tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64044229503190669992024-03-05T02:42:26.417-08:00Clash of the CoastsI'm an East Coast transplant who writes of occurrences in my life. I welcome ideas for improvement :)Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-43319862460039907612015-09-21T17:15:00.000-07:002015-09-21T17:15:20.735-07:00The story behind my Hamsa obsession<div class="MsoNormal">
In light of Yom Kippur I found it fitting to write a blog
post about something related to Judaism. Those who know me well know that I’m
not particularly religious. I am the first one to flock to a restaurant serving
Bacon-anything and I rarely know the dates of Jewish holidays; however, I refuse
to leave the house without wearing at least one Hamsa, an item many view as a
religious symbol. I’ve had a handful of friends question this, usually saying something
along the lines of, “Why wear a Jewish symbol if you’re not religious” and
after sharing the story I’m about to share here, they usually run out and
purchase a Hamsa of their own.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOD9WdrPR175BVs7ejqoVuJM7xHTtSXF4JgjJu7mL8qxYhJACmD-7-SqcY3V4QWUh-XIxCX2GOKRCTWv3mq4pWmniRvZ2V23xwwqci17yjFlO_2egHt7BKpvNGiHJmOBEhY1Rfviswaes/s200/Hamsa+Necklace.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="200" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/241591949/new-opal-hamsa-hand-necklaces-opal-hand?utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=shopping_us_d-jewelry-necklaces-charm_necklaces&utm_custom1=4ea54dc8-cd38-4aab-b3d1-38bb01d85016&kpid=241591949&gclid=CjwKEAjw1f6vBRC7tLqO_aih5WISJAAE0CYwF2tK05Yfi-XOz_Tj4CEiUhpy7YR1mkfoxXBMnzH3ghoCFe_w_wcB"><span id="goog_1938708081"></span>I bought one of mine here, on Etsy :)</a></td></tr>
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As a side note, the Hamsa is a not strictly symbolic of
Judaism; many other religions have similar (or in some cases the same) items
that represent a parallel meaning. I was taught about it as a Judaic symbol,
therefore that is what I view it as. It has also been adapted as a Yoga symbol.
I distinctly remember a guy hitting on me once when he saw I was wearing a
Hamsa ring by saying, “I’m into Yoga too! I bet we’re both super flexible in
bed.” I stared at him blankly, trying to figure out how he knew I did Yoga. He
pointed to my ring and it dawned on me, he thinks I wear this is to show the
world I’m a Yogini. We never found out if our mutual "love of
Yoga" made us super flexible in bed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.overstock.com/Health-Beauty/The-Macbeth-Collection-Hamsa-Fashion-Yoga-Mat/9421357/product.html" target="_blank"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJCO-r0jTk_KJqWK3HdSuJkAB4omzFhGsJTkUb40nZVuGzKW7-yB_ULcUFIZ0QRJDmcbc0-B5_CR9w-EiywEwnetDyCi5tXFsHTzueJNAAGnAIfdxKw2bUSbis98LLii3uZzfAcdzZyY0/s200/Hamsa+Yoga+Mat.jpg" title="Hamsa Yoga Mat" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.overstock.com/Health-Beauty/The-Macbeth-Collection-Hamsa-Fashion-Yoga-Mat/9421357/product.html" target="_blank">See, Yogini's stole the Hamsa!</a></td></tr>
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When my sister was 17 she took a life changing trip to
Israel. She spent seven weeks experiencing Israel; she spent two weeks volunteering
on an Israeli army base, a few weeks living on a Kibbutz and a day or two getting her hands dirty on true archaeological dig
that led her to write a riveting short story about the history of Israel
(remind me to ask her for a copy, she really is talented). One day, on a particularly long bus ride to one of their many journeys, her
tour guide told the story of a girl who had been sitting on a similar bus, a
week prior. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://www.suggestkeyword.com/Y29sb3JmdWwgaGFtc2E/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuKg9iAobL1vWSOY_HIN2X5edZKZBxLW29YXO0L4WQn4XZCzJWeHk5WfxQPLd7RSvK2bmJOLVbyGHCFKsfTjv43t5OSqYmgRKJfS_nsL5Kfc-eHO6nqS5OW8lPzxo7PqvcLOtvTppYb3k/s200/Hamsa.jpg" width="160" /></a></div>
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It was a day like any other, hot and humid, as most days are
in Israel. A young woman chose that day
to take the bus across town to visit with a friend. She paid her fare and found a seat two rows behind
the driver, giving her a clear view of the road ahead. At the next stop a young
man got on and sat down next to her. She noticed he was sweating heavily, but
assumed this was due to the blistering sun and long coat her wore, which wasn’t
uncommon for religious men in Israel. As the bus lurched into movement she felt
something slide down her shirt. Her hand instantly went to her neck where she found
that the clasp of the chain that had been holding her cherished Hamsa had somehow
opened up; she instantly knew what the unfamiliar item sliding down her body
was, the small charm. She stood up, trying to find her Hamsa, realizing too
late that her sudden motion caused it to fall out of her clothing and onto the
floor of the bus. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She caught a glimpse of it sliding towards the back of the
bus, so she pushed past the young man and crawled on her hands and knees to the
last row of the now very crowded bus. She spotted it in the very corner, almost out of reach, so she bent down as far as her body would manage and strained to reach it. After struggling for a few minutes she finally succeeded and her fingers closed around her precious Hamsa. As she pulled her hand to her body- <b>BOOM </b>– a
bomb exploded in the front of the bus. She was still crouched behind the seat, as action which shielded
her from the explosion; she managed to walk away with just a few scratches.
Most of her fellow bus riders were not so lucky. She later learned that the
young man she had been seated next to, the one who was exceptionally sweaty and
wearing a long coat on a hot and humid summer day, was a suicide bomber. </div>
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If
her clasp hadn’t failed; if the Hamsa hadn’t fallen; if she hadn’t gone to retrieve
it; she wouldn’t have been there to share her story with a bus full of American
Teenagers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Maybe I’m superstitious, but the story sent chills down my
spine the first time I heard it. Honestly, it still does. L’Shanah Tovah.</div>
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Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-57526905164946432352014-11-14T22:17:00.001-08:002014-11-14T22:31:47.000-08:00Weird Websites That Actually Exist<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
We live in a world where the online world has beaten out face to face interactions. When someone compliments
an article of clothing we’re wearing we say, “Thanks I ordered it online”. When
we wonder why we have a fever and cough we jump on WebMD and check for any
possible illnesses that might match our symptoms, and self-medicate for the worse
possible sickness on the website, rather than call our doctor. We also use the
Internet to meet new people and spark new romances. A couple of my friends made
a YouTube post which they accurately titled “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TInDtR_HTxw&feature=youtu.be&list=UUsy1Xb3Yx4Uk_wnu8hyE_ZA" target="_blank">Weird Dating</a>” shining a light on
a handful of the unusual dating websites that are now available at the click
of a finger and, while I was amused, it got me wondering what other strange
websites are out there? Here’s my pick for the 10 most interesting websites I've
found so far (click the titles to experience the websites in the convenience of your home). Some are funny, some are great for killing time,
