July 11, 2014

I'm back East!


After nine very interesting years in California, I have moved back to Connecticut. As much as I loved the time I spend on the West Coast, and the incredible people I met over the years, I realized it was time to put my grown-up pants on and accept a real job, using the skills I went to college for. It was a hard decision, but at the end of the day I realized I was not destined to work at a gym my entire life. If I ever find myself with enough patience and free time to write more than a few pages for a blog post, I’ll write a book about my experience working at a “Wellness Center”. Until then, my faithful readers will have to get me drunk to hear the stories first hand.

I’ve been back in Connecticut a short time, but the differences are already staggering and significant. I wrote a post a while back about the Farmers Markets, complaining that they are practically non-existent in CT. It seems that this is no longer the case. While they are substantially smaller than the ones I frequented back West, they are indeed a weekly “thing” here. My first day back I wandered to one down the street and stocked up on my local produce. I ran home and whipped up a big salad, only to find the vegetables tasted like dirt. I scrubbed the crap out of them and they still tasted like dirt. I now buy my produce at Whole Foods; specifically the “Grown in California” crops.

Another big observation is the lack of liquor availability and the staggering prices at the tiny stores that bare the same name. For those of you who know me well, (I mean, why else would you be reading this crap if you didn’t know me well, right?), I am big on the whole consuming alcohol and partying thing. After the Farmer’s Market disappointment I decided to take a drive around the area to get my bearings. I found that the drugstore “CVS” has popped up on every corner, much like Starbucks have in most other regions of the country. I was stoked. I pulled over and parked at the first CVS I came across and ran in eager to stock up on their version of 2-buck-Chuck and discounted Tequila. I wandered around for a bit and couldn’t find the alcohol section, so I asked a clerk. She looked at me like I was the token ‘crack-head patron’ and told me, in a rather snarky tone I might add, “We don’t sell Alcohol”. So, I got in my car and drove a block down where I found another CVS; they also were a dry store. Turns out, they don’t sell alcohol at the drugstores here, but don’t worry, they still sell Cigarettes. (Insert sarcastic tone here)  Fuckers.

Want to earn a ton of money? Open a cheap Beer and Liquor store within walking distance of my house. I will single handedly make you a millionaire.

I know it seems like everything on the East Coast is crappy, but rest assured not everything is completely different than the good ol’ West Coast. The men are the exact same breed of stupid. My first night of bar-hopping, and by bar-hopping I mean driving to one bar and finding one patron sitting at the end of the bar talking to himself therefore driving to another bar, I was fortunate enough to reconnect with some old friends from High School. It was great seeing them and learning what they’d been up to the last nine years. As the night progressed, a guy I’d met that night with zero connection to my High School days began hitting on me. After god knows how many shots (thankfully my best friend from High School was driving my sloppy ass home) I decided he was cute. After some embarrassingly shameless flirting I overheard someone say something to him about his girlfriend. Needless to say, I stopped flirting. Sometime between the car ride home and the next day texting I discovered that the guy my friend was talking to all night, the guy calling her “fucking hot” and “sexy bitch” (he was what we call “a romantic”) ALSO had a girlfriend. I mean, at least they weren’t married. I mistakenly hit on a married man in Monterey (thankfully NOTHING happened with that creep), but that’s a whole other blog post. Moral of the story: Douchebags grow on both coasts. BUT don’t worry, there are also some amazingly sweet guys and I've been lucky enough to have reconnected with a few of those out here too.

So to sum up: The produce taste like dirt, there is a serious lack of alcohol and the guys are cheating bastards. It’s good to be back East J

October 26, 2013

Creepy Elevator

I’ve had a hard time coming up with true haunted experience that I haven’t already written about, so I decided to switch the focus to “creepy” occurrences. This one was super recent.

I was in San Francisco recently for a mini-getaway. I stayed at a friend’s apartment in Nob Hill, one of those super cool historic buildings complete with an ancient chain door elevator and stairs that creak with every step you take. The elevator is super finicky, if the gate isn't closed perfectly, it doesn't work.

After walking from the Ferry Building to Fisherman’s Wharf, then the Embarcadero to her apt at the top of an insanely steep hill I was not about to haul up three flights of stairs to her apt, so I opted for the elevator.  The elevator took forever to reach me, making strange creaking noises on the way down to get me.  I hesitantly got in, glancing back at the worn stair case as I stepped forward deciding that I’d take my chances on this ancient metal contraption. I slammed the chain-link gate closed behind me and hit “4”. The elevator slowly but surely began to move, slamming to a stop a few minutes later indicating that we had reached the fourth floor. I stepped off, closed the gate and retreated to my friend’s apartment. It was my last day of vacation and almost time to leave, so I packed up my suitcase and bid my goodbyes to the wonderful city by the bay.

With my suitcase in hand I returned to the elevator to find that it was still on the fourth floor waiting for me. I got on, closed the gate properly and hit “1”. The elevator tried to move; it lurched slightly, and then went still. I checked the super finicky gate; it was definitely closed correctly so I tried again. This time when the elevator tried to move it was accompanied by what sounded like a muffled moan coming from an upper floor and the elevator once again did not budge. I got off, checked the door and decided to give it one more shot; I really didn't want to carry my suitcase down 4 flights of stairs. Again I hit “1”. This time there was zero movement but there was certainly a moan and it was far from muffled. It was practically a scream.
At this point I’m slightly shaken up, I mean, the elevator just screamed at me and it sounded entirely too lifelike. Deciding that someone could be hurt I hesitantly yelled, “Hello”? No answer. I asked if there was anyone in the elevator shaft (stupid, I know) and again no answer. Deciding that this was way too weird for me, I took my suitcase and prepared for carrying it down to the ground floor. As I turned my back to the elevator and began my decent, I swear I heard a crackling laugh coming from the elevator.


When I reached the ground floor and began to roll my suitcase to the front door I heard what sounded like crash in the elevator shaft. I cautiously opened the door to find that the elevator had made it to the ground floor too, only a few minutes too late. Annoyed I took my suitcase and went towards the front door, again I heard a crackling laugh but this time I did not stop.