I Just Want a Place for My Toothpaste!

Fake drawers are the stupidest thing on this planet. Nothing pisses me off more than when I go to put something into a bathroom drawer only to find it's just a handle glued to a panel. I've been bamboozled by the fake drawer one too many times. What? The more drawers you appear to have, the better person you are? Will your houseguests be impressed by your amount of storage space? They come out of the john exclaiming "Wow, you have so many drawers," and you secretly laugh inside. Fooled 'em again, you say to yourself.

Or maybe builders across the country are cutting corners and then skipping town, hoping homeowners won't figure out the scam until they unpack their toiletries. By then they're in another city, swindling a new family in a new bathroom.

We shot monkeys into space! All I'm asking for is drawer that actually opens!



And while I'm at it, the next time I buy a nice pair of dress pants and discover fake pockets, I'm burning the store down. If I sit at a table with a bowl of fake fruit, I'm throwing an apple through a window. Anyone out there with a weave? Be wary, I might pull out your hair.

Excuse me, I'm off to pummel my bathroom sink with a crowbar.

Bake Me a Cake with a File in it...

For those who don’t already know, I have an acute talent for getting myself into absurd situations and trouble in general, most of the time panning out with me on the losing side. I personally like to think of it as finishing in second place, or runner up, but it usually involves me paying fines, getting slapped, or in this case, incarceration. I recently spent almost 20 hours in the crackhead motel better known as Dade County Jail. Apparently, if you fail to pay a traffic citation they will happily suspend your driver's license. If a cop on his or her period catches you behind the wheel with said suspended license, and you so much as look at them sideways, they will promptly cuff you, place you under arrest, somewhere along the line demean you, then throw you in the back of their patrol car and haul you off to jail. I had the immense pleasure of riding with an officer who felt the need to make conversation. He proceeded with idle small talk as I slid back and forth in the plastic backseat (prisoner's do not deserve seat belts...or the use of their hands) and tried to ignore the searing pain in my wrists.

Please note that these:

Are not as fun or nearly as comfortable as these:

But by far the best part of getting booked and fingerprinted is when they confiscate your possessions. Not only do they do this in a room chock full of people, but if you are female or a post-op transvestite, this can include taking off your bra or extracting your underwire, removing any and all piercings (yes, ALL piercings: nose, nipple, navel and anything below), taking out any hair accessories ranging from scrunchies to headbands to fake ponytails and weaves, losing your heels for a high class pair of prison sandals, and taking a makeup smeared mugshot that makes you look like a drunken raccoon. If you are unlucky enough to be forced to trade in your clothes for that gorgeous bright orange jumpsuit, I hope you weren’t too attached to the outfit, because most of the time they either lose your things or ship them off to “the warehouse,” in which case you have to fill out paperwork and wait 3-6 months for your garments to be returned.

I know it seems very sleek and sexy, but here's a tip: NO ONE looks good in orange, and only garbagemen, mechanics and infants should wear jumpsuits. Fortunately, I was allowed to keep my clothes, which may seem like a blessing, except that being bra-less and wearing a skirt in an 8x5 cell for 18 hours in front of 12-15 other women is basically like taking the pre-dawn walk of shame over and over again. So I was locked in this beautifully decorated cell, accented with concrete walls that were re-painted so many times, that because of the cheap peeling paint and graffiti, you couldn’t tell if they were supposed to be blue, white or yellow. There were two inside-facing windows that were so tightly covered with wire mesh, that you couldn’t see anything outside of the cell. The only way to know a guard was approaching was because of the jingle of keys, which of course sent every inmate racing to the door in hopes of release. There was a stainless steel toilet for midgets (only 6 inches off the ground), harsh fluorescent lighting, splintering hardwood benches that were just narrow enough not to lie down on, and a disgusting floor that was a disheveled compilation of broken tile, cement and years of built-up grime.

Overall, it was a slight cross between this:

And this:

During my luxurious weekend getaway, I met a stripper/prostitute who called herself a ‘striptitute,’ a crack addict who laid on the floor and twitched for 12 hours, a homeless woman who repeatedly soiled herself, a girl with turrets who kept yelling obscenities at random, a schizo who tried to escape through the vents and lighting fixtures (at one point she called the wall a bitch), a gold-toothed woman who spoke incessantly and only in shout, a fat Puerto Rican (reincarnated as Li'l Kim) who kept saying she wasn't a snitch, a diabetic who spent the entire time on the toilet, a crystal meth addict who kept screaming for sandwiches, and 3 roaches that I nicknamed the stooges. Every time one of them came crawling out everyone sang ‘la cucaracha,’ clapped their hands and danced. And then there was the multiple felon. They organize us criminals by felonies, misdemeanors, or psych cases (crazy people). But somehow, this little Latina with tattoos on her neck ended up in the misdemeanor cell. The thing about jail is that people really do turn to you and ask, "So what did you do?" And EVERYBODY wants to tell their story. Except of course for an idiot like me who was there for a traffic infraction. The felon eagerly explained that she was a fugitive wanted in 3 states and they had bussed her all the way back to Miami from Maryland; she had been in the system for almost 3 weeks in about 6 or 7 different jails along the way. Her last charge was that she had escaped a women’s prison in Florida and stolen a corrections bus. She spent all of 25 minutes hitting on the striptitute (“you’re pretty cute for a prostitute”), and fidgeting as she impatiently stood by the window, until they finally figured out the mistake and moved her to the felon cell. There she got in a fight and they moved her to solitary confinement down the hall.