and some are just weird. This post has nothing to do with the name of my blog, sorry to disappoint.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.google.com/maps/views/streetview/art-project?gl=us" target="_blank">Google Maps StreetviewArt-Project</a>: </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizS21O7TTm1PTv4R8KFoFjp_D0DmqFrBsf04nzAt22_rZp9KNUF_UHG2fY8Zwxc8sE2doyfA0CwNRf__L_UbCD1zTuGH_X6iLwULLoW-_ahv1cT-CdZKJ7jq_aTF9ii8yhUgI6Kl-KsGE/s1600/Slide2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizS21O7TTm1PTv4R8KFoFjp_D0DmqFrBsf04nzAt22_rZp9KNUF_UHG2fY8Zwxc8sE2doyfA0CwNRf__L_UbCD1zTuGH_X6iLwULLoW-_ahv1cT-CdZKJ7jq_aTF9ii8yhUgI6Kl-KsGE/s1600/Slide2.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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This website allows you to explore some of the worlds greatest landmarks, including
the inside of the Metropolitan Museum of Art (my personal favorite), The White
House, even the Pyramids of Giza. You just type in the place you want to see up
close and personal and boom, you’re there!</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://kittywigs.com/wigs.html" target="_blank">Kitty Wigs</a>: </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoyeDKDAzKUfX-TKk-qIG4noQQTEBrybPoPLtvKm1YhDfnZpckt3LTuWKTs4O1xvN8hy5DUE4Z6DS1FsPs4ZIykp3LRbzM7TYxIfHkW-zygVAw2J7fk730JquZ3AXmzHFsp6uFf5Mho3M/s1600/Slide3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoyeDKDAzKUfX-TKk-qIG4noQQTEBrybPoPLtvKm1YhDfnZpckt3LTuWKTs4O1xvN8hy5DUE4Z6DS1FsPs4ZIykp3LRbzM7TYxIfHkW-zygVAw2J7fk730JquZ3AXmzHFsp6uFf5Mho3M/s1600/Slide3.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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There is an entire
website, and apparently a book, dedicated to cats in wigs. I’m not sure how to
feel about this. The cats don’t look like they are in pain, but I feel like
this is animal cruelty? Yet somehow very cute. I’m conflicted on this one.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://uncyclopedia.wikia.com/" target="_blank">Uncyclopedia</a>: </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZsg6Q00Z8q2-7PoUe9khxvWtY40ZJvxr_UB4DrKe4LVjTMLK8wpcxl1cGoPuBuAcJbgj8vkLl2KfwyrAogVAUFj-dl4eITKJoPlP9f_umoyn3oVs_EQ6F0D5KPLtKZXGszxf8CN1la8/s1600/Slide6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZsg6Q00Z8q2-7PoUe9khxvWtY40ZJvxr_UB4DrKe4LVjTMLK8wpcxl1cGoPuBuAcJbgj8vkLl2KfwyrAogVAUFj-dl4eITKJoPlP9f_umoyn3oVs_EQ6F0D5KPLtKZXGszxf8CN1la8/s1600/Slide6.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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This
is a website which anyone can add any fact to, even if they are completely made
up. They actually encourage lies. It is literally a website of wrong
information and a great way to waste time. You know when you’re talking to
someone and they assure you the information you have is wrong, so you tell them
you “read it on the internet”. Now you can make that lie into reality. You’re
welcome.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.roadsideamerica.com/" target="_blank">Roadside America</a>:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuhu-bQtho4L2mmY2sIEIAZhEVPRO3F5jNIxOeXBND6b4AmWiZ-7_mRlrjwCkXn1bkwTvzuHPAAKpLwbQJ65sSn6j_D-vyywq_8GoGjnPCo4stXRMibPOpRXl5_ST5pKWRBldVKPE7Hew/s1600/Slide7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuhu-bQtho4L2mmY2sIEIAZhEVPRO3F5jNIxOeXBND6b4AmWiZ-7_mRlrjwCkXn1bkwTvzuHPAAKpLwbQJ65sSn6j_D-vyywq_8GoGjnPCo4stXRMibPOpRXl5_ST5pKWRBldVKPE7Hew/s1600/Slide7.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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When you want to find non-touristy things to do on vacation this website has
your answers. It offers the strange and unusual things that are usually off the
beaten path and usually weird. For example, did you know there is a “Dungeon”
in San Francisco that offers visitors daily shows portraying tongue pulling and
whatever else happened in medieval dungeons? Apparently it’s in Fisherman’s
Wharf.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://womenbehindbars.com/" target="_blank">Women Behind Bars</a>:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiANWGgy7myki5r5IpuVd8EXc2mSJxmGXrhPn1O78B-WflArmbl__AYQWCRMqZ9BeY_OgCklVzAAxw6YJlquJ4nMGj-6OQsFWMwTv_ENWvkZZREg9El81EfS2p1MhZSijZNAHSCKq12H7U/s1600/Slide4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiANWGgy7myki5r5IpuVd8EXc2mSJxmGXrhPn1O78B-WflArmbl__AYQWCRMqZ9BeY_OgCklVzAAxw6YJlquJ4nMGj-6OQsFWMwTv_ENWvkZZREg9El81EfS2p1MhZSijZNAHSCKq12H7U/s1600/Slide4.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Ever wanted
to date a convict? There is a website dedicated to that, well, specifically for
female convicts. From what I could gather without making an account, you browse
through pictures of convicted felons, pay $4 when you find one you like and
begin chatting with them and hope it leads to romance. Their tag line is: “Become
a “ray of hope” in someone’s life. …You can make a difference.” They even let
the inmates write their own bios. I feel like this is taking the Orange is the
new Black obsession a little too far.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.prankdial.com/" target="_blank">Prankdial</a>: </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0LhoaLAEdqEf8cpyr2joIsU6znF7aAPDcSG6ByitYWSDL5chnKgzea9Un2SzpxsYm-o8MVns-jPcwSnWNYw6JMTySaS9Zsp68SxPdIBheBhwdKJAD3pWOzfaDH7dISVNOfaEUsg4A3EM/s1600/Slide1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0LhoaLAEdqEf8cpyr2joIsU6znF7aAPDcSG6ByitYWSDL5chnKgzea9Un2SzpxsYm-o8MVns-jPcwSnWNYw6JMTySaS9Zsp68SxPdIBheBhwdKJAD3pWOzfaDH7dISVNOfaEUsg4A3EM/s1600/Slide1.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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The name should be
pretty self-explanatory, but I’m happy to elaborate. Remember when we were kids
and we thought it was hilarious to call Mo’s to ask if their refrigerator is
running? Well, this is the same concept. You decide who you want to prank call,
choose the pre-recorded message you wish to send, enter the phone number and
the website does the rest. It is ridiculously immature but I’m pretty sure Bart
Simpson would approve.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://newsoffuture.com/" target="_blank">News of Future</a>: </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSSkf3s97CiW8QK8QZYBmqA8WcTVyYDMMFPCXnDvY8sYnGZi7FYB0rt73IUj76HVlQyGzRPF9lhyer6B1qBi36MoRMPunPVRrBV9K9plEW0WByMrJpN_Z-OFMZOzwDs0WPJZsaITMTGw0/s1600/Slide8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSSkf3s97CiW8QK8QZYBmqA8WcTVyYDMMFPCXnDvY8sYnGZi7FYB0rt73IUj76HVlQyGzRPF9lhyer6B1qBi36MoRMPunPVRrBV9K9plEW0WByMrJpN_Z-OFMZOzwDs0WPJZsaITMTGw0/s1600/Slide8.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Er, this is a website that claims to report news from the future. I’m not
really sure what else I can say about it. I’m sure they already have a blurb
about my blog on their website.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://zombiepassions.com/" target="_blank">Zombie Passions</a>: </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMdAAoOgsfXBqMMpF0xipZUnqjAbfWcCPeCf3_io94HXYxwS2rhuG1xVaniLsfIMw5VcOSL6pHptpLqAl5BLuOzdsvtclQGKTfyquHZaA_yEdaLdnffZGGBLjxkZt37Du7ze4Aqu8xo_s/s1600/Slide10.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMdAAoOgsfXBqMMpF0xipZUnqjAbfWcCPeCf3_io94HXYxwS2rhuG1xVaniLsfIMw5VcOSL6pHptpLqAl5BLuOzdsvtclQGKTfyquHZaA_yEdaLdnffZGGBLjxkZt37Du7ze4Aqu8xo_s/s1600/Slide10.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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I remember in
college there was a big Zombie Apocalypse show that the Theater Department did
every year. It was a big fake fight on the quad, I think they threw water
balloons at each other or something. Well, for those of them that secretly
wished they were real zombies, or wished they could date one, they have a
website for them! That’s right, there is a website called Zombie Passions.
Online dating for Zombies.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.cleverbot.com/" target="_blank">Clever Bot</a>: </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGpPDLj-LgbohzPizIMlk9Jf00K-OSTvgWGk_QJq8YZt7qIHV7O8vubOioOiwL3GieGDxGiONQSDH7pTexgLKl_TV2DKqOq39RAk5HkzO5MpMkmpz5JpMLw4rO2xdfsDL36KNSdy0opo/s1600/Slide9.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGpPDLj-LgbohzPizIMlk9Jf00K-OSTvgWGk_QJq8YZt7qIHV7O8vubOioOiwL3GieGDxGiONQSDH7pTexgLKl_TV2DKqOq39RAk5HkzO5MpMkmpz5JpMLw4rO2xdfsDL36KNSdy0opo/s1600/Slide9.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Ever wanted to have a conversation with a robot. The Internet has you covered.
