Our Thursday

Category: Danielle

  • Rejection by Peroni

    Rejection by Peroni

    My corner bar, Jones, is nirvana.  If my bank account could support frivolous spending, I would be there every day of the week.  Whether it be for “The Groupie” cocktail made with muddled lemons, Kettle One and ginger beer, or for the prosciutto arugula pizza followed by the succulent apple pie ala mode that arrives to the table gooey  and bubbling. It doesn’t matter! I want to be there, eat there, drink there.  I would also frequent Jones every day of the week if people wouldn’t judge me for being there every day of the week.  Either way, I can’t spend my life at Jones, but the days I am so privileged to waltz in, I am bound to witness something…well…interesting.

     A few nights ago, my friends Meredith (lets call her Mere) and Danielle (lets call her D2) and I drove to Yogurtland for a sweet fix.  While there we discussed our plans for the evening. 

     “Since we don’t want to do anything extravagant maybe we can walk to Jones,” I suggested while crossing my fingers under the table and looking down so no one could catch the embarrassing excitement in my eyes.

     “Or we can take a gander at the Pleasure Chest down the street. There are always some interesting things to see,” D2 said while ignoring my obvious request.

     I complied with the idea knowing it would be but a mere portion of the night, while keeping my fingers intertwined in hopes that Jones could be the next stop.  At the sex shop I saw a muzzle with ears in a display (for bestiality fetishes), a glove with spikes (for masochists), a plastic arm with a hand shaped into a fist (for???)…I don’t judge, but I do wonder. 

     On the way home, I slyly asked, “Now what?  Maybe we can change and walk to Jones? Ummm…Or that bbq place, Zeke’s, across the way for a pitcher of beer.”  I added Zeke’s to sound diverse.

     “I’m not really in the mood for beer.  But sitting outside at Zeke’s sounds nice,” D2 said with hope for Jones.

     “I’ll do whatever,” Mere murmured.

     One of my favorite books, The Alchemist says “When a person really desires something, all the universe conspires to help that person realize that dream.”  With that notion in mind, I had an idea.

     “How about we flip a coin and let fate decide?”  Everyone seemed complacent about the scheme and agreed that one toss would lead us to our destiny.  Heads: Jones.  Tails: Zeke’s. 

     Mere flipped the quarter high up in the air, it landed and spun forever like Leonardo DiCaprio’s totem in Inception.  The anticipation killed me and I wondered if in fact I was living in a dream (nightmare if it landed on tails).  Finally, it settled down and heads faced up! I swore I saw George Washington wink at me at that moment.  I changed into a pink blouse tucked neatly into a high-wasted skirt, brown strappy heels and a white hat that lays low and angles to the left, leaving me a mystery to people on that side.

    Mystery Woman

     After arriving, we sat on “The Perch” where sits four chairs facing the rest of the bar, perched higher than everyone else.  D2 and I ordered Pacifico (after all that, yes, we ordered beer) and Meredith pulled out a card game she purchased at the x-rated house–a “would you rather” game but with “raunchier” questions.  “Would you rather have puss coming out of your eye or your butt.”  Ummm…that’s not raunchy, but I answered “eye” reasoning that puss from the butt usually means an STD of sorts, and that’s bad bad news.  I’d rather contract pink eye, thanks.  The game did not last long so we made an effort to positively judge everyone we saw sitting across the way.  Another girl, Shannon, occupied the forth seat so together we judged. 

    “Aww…that couple is so enthralled in their conversation. How cute.” 

     “I like that girl’s hat, she seems lovely.”

     “That girl’s top that reveals her back is so skimpy…but, what a nice back!”

     “Wait, there’s a sausage fest over there… the bar is split into two: guys over there, couples and single women over here,” D2 observed.

     I sighed deeply and wondered why fate brought us to Jones.

     “Wait!!! Tobey Maguire just walked in,” I noticed but pretended not to care. “Look, he’s with the couple we love.”

