Another Weekend Without Makeup

Working in West Hollywood is the bestest. The city abreev is WeHo! The weather's gorgeous, the city's really pretty, and everyone's gay, which is awesome. Even the bums are nice! I offered one half my doughnut and he said "no thanks" and then complimented my haircut! And sometimes the gay guys give me life advice, like when this two guys came in. I was waiting for one of the managers to get something for them so we started talking. He told me about how he backpacked around Italy when he was 18 and befriended this old woman who got him into bars, and his experience with getting drunk for the first time. That led to the subject of the class trip to Italy I took back in my freshman year of high school. He said something about the drinking age of Europe and I mentioned how all we did that trip was get drunk in the hotel rooms and sleep on the tour bus. He told me that I might have gotten too much of a headstart, and that I had the rest of my life to drink. See? Life lessons! Cracking eggs of wisdom!

But you know what's not the bestest? This awful job that allows me to work in West Hollywood. In case you didn't know, dry cleaners is code for slave labor. I'm basically on my feet for 6 or 8 hours a day, save for my 30 minute lunch break, which is fun because I can walk over to Gelson's and buy a cupcake and a turkey sandwich. But otherwise, it's murder. Sometimes people can be really bitchy and, what with the debates and election going on, everyone is talking politics. If I have to listen to anyone else talk about Sarah Palin this/Obama that, I'm going to scream. My job is easy enough though, but trust, I just need the money to put in the deposit on an apt for myself.

Anyway, it's also a really good eye opening experience. Everyone I work with is Hispanic and speaks Spanish. That usually gives people the immediate impression that they are supporting 5 children in a one bedroom apt, or they're here illegally, or they're stupid - all of which are ridic assumptions. Take my coworker Wendy, she's studying to be a registered nurse and gives half her paycheck to her mother, who just had surgery. And my coworker Rosa, she used to do payroll at this little shop but had to quit when her baby was born with a handicap. Or Vivian, she lives by herself and has to support herself. I love getting to dig deep into these people's histories and pasts. I guess it's the writer in me. I find it fascinating.

I still hate this job though. I'm rambling now. What was I talking about? Olivia's moving to LA, so I read. Kthxbai.

Deuces,
Erika

And You'll Love What You Lose...

Today, after I got out of my Religious Studies class, things were sweet! Even though I almost fell dead asleep in that class (like always), my professor wrapped things up early and I got to get home twenty minutes before I normally do. So I made a late lunch. (I'm at school from 12:30 to 3:15 so I don't get time for a REAL lunch. Did you get that joke V? It was that Desperate Housewives of NYC thing I was telling you about. Nevermind. The joke is lame now.)

I had finished preparing myself lunch - grilled cheese and alphabet soup, the meal of champions - when the A/C kicked on. It gets pretty cold in this apt so I went to my room to get a sweater and that's where IT happened.

My roomie Melissa's friend Cindy is over. Everything in my room looks normal. I smile at Melissa. Cindy says to me, "Hey, do you mind if I read your magazine?"

Nylon? Sure. Whatevs. Cosmo? Go ahead! I'll give it to you. Elle? Eh...I guess. Under the Radar? Where did you find that? But she isn't holding any of those.

As she's asking me this very simple, easy to answer question, I see she's holding my brand new copy of Missbehave.

FFUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKK!!!!!

Not only does that mean she took it off my desk without even thinking to ask me, but she's just flipping through it nonchalantly like things are cool as a pool! I falter, try to tell her that magazine isn't an ordinary one...I can't put it into words, so all I say is:

"Oh...you're already holding it...Um, I guess, but be very careful with it. It only comes out four times a year and it's sort of special. And I had to go to the Promenade to get it."

She shrugs, says alright, and then Melissa asks what kind of magazine it is. I can't put that into words either. There's so much super mega ultra awesome-ness going on that I can't say it in a few succinct sentences. I mumble:

"It's like a modern women's magazine. These ladies in New York put it out four times a year." FAIL! The one time I could possibly convert a chick to the dark side/testfy! and I ruin it. So sheepishly, I put on my sweater and shuffle out into the living room so I can eat/watch some Bravo.

Cable is a godsend. Roommates are not.

Deuces,
Erika