This is kind of creepy and the robot is kind of a dick. I’ll be honest; I
wasted a good 20 minutes talking to the rude robot and I might have argued with
it when it claimed to be human. I’m not even sorry.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.dogster.com/" target="_blank">Dogster</a>: </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj3iOQOpICr8UGCef9vjFhv2yPL910wfIQ8yKUBIOcs1jaCv2UeX4iIWqA0VHomypRwIQYAvZGklBnRCUHHyqBmsYOewVZkX5qwkHiASpcEdmoY2W6B2BbPoX93ElABWLyXI94AXK-7Kw/s1600/Slide5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj3iOQOpICr8UGCef9vjFhv2yPL910wfIQ8yKUBIOcs1jaCv2UeX4iIWqA0VHomypRwIQYAvZGklBnRCUHHyqBmsYOewVZkX5qwkHiASpcEdmoY2W6B2BbPoX93ElABWLyXI94AXK-7Kw/s1600/Slide5.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Someone created a social media site for dogs. The entire site is about dogs.
Articles about dogs. Facts about dogs. Videos of dogs. There is even a quiz to determine which Dog breed you are the most like. Maybe I’m just a crazy
Cat lady but I just don’t see the appeal.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Do you have any sites you want to
share? I’m always looking for ways to kill more time. </div>
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PS: I was published on <a href="http://thoughtcatalog.com/lauren-rubin/2014/11/the-14-stages-of-online-dating/" target="_blank">Thought Catalog</a>! If you haven't read it yet, please do. <span style="font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s October, which means it’s my favorite time of year: Ghost Story Blog Post Time! As you probably know by now (assuming you've been a loyal reader from the start…if not, see past Halloween posts) I have had some peculiar experiences in the past. Some can be chalked up as my conscious psyching me out, others I have undoubtedly ruled as “haunting experiences”. I think this one errs on the side of “haunting experience”, let me know what you think:</div>
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Moving to Monterey was one of the scariest moves of my adult life. Unlike Santa Barbara and San Francisco, I was <b>not </b>in college, so I had to rely solely on my "winning personality" to make friends and meet new people. Thankfully after I have a drink in my system I become 'Little Miss Chatter-Box'; a month into living in Monterey I had a pretty solid group of friends, most of whom I’m still close with today. That first month though, that was torture. It was incredibly quiet and I spent way too much time going on adventures alone. My roommates were great and always inclusive, but they had their own lives.</div>
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One Sunday I decided to take a drive to Big Sur, specifically to a small store I had gone to once on a childhood vacation. I really didn't know much about it aside from remembering it sold Dream Catchers and Native American Art. I had no clue what it was called, or how far down the scenic highway it was, but I was determined to find it. </div>
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I lucked out with the perfect weather for my adventure. The sun was shining and it was virtually wind-free; naturally I stopped along the way to take photos of the breathtaking scenery.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1hp2aQ_bG0ejMuP1Y5QsZh0vG5CNG398SE5Q-wTJYjdfHTtU5trH3_JUqzSJXdymLM9yc34_whoeeHl72EI53LQ87gwib0lOrzFrEITAMXpjk3m2BIokwhsnI-53petnkajlWzyvpyhI/s1600/20130224_135117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1hp2aQ_bG0ejMuP1Y5QsZh0vG5CNG398SE5Q-wTJYjdfHTtU5trH3_JUqzSJXdymLM9yc34_whoeeHl72EI53LQ87gwib0lOrzFrEITAMXpjk3m2BIokwhsnI-53petnkajlWzyvpyhI/s1600/20130224_135117.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of many photos from the drive.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 16.3636360168457px;">A little while past Bixby Bridge I found what I was looking for. The store was at Big Sur Station, just beyond a bustling campground; it was also already closed for the day when I arrived. I’d driven all that way for nothing. I also really had to pee.</span></div>
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<img alt="http://www.tripadvisor.com/Attraction_Review-g240329-d145296-Reviews-Big_Sur_Station-Big_Sur_California.html#photos" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1wPUeJKCmAe9ICIt5kLvtlpOi8u07v4zj7gx819zNqtY4mpFn_ZdzaUPMsMRrc_EUEl9rN3Tu25rOXeCWLeQcDA5uQ77pMDFdQ9MMc1DQYvO7NTcf2v50vZNvk6HKDqyfTRDZ5hgfJwc/s1600/big-sur-station.jpg" height="238" title="" width="320" /></div>
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<a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/Attraction_Review-g240329-d145296-Reviews-Big_Sur_Station-Big_Sur_California.html">Big Sur Station Sign</a></div>
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There was an old gas station on site and what looked like a restaurant on the other side of the parking lot, also closed (I still have no clue why they closed early that day). I decided to wander around a bit, in search of a bathroom or large bush that would hide me the open road. As I got behind the small building I discovered a breathtaking waterfall and small footbridge, all surrounded by a lush forest. I was floored as to how the small store had somehow shielded this beauty from the street. I also realized that if this gorgeous view was shielded, so was I. As I began to crouch down behind the store I heard a woman say, “I wouldn't do that if I were you, there’s poison oak everywhere”. I jumped at the voice and looked around confused, there was no human to go with the voice. “Hello” I called out rather shakily, and got no reply. I glanced all around me, there wasn't a soul in sight; I did, however, notice poison oak a mere two feet away from where I was about to squat so I said, “thanks for the tip” more to myself than anything.</div>
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Suddenly there was strong gust of wind accompanied by a crackling laughter, engulfing the air around me. I felt as though someone had positioned surround sound speakers directly next to my head. My body shook and I jumped a mile. Rather than wait and see what the source of the sound was, I high-tailed it to my car. Once safely in my vehicle I threw the car into reverse and glanced in my rear view mirror as I began to back up; that's when I saw her. She couldn't have been much older than me with long black hair and bright green eyes, wearing a simple white dress. Her piercing green eyes bore into my rear view mirror, staring directly into my wide eyes, hers were unblinking. I froze momentarily, paralyzed with fear, before realizing I was still reversing my car and getting closer to her by the second. I hit the brakes and stared back at her, unsure of how to proceed, there was something off about her, something uninviting. She did not want me to be there. I slowly took my eyes away from the mirror and turned my hear to peer over my right shoulder, to look out the rear window of the car. There was no one there. I frantically looked all around me, she had vanished into thin air! I quickly put my car in drive and hit the gas, refusing to look in my rear view mirror as I drove out of there.</div>
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I drove for what felt like forever to the next open establishment, a small gallery a while down the road. After finally using their restroom I began chatting with one of the women working there about local ghost sightings and weird happenings. She told me she had heard stories from campers about a woman who appeared while they were staying at the campgrounds; usually in the dead of night. She rarely spoke or had any interaction with the campers, she just wandered through the campsite as though she had someplace to be, or a mission to fulfill. Campers reported trying to follow her and stated that "although her white dress shined bright in the moonlight, she seemed to always disappear as she neared the woods near Big Sur Station".</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-nXqJqF8idvQKQXOTxnZcpwbTDpSGBoK4LhoTSMB2LAw0kYDn2ezpQd0XaBvXYz4vgQyhQswdxPEa7bgJ_U7PitHgpzVtC5Qy6ga1AxaoNIJcklctU-j4PT5pK0zPKJELh1hKSUyRCIQ/s1600/big-sur-cafe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-nXqJqF8idvQKQXOTxnZcpwbTDpSGBoK4LhoTSMB2LAw0kYDn2ezpQd0XaBvXYz4vgQyhQswdxPEa7bgJ_U7PitHgpzVtC5Qy6ga1AxaoNIJcklctU-j4PT5pK0zPKJELh1hKSUyRCIQ/s1600/big-sur-cafe.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.bringfido.com/restaurant/10304/">Big Sur Coast Gallery & Cafe</a></td></tr>
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I never returned but I've always wondered why she chose to speak to <i><b>me</b></i>; to laugh at <i><b>me</b></i>; to haunt <i><b>me</b>; </i>to save <i><b>me </b></i>from Poison Oak.</div>
Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-31918334382145907112014-07-11T10:48:00.000-07:002014-07-11T10:48:11.641-07:00I'm back East!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoutPNjPTenoyj4k3OkBrfJ11Ff5zIa_ClxtrHPOO4ytUvuDP8q1TQJoiObCzdj1Ev4Xke9h8hvnU7Aqn87LLc3fsDadNjPO_mnNGjW46b2Hr-G3y5E_mVtdtlu-pn3zlFceXMx0aNhcM/s1600/Connecticut-welcome2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoutPNjPTenoyj4k3OkBrfJ11Ff5zIa_ClxtrHPOO4ytUvuDP8q1TQJoiObCzdj1Ev4Xke9h8hvnU7Aqn87LLc3fsDadNjPO_mnNGjW46b2Hr-G3y5E_mVtdtlu-pn3zlFceXMx0aNhcM/s1600/Connecticut-welcome2.jpg" /></a></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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 <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></div>