     Tobey Maguire is a vegan, I am a vegan chef.   DESTINY!! I thought this would be a perfect opportunity to acquire a new client.  We whispered about how cute he is in person and judged, positively why he’s with them and not us.  D2 demanded that I make googly eyes at him, sit up straight and act like a lady.  I couldn’t figure out why she wanted this for me because Mr. Maguire is married with kids (all vegans).  Overwhelmed by the pressure and two quick moments of eye contact, I exited to utilize the ladies’ room.  After returning, I noticed Maguire and friends left their spot to dine at a table.

     “Darn. Tobey Maguire isn’t in ear OR eye shot anymore,” I said to D2. “He’s married anyway, so whatever.”

     “Tobey who?!!? That’s Topher Grace, you idiot!!!!!!!!!!!!  Great. Now what?!” D2 frantically exclaimed.

     I failed D2…I failed myself…I failed the perch.

     “You should send him a drink to the table,” D2 said.

     Send him a drink!?!?  Send a guy a drink!? Send a famous guy a drink?! I don’t buy drinks for the opposite gender, EVER, they buy them for me.  My heart pounded, I started sweating, my mind spun into a tizzy.  It sounded like a ridiculous plan, but it also sounded kind of fun.  I agreed, under the terms that I didn’t actually have to order the drink myself.  They had to verbalize the order and send it from me, “The Girl in the White Hat.”  Now the real problem:  What drink should we send?

     The girls said a Washington Apple Shot.  Ummm, no thanks. He’s not gay.

     Facebook status repliers concurred on a Lindsey Lohan aka Red Headed Slut with a splash of Coke.  Funny, but no.

     A friend of Shannon’s, who had just arrived, suggested Pabst Blue Ribbon (PBR).  Oh, I liked this idea- cheap, and if he had any sense of humor at all, funny.  Jones doesn’t carry PBR, however, duh.  But they do sell Peroni, the Italian equivalent.  “Peroni Azzurro Nostra” —if my Italian memory serves me correctly, that means Peroni Blue Ribbon.  SOLD!  One cheap beer to the one celebrity at the table, please.  Send it. Check it. Sign it. Go! Hurry!!

     Off it went……

     We waited…..

    No response…No gaze our way. 

    I felt silly…

    …and the rest of the perch noticed…

    To ease my painful rejection, they each picked a person to send a drink to.  Challenge: Whoever’s recipient physically walked over to thank the sender, wins!  We embarrassingly roared in laughter while picking and choosing victims, calling attention to our section (from everyone but MY RECIPIENT).  

    Three Washington Apple shots and three victims later, Shannon’s heir to the apple approached her.  Winner!!!  He seemed nice enough and actually joined the game.  He sent a shot to a tall blonde directly across from us.  She and her friends whispered and shyly tried figuring out who sent it to her.  I caught her eye and yelled, “BLUE SHIRT DID! RIGHT HERE!”  She simply smiled and saluted, taking a measly sip of the liquid apple as if it were sent by Queen Grimhilde from Snow White… 

     The rest of the victim’s either ignored the drink completely or sent a quick thank you nod our way.  The responses were everything and nothing I anticipated.

     I sent D2 to walk by Topher’s (yes! first name basis! I bought him a drink for Christ’s sake!) table to make sure he received the beer.  He did.  It sat next to his MARTINI untouched!!!  Jerk! At least look around for the girl in the white hat who so generously provided you with a fine Italian beer.  Maybe I should’ve sent the sissy Washington Apple shot?!  After all, Washington sent us to Jones in the first place…

     Following his departure, I walked down the bar and noticed the shot the blonde dismissed.  I looked up to the perch and said, “Well, what a nice thing to do!”  I saluted the group and swallowed it whole.  It didn’t burn like shots normally do, because a Washington Apple is sweet, like the gesture of sending a person a drink. 

     Hmmm…perhaps a cheap beer is just too bitter, TOPHER?!

    "I prefer lady drinks. Thanks for nothing, white hat"

     I walked by Zeke’s yesterday and noticed a sign declaring that the establishment had succumb to the economy.  Poor guys…and poor us, we shall never indulge in outdoor beer.  I guess that means Jones from here on out…aw, shucks. Peroni, anyone?

