cash, but unfortunately, he didn’t quite make the cut today.  Maybe next month he’ll have better luck.

Without further adieu, the five people I would like to invite to dinner would be:

1.  Thomas Jefferson

2.  Anaïs Nin

3.  Ernest Hemingway

4.  Caravaggio (the painter)

5.  Kristen Scott Thomas

Now for my explanation.  There are a bunch of people I would like to meet, but I’m trying to consider the “vibe” of the entire group.  The above five, I feel like would get along (for the most part).  Or at least keep things interesting.  I could see Caravaggio and Hemingway having a literal pissing contest after drinking Scotch, neat, and arguing over the most effective way to skin an animal carcass or start a fire, or something that’s equally as arbitrarily manly.  Then they’d bro down over a game of “Five Finger Fillet” while Kristen sips on wine, humming a French tune and seductively getting Thom to come out of his shell for a moment and gently dance with her.  Anais would be on the balcony smoking a cigarette, wondering if any of her past loves are looking up at the same moon right now that she is.  I’d be at the sundae bar (having a make-your-own-sundae station is crucial to my parties), and then we’d all sit on the floor together, pass around a wine bottle and laugh over a game of Never Have I Ever.

Jefferson is my one constant.  He always makes the cut.  I have a fascination with the cycle of brilliant minds in history, and have my own theory about such.  Well, a half-assed theory because it is based on no real merit.  It’s really just a Caitlin thought, and like most of my grand ideas, it’s probably naive, but these callow musings are my way of still believing in the good of the world.  I believe that the universe brings together brilliant minds at times when we’re in the most need of them.

I have many examples that I won’t bore you with, but one of them is the Founding Fathers.  I truly believe that never before in history, had so much genius been in one room together.  This can’t be merely a coincidence.  It’s the universe’s way of providing us with a solution.  Enough hippie jabber.  The full explanation of my theory will be a discussion for a different day.  Back to Jefferson, he’s just fucking sexy because of all his mystery, and I’d try to get him drunk, then get in on the real gossip of his life and ask him about his love affairs with his slaves, and what his secret coded messages were actually about.

Kristen Scott Thomas is probably the choice that you’re scratching your head at.  I don’t know why, but to me, that woman just seems like when she talks, we should all listen.  She has this wisdom about her, and she’s cultured, so I think she could hold her own next to the other self-indulgent artists’ that I’ve chosen.  On top of her charm and intelligence, I think she’d be a fucking blast to get drunk with.  Her and I would definitely end up outside jumping on a trampoline together.

We all know my night would probably end with myself, cuddled up next to Caravaggio on the couch.  Though I’d hope it to be Hemingway, let’s get serious… I somehow always end up with the guy who seems most likely to draw a picture of a penis as well as the most mentally unhinged.

One thing I think that all five of these people have in common, is that they seemed to have made love to the world.

Who would your five be?

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Let’s Talk About Firefighters

What is it about firefighter’s that makes every single girl/lady/woman/fucking living creature with ovaries cum all over themselves?  There is no other profession that has this effect on women.  ALL females, have a thing for firefighters.

You’re welcome.

I lived behind a firehouse for about a year in college, and it was friggen fantastic.  I think I fell a little in love with every single one of them.  I struck up an odd friendship with one… he would randomly knock on my door during his shift and borrow a movie (I have an impressive collection), but let’s get serious, it wasn’t about the movie.  Hmmm I think we’re still facebook friends.  Anyway!  Does anyone have any real insight as to what the meaning behind this infatuation is?  Yes I know, they save lives…. they’re in good shape… blah blah blah.  But there must be more to it.  Paramedics save lives, cops save lives, Doctors for Christ sakes!  UPS guys are in GREAT shape (have you ever noticed that every UPS man has fantastic legs?)  So what is the deep seeded reason that all women have a soft spot for firefighter’s?

My old college roommate walking in front of our apartment building. The brick building in front of him was the Firehouse. I just like this picture…

I brought this observation up to a male bartender that I once knew, and for a second, I thought he made a sound argument.  He mentioned that all girls are the same way with bartenders.  Reluctantly, I had to agree… he was right.  But!  Then I rebutted because not all women spend time in bars.  Duh!  True, there is also something about bartender’s that get the girls going, but not all girls go to bars.  ALL women LOVE firefighters.  From teenagers to senior citizens… from goth wannabe’s to preparatory students… from stay at home mom’s to tattooed drug addicts… we all love fall in love with firefighters.

I think it must have to do with the media, like everything else.  Firefighters are always depicted as the good guy.  They save people and cats, but do so without corruption (cops) and while risking their own lives in the process, unlike doctor’s.  They can do no wrong because in our minds, it’s the last honest, and truly selfless profession.  If firefighters made a lot more money than they do, we probably wouldn’t be quite as into them, even though that seems backwards.  But it would take away from the “selflessness” of their image if they were rolling around in cash.

Does anyone have any insight into this psychological question?

P.S.  I googled, “hot firefighter” and this was the first image that came up and I just had to share because I think this is hilarious.  Not sexy at all… just flat out weird.