<br />Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-1503317593613501992013-10-26T17:52:00.002-07:002013-10-26T17:52:31.032-07:00Creepy Elevator<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicSvHbkcJbi8s9dO5xxxtP5KstdkNMwwSQt3JtDpv7JlnOLyEpGQeTwlasr5FB-qMCA3g2Z5Thv8RSiU4oG2p_vwnIrbQjagI7uZOnbPc-wJeiKMu_ZO-CPnygT1cuzDnX-Z-t0yuTEHw/s1600/Elevator.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicSvHbkcJbi8s9dO5xxxtP5KstdkNMwwSQt3JtDpv7JlnOLyEpGQeTwlasr5FB-qMCA3g2Z5Thv8RSiU4oG2p_vwnIrbQjagI7uZOnbPc-wJeiKMu_ZO-CPnygT1cuzDnX-Z-t0yuTEHw/s320/Elevator.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-81588050470616765812013-10-12T10:52:00.002-07:002013-10-12T11:02:42.790-07:00Haunted Story #1, 2013 Edition<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Do you
ever have those days when you wake up in the morning and ask yourself, “What am
I doing with my life? Do I really like the direction my life is going in? Do I
see myself living in the same place, with the same job, five years from now?” I
had one of those moments this morning when I woke up, the 're-evaluating my
life moment'. On one hand, I’m 26 years old and have already earned the work
title, “Director”; on the other hand my entire family is on the East Coast,
which gets increasingly harder by the day. It doesn't help that I always saw
myself raising kids in a historic town in New England, close enough to take a
day trip to Fenway. I want my kids to see where Paul Revere took his famous
ride, to learn about Salt Box houses and the little mile markers on the side of
the Putnam Road, but most importantly; I want them to have a haunted experience
in one the many historic cemeteries scattered across New England.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">My
historic cemetery experience still follows the “dating disaster” theme,
although it was more of a bazaar dating experience than a disaster. It also
helps segway into my favorite time of year, Halloween, which means (drum-roll
please) Haunted Stories!!</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">This is
the first of four haunted stories I plan to write this year, and yes this is
100% true, although the fear may be exaggerated a tiny bit for effect.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The
majority of my stories seem to start with, “I was dating this guy”, because
some of my best encounters thus far have involved "some guy" I was in
love with at the moment. When I was a senior in High School, Trey was that guy.
(Names changed, because I can.)</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I met
Trey late one night at one of my favorite “drunchie” places, a 24 hour diner.
For those readers that are from the West Coast and/or have never experienced a <b>real</b> diner, you must pack your bags and
fly to the East Coast. This is one thing they do right in the Tri-State area
and NO the chains they call Diners in Cali DO NOT COUNT as real diners (I’m
talking about you, Ruby’s). I’m referring to the late night places that
allow you to order eggs, a side salad and half a lasagna for $5, 24/7; although <i>my </i>late
night snack was always fries with vinegar. My late night snack choice is
actually what led to the conversation that would begin my last summer in
Connecticut, three months I would never forget.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I
strolled into the diner around 1am, after doing something that was less than
memorable with my best friend *Astrid. As soon as we were seated I commented on
how hot the new waiter was and that I <b>needed </b>to know him.
Moments later he was strolling over to our table and taking our order, I was
instantly in love with his bright blue eyes, jet black hair, gorgeous smile and
most importantly, the glimmer of lust that appeared in his eyes when they met
mine. He laughed when I ordered fries with vinegar and told me I have
"quirky" taste, then went off to put our order in. To this day I
still tell strangers I have a quirky taste in food, not sure why it seems like
an important declaration but it does. The next few days consisted of me gushing
to Astrid about Trey, “the love of my life”; she was about to slap me.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The
following Friday Astrid slept over. We decided to have the ultimate chick
night, complete with Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion, magazines and
enough Smirnoff Apple and Apple Juice to get two recent high school graduates
wasted (so, probably a shot each). When 2am rolled around, we were bored with
our movie selection and blissfully drunk, so naturally we decided to go to the
diner to see if Trey was working. Astrid drove, she swore she was fine...this
was before we had learned that driving drunk was never acceptable, we were
incredibly lucky that night. When we got to the diner, Trey’s face lit up and
he made a bee-line for our table. I twirled my hair and giggled as we chatted
about our night and Astrid excused herself to use the rest room. Turns out she
was NOT in any shape to drive and I quickly realized I needed to get her home
and in bed before my parents work up and discovered that not only had we snuck
alcohol into the house, we’d driven drunk for the sake of a crush. Trey was
super understanding and cancelled our order; he even comped the toast that had
already been brought to the table, with the condition that I leave him my
number before heading out and text him when we make it home safely. I was
a giddy mess as I got behind the wheel of her massive car, completely
forgetting that I had never driven an SUV.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">This
was the first time I realized that I turn into a mom when I drink. When we were
in the diner, I leapt into parent mode, asking some idiots knew from school to
watch my things while I got Astrid out to her car (the fuckers went through my
purse and dumped all the contents out-I still hold a grudge). Once in the car I
completely sobered up, my only thought was: Get Astrid to Safety. At one point
we were stopped at a light and a cop car pulled up next me; I had the balls to
smile and wave. I still can’t believe they didn’t pull me over, I'm
pretty sure my actions screamed: “Drunk Teen”.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">When we
got home Astrid went to bed and I began texting Trey. He was working the
overnight shift and didn’t get off work until 6am. Around 3:30am I was still
wired from driving and he was bored to tears with zero customers, so he called
me. We ended up talking for the next hour and half, getting to know each other.
The more we talked, the more I found myself falling for him. He was visiting
for the summer from upstate New York, working at the diner because it was owned
by some family member who needed summer help. When the summer ended, he was
going home and I was moving to California.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Since
he worked the late shift he either got to work at 1am or left work at 1am,
depending on his schedule. This left very odd hours for socializing. I wasn’t
really a bad kid, and we really weren’t doing anything too scandalous, so my
parents were fine with him coming over before/after work. I guess they figured
that if I was going to get into trouble it might as well be in the safety of my
own home.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">One
night, work was particularly slow and Trey was able to leave an hour early. We
were hanging out in my driveway trying to decide what to do when he asked me
about the house next door (remember the haunted house from last year? The glass
of Orange Juice house? See last years haunted stories.). I told him
a little bit about the house and explained that the town I grew up in, Old
Greenwich, had history oozing out the wazoo. The early settlers came over on
the Mayflower and a lot of them ended up in Old Greenwich. I told him that a
lot of the houses in my neighborhood had little plaques on them designating
them as historic landmarks and pointed behind my house proclaiming that one of
the oldest cemeteries in the country was only two blocks away. Whoops, wrong
thing to say at midnight on a Friday night; naturally he needed to see it.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx7Lj_6ot-RfZ_nOeajADWCVJYxTwjUg_NLr5v4GZ0HG0STuQk9u3qthgl1d3zCb87UAL68k0g3iNqLfdyt_FbEBbn-Twm78wlxspm-pneS2LmrlB4gGffPvjJTzWFvre1VLYMks4I7YI/s320/Cemetery.jpg" width="320" /></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best picture I could find.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Once we
got there, I refused to go into the cemetery. I sat on the stairs by the
entrance playing on my phone as Trey walked around with a flashlight, reading
aloud names and the dates etched into each tombstone. He found some dating back
to the late 1600’s and read off names that I recognized as ancestors of friends
I’d grown up with. He also teased me ruthlessly for being too scared to enter.