  • Fantasy Football- Not Your Average Fantasy

    Fantasy Football- Not Your Average Fantasy

    Growing up, my mother watched football and cleaned while my father watched Star Trek and cooked.  I acquired one hobby from each- watching football and cooking.

    My mother has been a commissioner of a football pool for more than 15 years.  The pool works like this: each week everyone picks the teams they think will win, and the person with the most wins at the end of the week goes home a winner.  No point spread…easy does it.  There is a “trash talk” section of the website available for disgruntled losers or hot-headed winners, but the group consists of my mom’s coworkers, my aunts and uncles, and my grandma, so needless to say, I desperately bite my tongue on a weekly basis as to not cuss out those who weaseled their way to victory.

    I utilize the pool to keep my mind actively up-to-date with the NFL.  But most importantly, I use it as a tool to talk to boys in a sort of damsel in distress manner, if you will: 

    Growing up: “Hot history teacher?  I’m having trouble with my homework…but worse, I’m having trouble picking between Dallas and Chicago.  Please help!”

    Now: “Hot boy at bar? What are you drinking? I can’t decide! Red or white?  But the real predicament:  Browns or Redskins? Please help!”

    In both cases, I secure(d) one-on-one time with the men I desire(d), discussing a topic that made me a more desirable woman!  I love the football pool for this – it has worked like a charm (with the exception of the history teacher, of course…he turned out to a horrible football pool advisor…oh, and my teacher).

    Last year, I took my devotion of the “sport” and trash talk to the next level- I joined Fantasy Football.  The league consisted of seven gents I know from high school and one dashing young lady: yours truly! Not really understanding the rules or the idea of Fantasy Football, I wanted to participate for trash talk purposes. I crave talking trash!!!  It’s the best, but please know, I can never back up what I say. I love mankind, I respect animals, I cherish my friends, I adore the gays, duh duh duh.  But sometimes it feels incredible to cuss, say something racist, indulge in language that will make me out to be a pervert, compare a gay to a goat, blah blah blah.  Half the time what I say doesn’t make sense and I never mean it, it just…well…gives me a sense of empowerment during moments of weakness.

     Fantasy Football works like this: 

     First: Muster up a bunch of friends who want to waste a lot of time and energy during the season managing a “football team” via their computer or iPhone (Blackberry phones are impossible).

     Second: Pick a date and time for a draft and spend more time and energy “drafting a ‘football team’” made up of a quarter back, a few running backs, wide receivers, a kicker, defense team, a tight end, and a few more to “sit on the bench” and wait restlessly to be subbed in for injured players from your starting line-up.  Each position earns and loses points for its good and bad deeds on the field: Touchdown? Many points.  Interception? Many lost points from quarterback and defense.  It accumulates as the games are played each Sunday, Monday and of course, some Thursdays.

     The day of the draft I sat on my computer with a scrap of paper inscribed with player names and defense teams.  I knew I wanted Peyton Manning, Reggie Wayne and Baltimore defense.  I trash talked the entirety of the draft…alone…on a computer…with a mouth of a Southern Sailor.  I did not succumb to the tempting “auto-pick” and ended up with a solid team, including Manning, Wayne and Baltimore.

     Third: Keep up with current events within the NFL and trade, substitute, drop, add players on your roster depending on their health, injuries, sexual mishaps, arrests, and so on.  Each member of the league plays another member each week.  So understanding your team and other players is crucial.

    I knew aid from a boy would be a bit more complicated than my other pool because of the intricate nature of Fantasy Football.  It’s not a simple “Who is San Diego playing?” …It’s “Who’s your quarterback playing? Isn’t Percy Harvin suffering from migraines this week?  Your defense has a bye, so you need to bench them and pick someone else up.”  What?!  How do you know Percy Harvin has a migraine?!?!

    Answering these questions would mean disseminating my email address and password to these strange men for adequate advice so they could login themselves and tweak my team!  I wasn’t that desperate, please, I could still use my other pool to make conversation.  So instead, I chose to prevail alone with advice from Sportscenter.  I quickly learned what players were on their period, who raped a bartender during the bye week, who to look out for in upcoming weeks, etc.  The vast knowledge that ensued in my brain quickly changed my conversations from “I know Oakland can’t win,” to “Peyton Manning scored me 49 points last week because of his long pass to Reggie Wayne, who by the way is on my roster too!!!”   Some scoffed at my “fantasy” talk, while others deeply cared.  It felt like a quarrel between people who understand Dungeon and Dragons and those who think it is buffoonery. 