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Love in the Time of Amenorrhea

We all know how much I despise discussing my menstrual cycle, but it is necessary to preface this entry with stating that I have not had my period in eight months.  This disorder is called, “Amenorrhea” and is common in girls my age.  It can be caused by many things, stress being one of them, which is the cause in my case.  I have not been taking care of myself, so my body is pissed off at me, and lashing out by not allowing me my period.  This may sound like a gift, but I promise it’s not, it’s really unhealthy.  Keeping all of that in mind, now let me move on to the story which correlates with this information.

My best friend Lance is in town visiting.  Since I left Florida over a year ago, I have only seen him one other time, when I went home for a wedding.  This has been hard on me because Lance is my better half.  I’m going to full on embrace the cheesiness and go as far as saying that he completes me.  I like myself when we’re together, we can talk about everything, and we always have so much fun.

He’s staying with some other friends of ours, but I decided to kidnap him for the night, bring him out with me and then have him crash at my place.  Best idea I’ve ever had.  We knock on the door of the wannabe speakeasy that I discussed in Confessions Vol. 8, and Adam, the door guy who I befriended during my last visit, opens the peek hole.  “I smell hair,” I say reluctantly, rolling my eyes at the ridiculous password.  “Do you?”  he says back, granting us access, and so the night begins.

Inside, there were two other patrons, a karaoke host, the door guy and the bartender.  That’s it.  So of course, because I’m with Lance, the two of us make it a great time. We kick off with our awful rendition of “Lola” by the Kinks.  One thing leads to another, and we’re pretty much best friends with the three staff members.  We were all buying each other shots, dancing, hooting and hollering and just having what was essentially our own private party.  Right about now, is when I don’t remember a good two hours of the night.  Lance filled me in a bit, and from the sounds of it, I was having a grand ole’ time.  We decided that the party was not over when the bar closed, so myself, Lance and the bartender, whose name I believe is Brian, decided to walk to a 24 hour Korean BBQ restaurant.

I proceeded to throw-up in the bathroom, which just needed to happen, and then continued with my evening.  Lance and Brian were making fun of me the whole night for it, but it didn’t bother me.  It was funny, and I owned it.

Caitlin Rule:  If you throw-up, own up.  It’s way more embarrassing to try to deny it when everyone knows it happened.

Lance and I began rapping a song that our friend made-up, with lyrics that say, “Bitch you better suck my dick / Now put your pussy in the air and get fucked.”  I think it’s hilarious, and hopefully everyone else in the restaurant did too… because we were loud.  I remember there being a whole fish, eyeball and all in front of me, so being the mature adult that I am, I plucked the eyeball out and put it in Lance’s soup.  Throughout all of this, Brian and I are exchanging physical flirtation.  Gently holding hands under the table… touching my leg… and so on, but thinking back, I have NO idea why, because I was a HOT MESS.  I’m pretty sure my hair looked like I had just been skydiving, and there may or may not have been a piece of vomit on my face… and I’m also pretty sure that Brian was sober.  Why in God’s name a very cool, sober guy with no agenda would want to be within ten feet of me that night, let alone hold my hand, is beyond me, but I’m not going to complain.

From there, we drove up to the Griffith Observatory, which is on top of Mount Hollywood, and has one of the best views of the city.  I flung my heels off and ran to the ledge, where I was met with a view that never gets old.  The city lights against the night sky.

Me and my heels at 4:00 in the morning, against the back drop of Los Angeles.

Sorry the picture is dark, but that’s why it’s the best look-out point, because it’s the Observatory, so there are no lights.

The three of us sat up there and talked, and this is when I finally started sobering up.  Lance disappeared to the other side for a while, so Brian and I had some one-on-one time, during such, I realized that he’s probably the most genuine guy I’ve met in Los Angeles.  He radiated this humbleness that is so rare out here because everyone has an agenda.  I can’t hate, because I’m the same way, we’re all out here for something.  Everything in LA is so fast-paced, that even human interactions are rushed.  But not this night… this night felt real.

The industrial sized sprinklers came on, and after our pretty bonding session, I grabbed Brian’s hand and we ran together through the sprinklers.  Surprisingly, he didn’t object or hesitate at all, and completely went with it.  Without even thinking, I turned around, dripping in reclaimed water, and kissed him.  Again, he went with it.  It only lasted for a second, but became one of my favorite kisses ever because of the innocence behind it.

Lance and I then ran through the sprinklers together, as Brian sat on the sidewalk, waiting with my heels and anklet ready for me.  Perfect way to end the night, running through sprinklers with your best friend just before the dawn.  We drove Brian home, and part of me wants to seek him out again, but the other part of me wants never to see him again, because I don’t know if it will ever be as perfect.

Lance and I passed out on my bed, and the next day, I got my period.  I don’t think this can be brushed off as a coincidence.  Being with Lance again made me remember who I am.  Being with him and a stranger, letting the night take us all for a ride made me feel alive and all of my stress was alleviated, even if only for a short time.  So maybe the cure for Amenorrhea is simply a single dose of love.

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