I got a weird feeling about that cemetery, like we weren’t welcome and were
disturbing those who were resting. The more I tried to explain this, the more
he made fun of me, so I shut my mouth, turned my back to him and pretended to
pout as he continued looking around. As he got further back, he found one
crumbling tombstone that was too faint to make out a date on. He told me he was
going to crouch down with the flashlight to get a better look.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">A few
seconds later I hear, “What the -? Fuck, fuck, Oh shit, Fuck” then silence.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I
assumed he was once again teasing me and called out his name, telling him to
quit fucking around. No response. I had a flashlight on my keychain which I
pulled out and directed behind me, off in the direction I’d last heard his
voice. Nothing. There was no shadow, no movement, nothing. The tombs were all
short, he towered above them, even when we was crouching.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">My
heart was beating a mile a minute, I was terrified and I felt an overwhelming
sense of darkness coming from deep within the cemetery. You know
that feeling you get when you walk into an empty home and the little hairs
stand up on the back of your neck? I felt that. The air around me seemed to get
thicker and I was suddenly very aware of my breath as it left my body. I felt
like I was being watched and whomever, or whatever, was watching me did not
want me there.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Trey?”
I called out in a very shaky voice, desperately trying to hold it together. No
answer. In fact, it was unnaturally silent. A giant pit formed in my stomach as
I came to terms with what I had to do, enter the cemetery that I so desperately
did not want anything to do with. The first step through the entryway was the
hardest, it took all my courage to take that step and I almost turned back, but
I forced myself to continue. Again I called Trey’s name, again no answer. I
grasped my flashlight as I continued on the very worn path towards the spot I
last saw him, shaking slightly as I went. As I approached the row Trey had been
investigating tombstones in a dark hooded figure sprang out in front of me. I
screamed bloody murder. Trey laughed. He thought it was the funniest prank
anyone had ever pulled.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Trey
won, he got me to enter the cemetery. As far as the feeling I got when I was
faced with entering, it was still there; in fact, it was stronger. Now that I
had calmed down a bit and realized I was actually physically standing in the
middle of one of the oldest cemeteries in the country I also realized that the
hostile energy was back, stronger than ever. Something did not want us there.
Thankfully, Trey felt it this time. He shivered and muttered something about
feeling like someone was watching us and suggested we head home. As we walked towards
his car, I began to allow myself to relax. My heard stopped pounding and my
legs stopped shaking, but I kept my guard up in case he decided to jump at me
again. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">As we reached the steps at the entrance of the cemetery something dark
flew through the air in front of us and landed hard on the hood of his car,
making a “thud” sound against the metal. We stopped in out tracks and shined
the flashlights at the car, but there was nothing there. We pointed the lights
all around the car, up in the trees, back in the cemetery; there was zero
movement. I examined the hood of the car and found nothing out of the ordinary
so we chalked it up as the car settling and our minds playing tricks on us; we <i>were </i>visiting
one of the oldest cemeteries in the US after all.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">In the
morning I woke up to a frantic message from Trey. He had driven himself home
and parked his car in the garage, where he was able to see the hood of the car
clearly under bright lights. There was a dent in the middle of the hood, the
kind that appears when someone’s hand pushes down hard on cheap metal. He
claimed there were also tiny little cracks in the paint. Too bad the cracks
didn't spell out the words, "Get Out". That would have been the
ultimate scary story ending.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-9772040969752077312013-09-17T22:10:00.000-07:002013-09-17T22:10:01.832-07:00Sunglasses<div class="MsoNormal">
I've run out of disastrous dating stories, for the time
being. I have a date this weekend so there’s still hope. That said, I decided
to share a funny dating situation with my loyal readers (hopefully this will
calm the inquiries about my next post?). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have you ever broken up with someone because they did
something vulgar or lewd? What about for something stupid, like the way they
styled their hair or the way they chewed their food? Well, when I was in High
School I broke up with a great guy for a reason my Mom still teases me about:
the way he wore his sunglasses; but I’m getting very far ahead of myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To be fair to him, let’s call him Jeff. Jeff was two years older, a musician who
worked part time setting up band equipment at one of the local venues, where I
happened to work. I remember the first time I saw him, he was across the room
tinkering with speakers. He was tall, probably 6’3”, average build, pale skin
with dark spiked hair (that was the style then), piercing brown eyes that popped
against his incredibly white skin and a large but kind of cute hooked nose. On
paper he sounds super creepy, but I swear, he was hot. I was with a friend who
was his year in High School and had taken a few classes with him, so I begged
her to make introductions. Within an hour of twirling my hair and giggling
about music things I knew nothing about but was smart enough to understand were
jokes, he was asking me out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our first official “hang-out” was the following night after
he set up for the band of the evening. We snuggled in a booth getting to know
each other. We ended up talking for
hours with the occasional make out session, sharing our hopes and dreams and
falling madly in love. He was fantastic. When we got to school the following
Monday we were hand-in-hand, one of those cute couples that made everyone roll
their eyes in disgust. With our bliss came a lot of catty bitches. I remember
one girl pulling me aside and informing me that my new boyfriend was <i>clearly</i> a loser for dating someone two
years younger (she ended up dating a <i>guy</i>
two years younger for years, no clue if they’re still together...karma?).
Another chick complained that we were way too lovey too quickly, which in her
opinion was gross. In hindsight it might
have been true, but I was kid and didn't give a shit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It wasn't actually any of the bitchy girls or nasty gossip that
convinced me to break up with Jeff, nope, it was his sunglasses that ultimately
did the relationship in. Had he been wearing sunglasses the entire week we
dated we probably wouldn't have lasted a whole week, but every time I saw him
we were either inside or it was dark outside on account of it being night time,
therefore, no sunglasses. Then the day date happened. We met up for coffee or
food or something...honestly all I can remember is the sunglasses, nothing else
stuck in my memory. He was wearing them normally when I first approached. When
we were outside, it was fine, sunglasses were worn over the eyes just like the
average person does. When we walked into wherever it was we were going, let’s
say the Diner, I spent a lot of time at the Diner, it was a completely
different story. I took my sunglasses
off, like any normal person would, and put them in my purse. He kept his on,
which was weird but I assumed he was waiting to be seated. Once we sat, they
stayed on; kind of. That’s when I realized he had pushed the sunglasses down to
the tip of his hook nose and planned on keeping them there, throughout our
entire meal or coffee date or whatever it was. I couldn't look anywhere else!