    It became an obsession.  Sundays on the couch watching games turned into something far beyond that: an anxiety ridden stress fest of pressing “refresh” on my laptop frantically anticipating a score update. ALL DAY!  I didn’t want to lose to these boys – I wanted to demolish their jugulars with my fist full of fantasy points.  I remember one Sunday I had to attend a memorial barbecue at a friend’s house.  I walked in and immediately turned on the TV looking around to see if anyone else seemed at all interested in the game (or judged my behavior)– Colts were playing; I NEEDED TO SEE WAYNE AND MANNING!–  No one noticed except one anzy lad who also had Wayne on his fantasy roster.  We stood in a corner, fixated, enthralled, pathetic for thirty minutes until the game ended.  Wayne took our teams to victory that week, while we took ourselves to social despair.

    Lastly: Trash talk about how much other people in the fantasy league suck each other off, duh duh duh, blah blah blah. 

    Being the only girl in the league, I had to prove myself through vulgarity and racist remarks while at the same time deem myself as a lady.  Hmmmmm…I don’t think the latter is possible.  Blast! Maybe this year, I’ll wear heels while watching the games and making trades? 

    Last year, I placed second and all those who fell below me accused me of “auto picking” my team during the draft.  For the record, I did not.  For the other record, I actively changed my team all season.  For the last record, they are all sore losers bitter by their loss to a woman.

    I delibarated whether or not to reinstate my position in the Fantasy Football world this year and save my self-respect from further destruction.  After much internal debate and therapy, however, I chose to dip my dirty little toes into the mystical waters once again.

    We drafted our teams live and in person last week (my idea so that all accusations of auto-picking would be proven wrong) in a room with laptops on each of our eager little laps.  I arrived with a new scrap of paper inscribed with notes.  I knew I wanted Peyton Manning, but had the 5th pick in the first round, which meant choosing a RB over a QB (that’s what everyone advised me to do…ugh).  Anxiety swarmed my body after drafting Ray Rice as my first…I hoped that Peyton and my soul would be unscathed by someone else in the next round. 

     “Anderson Carrson” shattered my dreams when he snagged Manning two picks before me.  I yelled with rage and threw my pen across the room.  “She must be on her period,” they concluded after my fit.  Not for another two weeks, boys…TWO WEEKS!!!  

    The draft continued, I picked a stealthy team all the while shit-talking in a chat room to everyone who, by the way, all sat in the same room (we agreed we would only type the things we felt uncomfortable saying out loud). 

    I left that evening without my pen, my dignity and Peyton Manning.  However, I did gain Carson Palmer and yet another season that, although written in fantasy, is nothing less than a daunting reality. 

    May the best team win, you pieces of shit.

     

    DRAFTING from left- thief, loser, scoundral, Lovely Lady, jerk

  • Mildly Young at Heart

    My name is Danielle and I turned 27 two days ago.  So far, I am much enjoying this age.  My back creaked a little yesterday while exiting my vehicle after a long commute;  however, I won’t attribute the pain to age, I will instead blame the slouch I adorned the entire ride while listening to the ever-so depressing, Fiona Apple (yah, so, I’m a “Shadowboxer,” too…it is depressing). 

    It always tousles my feathers a bit when my friends complain about turning 30, 29, 25, etc. We ain’t getting’ any younger my dears, so buck up, purchase aging cream and do something with your life!

    My ten-year high school reunion is soon approaching, and although I practice what I preach by stocking my cabinets with proper aging remedies and bucking up often, I still feel like something has yet to be done with my life…like everything is just mildly in place.

    Career- I earned a bachelor’s degree in journalism with an emphasis in public relations and landed a job right out of college at my dream agency that represents spas and hotels around the world.  My parents gleamed with pride following my quick success and felt their money had been well spent on the daughter who trekked to a community college then eventually transferred to California State University of Northridge. 