The corrections officers, by the way, are all bitches. Those girls in high school that got teased and didn't have any friends, they end up as guards in Dade County Jail. And they are bitter. They told us to shut the hell up, ignored us, yelled at us, refused to answer questions, and when a fight broke out and we were screaming for help, they sat behind the desk and laughed at the cameras. In 18 hours I got one cup of water, in a dixie cup. After 15 hours, we finally got food: rice, overcooked peas, and a spoonful of some slop of white sauce with what could have been chicken or clams. Oh yes, and a single slice of white bread. The gold-toothed lady screamed "What is this bullsh*t-ass half sandwich!" Then the meth head happily took her tray.

The steel door opened about every hour or so, upon which they either threw in yet another inmate or dragged one out. When we went to court, they shackled about 9 of us together and put us in a freezing cold room with about 50-60 male inmates on church pews. Here, we waited our turn to talk to a judge on a TV screen while we stood with a public defender in charge of representing 50-100 inmates in a 2 hour time span. The ridiculous court 'officials' lounged in metal folding chairs and talked about nothing more than how they couldn’t wait for happy hour. The kicker was that even after the judge released me (after assessing $358 in court costs), I was returned to the holding cell.

There had been a shift change, and the previous shift of bitches didn’t turn in our release forms, so as a result we waited another 6 hours before an officer came to get us. Bond or no bond, you wait until they feel like letting you out, and you are given no indication as to when that will be. Finally, again we were shackled together, marched though a cell block of male prisoners yelling, whistling, and banging at the cell bars, then released into God-knows-what neighborhood without so much as a phone call. My blackberry was still in my car, and you can’t collect-call cell phones. So the cherry on top was that I walked 4 miles home from jail. I was dehydrated, starving, and I hadn’t slept in over 36 hours. And when I went to possessions to pick up my things, they had lost my nose ring, claimed they never took it, and even after arresting me the cop had left me a speeding ticket for going 40 in a 30mph zone. Hhhhhwwwhhhhaaaaaat?

But seriously, this was by far the worst day of my life. At times I couldn’t breathe because this tiny cell at the end of a corridor was so full of people, stench and stale air. I closed my eyes, and all I heard was voices yelling, talking over each other, screaming for hour after hour. There wasn’t enough room to sit, and so I stood and paced for at least 15 hours, refused to pee in front of a audience and couldn’t sleep. This was hell. At some point I became delirious, began rocking back and forth, developed homicidal tendencies. I memorized my arresting officers’ patrol car number and hammered it into my brain. As he sat me on the curb, tightly cuffed and crying, getting eaten alive by mosquitoes, I could think of nothing but violence, and I am not a violent person. Six days later, anger has only intensified. If I never see a jail, hear about a jail, or speak about a jail ever again, it will be way too soon.

Lions, Tigers and Roosters, Oh My!

I don't know how or why, but somehow these are running wild in downtown Miami:

 No, not miniature cowboys.  Roosters!  And okay, not giant roosters, but roosters nonetheless.  I pass them everyday as they're crossing the road like ducks near a pond with their little ducklings.  Only we aren't near a pond, or a barn, or anything of the sort.  It is the middle of high traffic streets chock full of city busses and skyscrapers.  I personally find it absurd, but what else is Miami for?  I'm sure sooner or later the ASPCA will start hauling them off to animal shelters for adoption.

Help control the pet population, please have your chickens spayed or neutered.

So, as some beautification project the city put up all of these decorative rooster statues in Little Havana, aka not a place that will respond well to beautification.  Needless to say, soon enough all of the statuesque roosters were vandalized and otherwise effed up in general.  Pictured above is one of the few still in tact.  The authorities have cited that "Some say the roosters were targeted by drug dealers who thought the birds were secret agents of the police."

Brilliant!  Next in breaking news, Squirrels: obsessive compulsive rodents, or government informants?  You be the judge, those aren't just nuts they're hiding!

As always, Miami never ceases to amaze.

Case of the Lost Inhibitions

The elevator in my apartment building has always been an awkward place for me, mostly because my neighbors seem to be unaware of the unspoken rules of elevator ettiquette. You are travelling in a small metal box for anywhere from 15 seconds to a entire minute or more, which, can often feel like an eternity. Thus, depending on the situation, some of the rules can be bent (for example, do you say goodbye when you get to your floor, or just get off), but there are just certain things you do NOT do. And these certain things become all the more important when there are only two people.