He would ask me questions and I’d mumble something along the lines of, “Uh-huh”
or “Yeah, totally”. I’m fairly certain I
might have agreed to being madly in love with him, this is the only explanation
for the way he took the break up, but again, I’m getting ahead of myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When our date ended and I made it back to the safety of my
home, I sat in my room contemplating my situation I liked him, but I just
couldn't look past the way he wore his sunglasses. I knew what I had to do but
I was dreading doing so. When I got to school the next day Jeff made a bee-line
for me, pulling me into a kiss and whispering sweet words in my ear. I wavered
for a moment but got myself back on track and reluctantly told him I needed a
few minutes alone with him to chat, when the bell rang calling all students to
first period. We made plans to meet in the Science wing at lunch so we could
chat. Jeff had the whole lunch block open and I had third lunch, so he had
spent the first two lunch breaks outside with friends, wearing his sunglasses. Any
second doubts I was having disappeared when he approached me, with his sunglasses
down at the tip of his nose, taunting me. As soon as the break-up speech was
out of my mouth I realized how hard poor Jeff had fallen for me. He was clearly
blindsided and begged me to reconsider, but I had my mind made up and insisted
that we had to call it quits. Two weeks later he was madly in love with some
other girl, who he dated long enough to consider an ex, so I have a suspicion
he got over me with time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember when I got home from school that day my Mom asked
how Jeff was. When I told her I’d broken up with him she was shocked and asked
why. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I just couldn't stand the way he wore his sunglasses.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.masterfile.com/stock-photography/image/822-02620930/Young-woman-wearing-dark-sunglasses-pushed-down-to-the-tip-of-her-nose" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg41NGE-gd2iQuiq5YPQQNXq4nteXuxSQtPrGRyC927wmB3VSSyDABYEDaE26nyuZv6_umKajUKQTTlw1w3bSZ6noGr-L1F7_czm0nySdKqxS-KUUzx6jqs6DjVWHOSkchccoHU6lMgD9k/s320/Sunglasses.jpg" width="228" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.masterfile.com/stock-photography/image/822-02620930/Young-woman-wearing-dark-sunglasses-pushed-down-to-the-tip-of-her-nose" target="_blank">The only pic I could find that illustrated the way he wore his sunglasses. </a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-19210549504484519902013-04-14T14:33:00.002-07:002013-04-14T14:33:23.145-07:00He's Just Not That into You<br />
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I’m sitting at work right now with so many thoughts going
through my head and absolutely no meetings or appointments, so a blog entry
seemed appropriate.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I just keep thinking about that book (also movie), “He’s
Just Not That into You” which is prompting me to evaluate my life. I have a handful
more of disastrous dating stories to write about and a bunch of successful
dating stories, (although who wants to read about someone else’s successful
dates, right?) and yet I keep being drawn to the present. I’m in the middle of
a ‘He's Just Not That Into You’ situation and although I know this, I can’t bring myself to accept it. Maybe I need
some fantastic friends/readers to advise me on what to do?<o:p></o:p></div>
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As you know, I moved to Monterey approximately four months
ago. I've had zero trouble meeting men here, in fact, it seems like for once I
have a few too many options… and yet I’m hung up on one particular guy. We’re
going to call him Charlie.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I met Charlie at the ultimate dive bar overrun with old drunk locals and hipsters thinking their $5 PBR’s were <span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">über</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></i></span>badass. I had a friend visiting
from out of town and after going to a West Coast version of a diner, a brewery
and Monterey’s sad excuse for a night club; we ended up at the seedy dive bar
as a last resort for socializing before heading home. We were sitting and
chatting at a table when I noticed him across the bar. We made eye contact a
few times and I probably gave my poor friend half my attention and vague
responses as my eyes convinced him to come over to introduce himself. He brought
a friend with him, an older, slightly overweight gentleman with a great laugh
and we began to do the awkward background stories. His name was Charlie, he’d been living
in the area for years which made him a local now and he’s into film production – which as
a broadcast major fascinated me. At some point the jolly friend left and a tiny
man from Boston replaced him. The Bostonian got into a fight with the couple
sitting next to us and he flipped a girls chair over as a result. She was suddenly sprawled out on the floor, when all hell broke loose. Not wanting to get involved I wrote my name and number
down, handed it to Charlie and my friend and I escaped before the fight
escalated.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The next day Charlie texted me and we made plans to grab
drinks the following Thursday. We met at the same dive bar as before, had a few
drinks, and then decided to walk down to Cannery Row. He transformed into my
own personal tour guide, showing me historic landmarks and sharing all sorts of
fascinating information with me. After a couple hours, we ended up doing a full
circle and we found ourselves at my car. We chatted for a few more minutes, very awkwardly,
and then he said, “well, goodnight” hugged me and walked off to his car. Yup,
you read correctly, <i>hugged</i> me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The entire drive home I wondered why he didn't kiss me. I
would have kissed <i>him</i>, but I've been told I can be too aggressive at
times and decided to try letting the man take the lead for once.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I got home I had a text waiting from him telling me what
a fantastic time he had had with me and asking if I was free the following night
to hang out again. I worked until 9 and my parents were flying in earlier in the
day, but I told him I’d be down for one late night drink and would text him
when I was free. We texted for a couple more hours ending with a, “I can’t wait
to see you again” text from him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The next night I ended up leaving my parents by 9:30pm, they
were exhausted from their travels and I texted Charlie to find out where he
wanted to grab a drink. No response. Not wanting to seem pushy, I didn't send a
second text and figured he's respond within an hour or so. He never responded.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Two weeks later I was at a bar with my roommate and some
friends when in walks Charlie. Before I could say anything I lost him in the
crowd. I was drunk and thought it would be a great idea to text him. He gave me
some bullshit story about meaning to text me, blah-blah-blah. I was drunk, therefore I had no
filter. I called him out about not texting me back that night and told him
that, “I get it, we’re obviously just friends”.
He told me he hopes that’s not true. I stopped texting and took a cab
home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A week later he texts me out of the blue saying that he misses me and really wants
to hang out, so I say, “fine, I guess”. We make plans for the following
evening. When he texted me at 10:30pm to see what was going on, I chose not to respond.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The next day I went to a
Festival/Street Fair in his neighborhood, naturally I ran into him. He ditched his friend and we walked around for a couple of hours talking and catching up; he’s surprisingly easy to talk to and I found myself having a really nice time - I even began to let my guard down a tiny bit. He
introduced me to half the attendees of the street fair, in a "this is my girl" kind of way, which kinda tuned me off a little bit. When he
left he told me he would text me later to see if I wanted to hang out. I told him I already had plans, but to let me know if he ended up anywhere fun. No text last night, which was fine, I was busy. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, this all happened yesterday.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He texted me moments ago saying, “It was good to see you. Lets hang out soon”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m thinking He’s Just Not That into Me, yet, I can’t stop thinking about him? Why?!<o:p></o:p></div>
Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-27910740067256337512013-04-03T22:36:00.000-07:002013-04-04T18:07:27.955-07:00Dating Disaster: Revenge<br />
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Yesterday was a very trying day. I had to swallow my
pride and hide my true emotions while every fiber of my being was screaming “fuck this shit". I’m not going to give the person who made me feel like this the dignity
of having their own blog entry or even a name because, let’s face it, they don’t
matter. Not to me or to the world. When people try to get ahead in life by
bringing others down, they are nothing more than immature, insignificant people
who don’t deserve a second thought.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It took me a few years to learn this, and I haven't always
been a pro at hiding my emotions, I even managed to fall out of practice for a few years while living in San Francisco; cities do that to people. Now I'm back to my oh-so-normal self and ready to take on the world.<br />
<br />
When I was a kid, my sister taught me how to hide what I was truly feeling. She told me that bullies were looking to make me cry and it
would upset them if I kept a smile on my face and acted as though they didn't bother me. Surprisingly, it worked like a charm. If someone bullied me,
instead of crying I smiled at them and shrugged it off. The tears came the
second I got home and was in the privacy of my room or in the safety of my parent’s
arms.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As I grew up I learned to swallow the tears completely, something I learned with my first high school "heartbreak". I was dating a boy named Nat; I was a virgin, he
was not. We kissed and cuddled, but I was far from ready to have sex, especially with someone who was as experienced as he was. Looking back, he was disgusting and probably had an STD. We were 16 and he had already slept with at least 8 girls.<br />
<br />
One night when we were hanging out with a few friends my best friend Monica proudly announced that she was not a virgin and <i>loved </i>having sex. The next day Nat took me for a walk and confessed that he
had a “thing” for Monica and said, “You understand, right? I mean, you’ll hook
us up, right?” Yeah, I understood, he preferred the chick who put out-IE, the easier option, not the virgin who was too smart to sleep with a creep like him. My entire body began to tingle, then it got numb as my face began to feel like it was on fire; but I kept a smile on my face and told him I’d see
what I could do. When I got home I cried into my pillow for a while, composed myself and called Monica to vent about what a jerk he was. I mean, did he honestly think she’d date him after
the way he treated her <b>best friend</b>? She told me that she agreed 100%, her was an asshole and that I could do 1000x better. I'll admit, I felt ions
better. The next day at school Monica announced that her and Nat were
dating. Again, that stinging sensation coupled with numbness and heat came
back. This time there were no tears, only anger. I felt like someone had
slapped me across the face and I wanted to return the favor, luckily I was not much of a fighter. I guess she couldn't do any better.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The years following that incident did not include a
whole lot of heartbreak or stings from idiots like Nat, but then again I made
it a point to initiate the break up’s to save myself the pain that I have
experienced with him. When I moved to Santa Barbara I met some very
interesting guys. Some turned out to be jerks, others were genuinely awesome
people. Most gave me some fantastic dating stories and this is where this particular story
turns into a dating disaster.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I met Matt my sophomore year of college. I was living in the
big house on Del Playa with 11 other people and having the time of my life. One
of my friends at the time was heavy into drugs and drinking. One night, while
she was over at my house, she invited her pot guy to come over and hang out
with us. He was hot. He had blonde dreads, bright blue eyes and the perfect
surfer’s body. We instantly started flirting and my friend did not seem
pleased. She warned me that he was from a different world and that we would
never be a good match. He was a total hippie stoner; I was an alcoholic. Aren't those
things one in the same?<o:p></o:p></div>
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We exchanged numbers and began hanging out, a lot. My
friends would come with me to his house and watch him and his roommates play
random music for hours (I swear it was way more exciting than it sounds). His friends would come to my house and party with us
until the wee hours of the morning. I thought we really clicked and assumed he
did too when he finally kissed me. After the kiss he told me he doesn't like to do anything
with a girl unless he is in a committed relationship with them and thought it would be best to call it a night. The next night we were having a party at my house. He showed up with a few
friends and quickly found me in the crowd asking me to take a walk with him down on the beach. My
friends and roommates gave me thumb-up signs behind his back and beamed at us
as we walked down to the beach, I was certain he was going to ask me to be his
girlfriend. We walked along the water, a good 20 minutes from my house, in
deep conversation about life and our morals, blah-blah-blah. When we reached the end of the beach he turned to me and
said something I’ll never forget, “Lauren, I think you are a fantastic girl and
I really enjoy spending time with you, I just don’t think you’re girlfriend
material.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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That stinging feeling followed by the numb body and hot face
immediately resurfaced, I still had those painful emotions even after all those years. I wanted to run away or cry or
yell at him to fuck off; instead I smiled, thanked him for being honest with me
and suggested we return to the party. When we got home he asked if he should
leave, I told him “absolutely not” and proceeded to spend the night conveniently
in the opposite room from him. Eventually he left and I told my very curious
friends and roommates what had happened. Luckily, they were an awesome support
team.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A month later I ran into Matt while at the local liquor
store. He approached me and asked for a beer suggestion. I told him that Sam
Adams Seasonal was my favorite and walked out of the store with the little dignity I had left around him. I got a text from
him an hour later asking what I was up to, stating something about missing my company
and offering to bring beer if I’d let him come over and hang out. I agreed to this, I was an alcoholic after all and free beer sounded great. :)<br />
<br />
My roommates told me I was crazy and begged me to reconsider, asking if I’d
forgotten how he had treated me a month earlier. I assured them I was fine with how things ended
and that I did not want to have enemy; they looked at me like I’d lost my mind.