    Two years after being with the agency, I received a “too good to be true” offer from a wealthy family to become their personal chef (as a hobby, I cooked for families on the side).  I put my two weeks in and my last day working for the Man, the family called me and revoked the offer, leaving me jobless.  Since then, my mission has been to find stability as a personal chef in the homes of L.A.’s rich and fabulous…So far?  Mildly stable.

    Love- Not necessarily love as in a husband, but as in a companion who loves me, rather than someone who is just trying to gain access to my special place.  I recently dated a guy constantly…about once every three months.  This lasted for two years.  When we saw each other, it encompassed bliss, excitement, countless laughs and cheers..It felt like forging the river on Oregon Trail successfully–I always left exhilarated, wanting to brag to the world. 

    I reminded my heart to stay out of it because this guy is self-proclaimed “trouble.”  So, for two years I partially (and just recently,  finally) pushed it aside.  I thought he kept me around to use me, so I kept him around to use him (even though every time I saw him my heart fluttered despite my best efforts to sustain it). One evening, after yet another night of jokes— (“Matzo balls…yah, they’re circular shaped, but why balls? Can’t they be breasts? Matzo breast soup?”  We went on for hours with that one)— he sobered the mood with a monumental confession:  “I love you.”

     Heh?

     He then sobered it more, “I’m not capable of showing that I love you.  I can’t say it and change my ways to seem like I love you.  I’ll probably disappear.  I don’t want you to think that tomorrow I will be different because I said it.  I want you to know that I love you, I just know that I’m not capable…I’m not built to be capable.  And I know you understand this, and I thank you for understanding this, I’m so sad that I can’t give myself to you because whoever ends up with you is the luckiest man in the world.  I want to end up with you, it just might take awhile. I love you. And you probably won’t hear me say it again until we are married.”

     Heh?!?!  He loves me. He loves me not [capable].

     Mildly loved.

     Travel- I studied in Firenze, Italia six years ago and due to my “mildly stable” career, I unfortunately can’t afford to extensively globetrot.  Mildly traveled.

     Residence- I live in a quaint bungalow in West Hollywood that is the size of a sneeze–a petite and cute sneeze.  It’s near Jones Café, Trader Joes, Target, Ralphs; .8 miles from Melrose, my new favorite restaurant CUBE, Runyon and the Metro; 1.3 miles from Yogurtland, etc. etc.  This place is walkable and I love it.  A year ago, I never could imagine myself anywhere other than Santa Monica, but now I got myself a corner bar where everyone knows my name. What else can a 27-year-old ask for (well, besides the above mentioned love, career, travel stuff, of course)?

    Mildly drunk (thank you corner bar).

     The day prior to my birthday, my family surprised my grandma with an 80th birthday party. My little pianist-virtuoso cousins ages 5, 7, and 10 played concerto pieces as their gifts to her.  I wanted desperately to upstage them so I learned “Happy Birthday” on my accordion and harmonica in an attempt to play them at the same time; I failed miserably (mildly talented).

    Afterwards, a few of my grandma’s friends approached me and paid me a compliment that, despite my failure, made me straighten up my slouch and gleam with pride:  “You, my dear, are just like your grandma.”  At 27, I notice I do things my kooky grandma does, like talk to strangers about anything and everything.  At 80, she does stuff that I do, like wears cute hats. 

     I hate when my friends complain about their age…Our ten year is soon approaching, and although I’m “mildly” in place in my mid-to-late 20s, I’m friken happy.

    One Woman Band

  • Two Years? Pssshhhh….

    Our Thursday is approaching her two year birthday! Or is it three? Not important… Since her inception she has been screaming passionately and loudly as her growing pains shape and define her. Two years ago I didn’t even know if she was a she or a he but it’s all too apparent now as she slides her silky smooth hands all over our bodies. I must thank the authors for her blossoming identity as it is their tireless efforts and unique personalities that have caressed her buxom bossom to heave ever grandeur. And to that end I would like to introduce three new “stimulators” of her, Our Thursday.

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