The following is a brief recap of my experience in said elevator, and the rules that were broken:

I got on the elevator and could hear a man coming around the corner chatting away. I thought there was another person with him, but alas, no it was a cell phone. First rule broken, it is suuuper annoying when you have to hear the idiot on the cell yelling 'hello? hello? can you hear me? hello?' No they can't hear you, we're on a freaking elevator, end the call already!

He was so preoccupied stepping into the elevator while jerking around with his phone that he had failed to press a floor button, meaning he had also failed to turn back around to face the doors. Next rule broken, you don't stand face to face in an elevator with people you don't know. It's just plain weird.

So we're standing there, him staring at me, me pretending to check my bag for absolutely nothing, and he asks 'so, where are you from?' I look around stupidly, but obviously he is speaking to me and not my imaginary sidekick. The thing about Miami, is that when people ask you where you're from, you never know if they mean city, state or country. So when I replied, 'actually, I'm from Virginia,' he looked at me, puzzled, repeated 'Vir-hin-ya,' paused, and then said 'America?' I nodded yes, proceeded to keep faux-searching through my bag. Another rule broken, 15 seconds to 1 minute is not enough time to make new friends, this is not a bar, and you did not buy me a Martini.

I cleared my throat, and he eagerly asked what I said, to which I replied, 'nothing.' Another rule and note to strange man: silence is okay, no need to force it! You really don't have to converse with me.

So, after seemingly an eon (I only live on the 2nd floor), we arrived in the lobby. As he held the door open, there was the only rule he didn't break, you always let the ladies out first:)

Upon returning to my apartment after my fun in the elevator, I decided to order Chinese Food. All I wanted was General Tso's chicken, maybe some wonton soup.

I gave the lady on the phone my order, and she paused for a few seconds. She came back on the line and told me way too much information, i.e. this:

"Sorry, it's just, I'm drinking this tea, it's hot tea. But not the regular kind, it's called healthy liver function or something like that. It's for my liver, you know, it's messed up from all of the alcohol. At first I thought it was just my stomach, but then I had pain on the other side. I know it's from partying 3 days in a row. I wasn't supposed to drink last night, but then I went to the casino, so you know how that is. And afterwards my friends took me to a strip club to watch the IFC fight, and I mean, you pay a cover and then get 2 free drinks. Two free drinks? I was like hell yeah, bring 'em on. But anyway, now my liver kinda hurts, so I'm drinking this tea, and it's making me so hot. It isn't even really that hot ouside today, but now I'm sitting in front of a fan, which I probably shouldn't, because my mom told me that's how you catch a cold. You know, the change of temperatures and everything, going from warm to cool. I just hope this tea helps my liver...okay, so that's gonna be $12.85, cash or credit?"

I'm not even joking, the only words I managed to get in during her monologue were 'yeah,' 'right,' and 'oh.' Perhaps I'm just a great conversationalist, a wonderful listener, a friendly face, or all of the above. But really, elevator man, chinese food lady, next time I'd rather just get to my floor and pay for my egg roll in peace.

Thank you. Come again.

Say It Ain't So...

So the latest grind from the rumor mill is speculating that Star Jones (or her thinner, creepier mini-me) is dating Dwayne Wade.

My mouth dried, I was speechless.

Am I being Punk'd? Ashton? Ashton? Come out now please, this isn't funny anymore...I'm getting scared..

At any rate, I will be patiently waiting for this matter to be resolved.

Although last time Dwayne's name came up on the dating scene, it was said that Hoopz (aka Nikki Alexander) from Flavor of Love, was having his baby.

Which turned out to be clearly untrue. So, America, we shall wait and see.

End story.

Over-Employment

For no particular reason, the other day I decided to jot down a rather extensive list of all of the various jobs I've had the pleasure of working. My pen almost ran out of ink before I finished. In the end, I tallied 16 different jobs. Considering I'm not even 30 yet, I think that has to be some kind of record. I told this to one of my friends, and her response was: "and you're still going strong...proud of you." And frankly, I AM proud. The government and their 401K's can suck it, I'd rather keep myself entertained for a while. And that I have.

For the curious, my personal favorite job titles have been (in alphabetical order):

Barista

Bicycle Messenger

Carpet Cleaning Technician

Coke Mule (no, I'm totally joking)

Floor Instructor

Food Runner

Grassroots Canvasser

Personal Trainer

And there was also my stint as a Freelance Essay Writer (thank you lazy college students!)

In conclusion, I have no shame in my indecision, rather, I embrace it. So be on the lookout, I might be coming to an hourly wage position near YOU.

Viva New York

After being in New York City for about a week and a half, my favorite sight was this:

Being poor never felt so exciting!! Yes, I DO want want to get more!