He brought over a case of Sam Adams Seasonal Mix along with one of his
friends. My roommates stayed for most of the night and made it clear they did not like him being there. Eventually they went to bed and his friend left. He ended up spending the night, but I refused to anything more than kissing reminding
him of his “no sex while not in a relationship” rule. We began hanging out more
and more, he even introduced me to his siblings and sister-in-law. We were
practically a couple, having sleep overs and just calling each other to talk. Our sleepovers even became gradually less PG as the weeks
passed, I could feel where this was leading fast.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After a few weeks of this he came over to my house wanting
to talk. He said something along the lines of, “Lauren, you’re
amazing and I need you to be my girlfriend. I need to know that you’re all mine
and that I won’t have to ever share you again. I just can't live without you.” OK, I might have exaggerated a
tiny bit, but you get the idea. I stayed silent for a minute, thinking. Finally, I looked him in the eyes and told him, “Wow
Matt, that’s really sweet, but to be honest...I’m just not sure you’re
boyfriend material.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I knew the look that appeared on his face all too well, clearly he did not have a kick ass sister to teach him how to hide his
emotions. First the stingy feeling hit him, then the numb, finally the hot face.
He muttered “touché” then something about letting him know if I ever reconsider, then left me to brag to my roommates about how awesome I was hurting him the way he'd hurt me. OK, maybe I was a little harder on him than I could have been, but honestly, I had developed a real allergy to his dreads and was planning on ending things anyway. This just gave me the perfect way to seek revenge in the process.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I ran into him about a year later, we hugged and acted like
long lost friends. I think we both realized that we had treated each-other like crap, although I would like to state for the record: He started it.<o:p></o:p></div>
Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-47084259177770635862013-03-31T15:18:00.001-07:002013-03-31T15:18:52.323-07:00Easter Dating Disaster<br />
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Seeing as it is Easter Sunday I thought that it would be
appropriate to provide my fabulous readers with an account of my worst Easter
ever; which also happens to be a dating disaster.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This one has a whole lot of back story, but I promise it has
to do with Easter. Names have been changed, mainly because I can, but also to
protect identities and what-not.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In 2006 I moved into a house on Del Playa in Isla Vista,
California, with 11 other people. It was awesome. I met tons to cool people and
the friend’s I’d met the previous year in the dorms loved dropping by to drink
on the beach with us. One such friend from the dorms introduced me to his close
friends who had just moved from the Atascadero area. They were a year younger
than me and it showed in their maturity level, not that I was much better-which
you’ll agree with shortly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One of the friends was named John. He was cute, but in my
eyes very young. He had no clue what he wanted to do with his life; he was 18, in
reality this was completely understandable, but I was year older and wiser and
thought I had my future all planned out. He also had a huge crush on me, which
he made very clear. I turned him down a few times, but he was persistent. We
hung out a handful of times, playing beer pong and partying until the wee hours
of the morning. One night, he kissed me, and I did nothing to stop him. That
became our new thing, we would party and make out, but that was it. I just wasn't interested in anything further with “such a young guy”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The more we partied, the more I got to know his roommate Mike.
Mike was the opposite of John, he came off as mature and responsible, he knew
what he wanted with his life and we secretly flirted when John wasn't looking.
Yeah, we were super mature.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One night, we were all at my house playing drinking games when
I excused myself to take a phone call in my bedroom. When I exited my room,
Mike was coming out of the bathroom; we were completely alone and wasted no time
once we made this realization. Within minutes he had me pinned against the wall
as we shoved our tongues down each other’s throats. We started to back into my
bedroom when John yelled to Mike to hurry up, apparently it was their turn to
play beer pong. Although we weren't actually caught, we felt like we were and
agreed not to act further until we discussed the situation with John. We weren't able to pull John aside to talk in private, so I got to spend the night dodging
cuddles and kisses from John.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The next day Mike showed up at my house to tell me that he
had had a long talk with John and although he was bummed, he gave us his
blessing-and so began our mini-relationship. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We started dating a week or two before spring break and pretty
much became joined at the hip for those two weeks. Basically the only time we
were apart was when we were in class.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When spring break rolled around we suddenly found ourselves
in a situation of separation. I was flying home to Connecticut for the week; he
was driving home to Atascadero. He dropped me at the airport where we embraced for
far too long spewing out some bull shit about how we’d miss each other “<i>sooo</i>” much, and then went our separate
ways. I remember being genuinely sad to
be leaving him for a week.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We texted obsessively the first couple days, I was convinced
we were soul mates and I was going through crazy relationship withdrawals. Then
I took the train into New York City for a Metropolitan Museum of Art day. The
MET was my second home growing up and is still my sanctuary. If I got the green
light to choose my bed and move in, I’d do it in a heartbeat; and I know
exactly which bed I’d choose-the one with the little cherubs hanging on the ceiling,
in the renaissance wing of the museum.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I spent many days in my teen-hood at the MET and got to know
a handful of the guards and other staff members. One such guard was Steven. He
deserves his own blog entry, which will come eventually, but let’s just say
Mike clearly was not my soul mate, which I learned when I ran into Steven. After chatting with him for what felt like 10
hours (I think it was really 3 hours) I had forgotten all about Mike and was
back to my non-relationship-flirty self. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When I returned to Santa Barbara a few days later, I had
tasted single life again and was ready to embrace it in full. Mike picked me up
at the airport, like a good boyfriend, telling me about the fun day he had
planned for us. It was Easter Sunday and some friends were throwing a huge
party that involved everyone bringing a food item that reminded them of their
childhood Easter celebrations. I’m Jewish so I brought alcohol.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One of the dishes was something Lamb. I had never tried
Lamb. Not for any religious reasons, it just never interested me, plus I always
found Lambs to be rather cute. I was assured that I would like it, and was told
I only had to try one bite. I did not like it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As it turns out I’m
also allergic to Lamb. Within half an hour of eating it, I broke out into a
cold sweat; I got dizzy and felt as though my stomach was going to burn out of
my body. I stopped drinking when the room began to spin-which was from the allergic
reaction, not the beer I’d had earlier. When Mike saw how ill I looked, he
assumed I’d partied too hard and suggested going home. Naturally when we
returned home my house was throwing a party, so there was no way I’d get rest
there, so he suggested driving to his house.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was sober, but sick, and volunteered to drive his massive
pick-up truck because he was way too drunk to be driving. Holiday’s in Isla
Vista mean hundreds of drunken people in the street and tons of cops wandering
around on foot. The cops stopped us the second we tried to back out of my driveway.
