As luck would have it

It started innocently enough. My friend P-girl and I decided to meet for a drink before proceeding to a tiki music extravaganza at another watering hole. We bellied up to the bar, ordered our preferred poisons from the bar-keep and settled back on our barstools to chew the fat.

Then, what's this? Well, looky here. A young gentleman wedges his way past my turned back to order a beer for him and his compadre. P-girl gives me the ole eyebrow arch to have me review the goods at hand. After a sly glance, I telegraph my verdict: thumbs up.

So the guy stays wedged as he squeezes his lime into his Corona's neck and proposes a toast to us. His friend, a sweatered and bespectacled lad, rides side-saddle beside him, smiling receptively, but speaking rarely as he sips his brewski.

After some small talk that reveals they are out-of-towners visiting for the weekend, we inquire as to their plans while in our fair city. A trip to the land of sand was the order of the next day. Would we lovely ladies care to join them for a little high desert hiking?

We giggle, fueled by mai tai and merlot, and play along as our would-be suitors suit themselves up for seduction. Then the leading man sweetens the deal. Not only would we be partaking in alcoholic beverages on the drive out, we could pop a few vicodin and/or some e once we got there. What with a tent or two and nothing else to do, we might even indulge in a little cheek-on-cheek cuddling? *Insert demonstration of said cheek contact here.*

Boy, some fellas really know how to woo a girl. Sedatives and spooning? Get over yourself!

When our Lothario in waiting detects our interest is flagging, he pulls out all the stops. For you see, his quiet companion who hails from England was about to return home to that merry ole, but chilly isle. Wouldn't it be a wonderful gesture to send him off with a happy memory that would burn sweetly and long in the embers of his brain forever?

"Well, it's not like he's going off to war," I countered.

At this point, the reticent bloke in the crewneck perks up and offers his peak powers of persuasion.

"Think of this," he grinned, "in one afternoon you could make up for all the wrong George Bush has done to my country."

Appealing to my political ideals in the name of a pick-up. Do I applaud that? Yes. Do I indulge that? Trekker, please.

Belgian waffle

I knew the guy in lederhosen was trouble the minute I saw him.

Standing across the intersection from me, both of us heading towards a local hiking spot, he eyed me the way a fruit fly eyes a leaky persimmon. I averted my gaze as soon as humanly possible, but I knew I'd been sucked into his vector beam.

Sure enough, as we approached the trailhead he matched my pace and grinned over at me through silvery, age-inappropriate braces.

"Happy Thanksgiving! Are those new boots you've got there? Breaking them in, huh? Where's your walking stick?! You don't need a walking stick? It comes in handy when you're going downhill!"

Maybe it was my crossed arms, hesistant replies or the way I ever-so-subtly slowed to let him get ahead, but he finally got the clue I wasn't ready to be trail buddies.

"Have a nice hike!" he called over his sage-colored-suede-strapped shoulder as he plowed ahead, singing something that sounded vaguely church choir-like at the tops of his lungs.

Valderi, valdera, baby.

***

Movie tip: If you're in the mood for a romantic drama about an interracial couple struggling with the pull between love and family loyalty, don't drop your $9.50 on the poorly written, amateurly acted "A Fond Kiss." It was bad enough to send me walking back out into the rain mid-second act. Instead, rent the amazingly wrenching and real Israeli film "Late Marriage."* It's stratospherically better, don't you know.

*Thanks for the title correction, Private Joker.

Pumping ire

I think my former gym crush said hello to me tonight as we passed each other by the arm curl machine. Either that or belched. I can't imagine he uttered an actual spoken greeting since he is only comfortable giving glowering, thousand-yard stares.

Now instead of pretending to ignore him, I'm actually really, truly ignoring him. Maybe I'm finally done being mad about angry guys.

Mademoiselle Evil

Tonight I hatched a most evil plan.

For you see, I have a rather obnoxious neighbor who needs to be taught a lesson. Sure she resembles Margaret Cho, but does she have to act as if she has her career trajectory and all the diva trappings to go along with it? Mercy, no.

Less you think me harsh, here is her rap sheet:
1. She creates laundry room gridlock by leaving her damp linens in the washer for hours. While I am perfectly willing to relocate abandoned dryer contents left by my fellow tenants, moving others' wet wash leaves me cold.
2. She overloads trash cans. Our apartment building has a generous can-to-tenant ratio, so there is no need to overload one can when empties stand nearby. I have no need to see her plethora of greasy take-out boxes perching precariously out of the can's lid like an open invitation to ants and maggots to foment riots.
3. She is a litterbug. I have always detested litterbugs. In fact, I have a fantasy that one day all the litter each person has ever carelessly tossed to the wind will suddenly seek them out and attach en masse to their body, so that they walk around like a refuse-cloaked zombie.

Rap number three on her sheet is the offense that gave the inspiration for my passive-aggressive plan of attack. You may be familiar with the annoying advertising technique of door knob flyers. About once a week, I come home to find the neighborhood has been papered with Thai takeout or pizza delivery flyers. Faux Cho likes to toss her doorknob flyer on the ground as she enters her abode.

For the life of me, I can't figure out how this tactic strikes her as reasonable. Does she suspect someone who is hankering for some Prik King will trip over her discarded flyer and be happy to find the answer to their hunger at their feet? Does she think the wind will carry it away to flyer heaven?

So, tonight, as I came home, I saw a Chinese restaurant menu flyer twisted on the dusty doorstep of her flat. My first thought was to leave it. At some point, she must realize how trashy her entryway looks and clean up her act, no? Trekker please. My second thought was just to throw it away for her, as I always have in the past.

Then Amelie inspiration hit! I decided I would stick that flyer and all future tossed away take-out sheets under her doormat. Sure, she probably will never know of my scandalous scheme until she moves out in a couple years and finds fifty menus under her scratchy coir mat, but I'm gonna grin every time I slip a new throwaway down under.

Evil c'est moi.

Supercilious Unceremonius Vainglorious

I've been trying to figure out why the New Yorkers I ran into during my recent trip to Manhattan were so much more polite than the Los Angelenos I live among.

I think part of the explanation is that New Yorkers only have the relatively thin nap of their wool coats to act as a protective ego-sphere between them and their fellow citizens, while Los Angelenos have 6,000 odd pounds of SUV wrapped around their Pilates-pumped posteriors—a cuddly crib of chrome that coddles them into a conscience-comatose state.

Floor mats are extra, but sense of entitlement comes standard.