I explained that I was sober, but sick with a fever and was driving my
boyfriend’s truck for the first time, to downtown where there was no partying,
so I could sleep. Looking back, the cops should have made us call a cab.
Instead, they directed us out of Isla Vista safely.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When we got to Mike’s, he tried getting all sexual with me,
but I had a fucking fever and was not having any of it. I felt like crap and
wanted to curl into a ball and sleep. He
kept trying and I told him to leave me alone, locking him out of his own
bedroom. At one point I did allow him back in to sleep, making him promise he’d
let up on the sexual crap. In the morning, my roommate picked me up from his
house. I felt much better, the allergic reaction had subsided, although I did
feel a little weak. Needless to say, Mike and I were done, although never
verbally said “we’re breaking up” it was implied with the door slam in the
morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
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What did I learn from the situation? When trying to end a relationship,
eat something you are allergic to. This gives you an excuse to be as bitchy as
you want. Also, I’m allergic to Lamb.<o:p></o:p></div>
Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-52379872612252531992013-03-24T13:45:00.000-07:002013-03-24T13:45:11.566-07:00Disaster Date #3<br />
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Happy Sunday! :)<br />
<br />
To keep up with the OK Cupid theme, here is the story of the
first date I ever went on through that ridiculous dating website. This was the
first of three, to get the details of the other two see my last two posts.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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This particular date really wasn't that horrible, more uncomfortable
than disastrous, but still worthy of a blog entry. I’d been living in SF for a little over a year; I was a few months out of a
long term relationship and ready to get back in the dating game. A friend
suggested OK Cupid; she had met her current boyfriend on the website and claimed
a bunch of her friends met their current significant others through the site. I wasn't looking to jump back into a big relationship, but I thought dating someone new
might be fun and figured it couldn't hurt to try. <o:p></o:p></div>
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*Side note, the friend who suggested it is now married to a
guy she met on OK Cupid, I guess it works for some people.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, the first guy of any interest who
contacted me was named Jeremy. He was attractive, witty and seemed like he
actually knew what he wanted to do with his life. I think I was 22 and I had no
clue what I wanted to eat for breakfast, let alone what I wanted to do with the
rest of my life; hell, some days I still have no clue what I want to do with my
life, although I'm pretty sure have a great outline: marry a pro-baseball
player and be a stay-at-home mom with a kick-ass blog and have a killer tan. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jeremy and I talked for a week or two and he seemed normal
enough to me, so I agreed to meet him for drinks. I chose the bar, my go-to
local bar The Dubliner and made sure to choose a night that a friend was
working the bar. We made plans for 8:30 p.m., I showed up at 8 p.m. mainly because I
was super nervous and didn't want to be late? Oddly enough, this was one of the few times muni was on time
and got me to the bar in 5 minutes flat. Especially weird because the ride
normally takes 15.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I told the bartender, Kyrie, why I was there, explaining
that I was meeting a date from OK Cupid and that I was incredibly nervous because
this was uncharted waters for me. She told me she completely understood and
poured us both a shot of Patron (I don't know how to add the little accent above the O, imagine it's there). It didn't really help so I ordered a beer. As
we got closer to 8:30pm, she could see how anxious I was getting and poured us both another shot. As we slammed the empty shot glasses on the counter a rather
attractive man walked through the door, a rather attractive yet super short
man. He got a big smile on his face and introduced himself as Jeremy. I’d
completely forgotten to look at the “about me” section for his height. I’m 5’6”,
I’m not a giant, but I easily towered over him. I’m guessing her was 5’2” and I’m
pretty sure he was wearing lifts. He was well dressed with dark jeans, a dark
green sweater and a blazer. I love when men wear blazers casually, over a
t-shirt or sweater; such a sexy look. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, at this point I’m 2 shots and most of a beer into the
night and its only been half an hour. He suggests going upstairs to play some
pool. He led the way and as soon as he has his back to me I caught eyes with
Kyrie, she pointed to a bottle with a little green leprechaun on it and we errupted into
drunken giggles. Poor Jeremy had no clue we were laughing about him; he couldn't help the fact that I was drunk and he greatly resembled the small green man on the bottle.
Actually, he could have chosen a different sweater color.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We played a couple games of pool, Kyrie brought up a refill
beer at one point and gave me that “do you need an escape look” but I was actually
having a really nice time so I gave her a quick shake of the head and she retreated back to the bar.
After playing pool we sat and chatted for a while. The conversation somehow
drifted towards height and what a struggle being short had been for him in
life; that he always had to ask strangers to reach things down from high places
and had to stand on a chair in his kitchen to reach things down from the top shelf.<br />
<br />
My drunk ass
found this to be funniest thing I’d ever heard. Yup, I sat and laughed as this
poor guy poured his heart out to me. I tried to lessen the blow by explaining
that I was picturing him struggling on a chair to reach a plate in his kitchen,
but for some odd reason he acted insulted and changed the subject. Looking
back, I probably would have left if the tables had been
turned-he was much more patient with me than I deserved.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We decided to go back down to the bar to finish our drinks.
The entire time at the bar Kyrie and one of the regulars, Elliott made faces at me, thus
making me laugh even harder. At this point Jeremy had clearly had enough and announced that
it was late and he should really be getting home. It was midnight, so I guess it was teetering on the late side. He'd put up with me for almost four hours! I began to look up the muni
schedule but he insisted on driving me home, something about me being way too
drunk to be on public transit alone. I lived about 8 blocks away and stood
contemplating for way too long whether I should let a stranger drive me home or
try my luck with muni. After getting two public drinking tickets in Santa
Barbara I decided to try my luck with this small stranger. Kyrie made me text her
every time we stopped at a light and the second I walked through my door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jeremy was actually a really good guy. I had him drop me a
block from my apartment, because I didn't want him to know where I lived-in
case he changed his mind and wanted to come back and kill me. I hugged him
goodbye, thanked him for a fun night. He sped away the second my feet touched the sidewalk.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Needless to say, I did not go on a second date with Jeremy; but every
year on March 17th I’m reminded of that incredibly awkward date.<o:p></o:p></div>
Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-65604995058227587462013-03-23T17:20:00.001-07:002013-03-23T17:20:13.698-07:00Dating Disaster #2<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
As promised, here’s OK Cupid date disaster number two. I
really had high hopes for this one, which was probably my first mistake.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His name was Graham, he was 26 (I had just turned 24), he had
a full time job in the city doing something adult-ish, like accounting, he was
Jewish and according to his pictures he was tall and in great shape. He emailed
me with some line about me being his mom’s dream girl; I was attractive, college
educated and Jewish, this made me giggle so I decided to give him a shot. We emailed back and forth for a couple
of weeks until he finally asked me out to dinner. I suggested trivia night at my favorite bar, which was also close to
home aka within running distance to safety. He said he was "down" for that
but wanted to take me out to dinner first and suggested one of the most expensive
restaurants in the area. Maybe I’m weird, but I have this thing were I don’t
like having a first date somewhere expensive. If he "forgets" his wallet I end up paying I don’t want
to be out an insane amount of money for a crap date with a guy I’m never going to see
again-I imagine that’s how guys think on first dates too? Anyway, I told him pizza would be quicker especially if we
were planning on making trivia at 8, so we decided on a casual pizza place down
the street from the bar.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We met at the pizza place at 7pm. I
got there a few minutes early and waited out front looking for a tall, muscular,
attractive man. Instead I was approached by a short, rather plump,
unattractive male, who was slightly balding. Clearly this guy was a photo-shop
pro had very short friends. I was pissed, but really wanted to go to trivia so I decided to suck it up
and go to dinner with him, maybe looks weren't everything?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was loud, spoke with food in his mouth and wouldn't shut up. He talked non-stop about himself and his insanely boring life. When
the check came, I tried paying for my share, he refused, we argued for a
few minutes and I finally agreed to buy the drinks at the bar if he paid for
dinner. He told me I reminded him of some chick from some TV show, I think it was mean as a compliment but it was lost on me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We made it to trivia just as it was about to begin. Within
minutes of getting there I ran into a few friends; we hugged and caught up for
a minute or two then they joined their table for trivia and I turned back to
Graham. I swear I chatted with the girls for a total of two minutes, I introduced them to
Graham, I wasn't excluding him at all, and yet he says, “Oh hi, I thought you’d
forgotten about me, you know, your date.” I laughed and said, “Sorry, hadn't seen them since our college days!” He just rolled his eyes and mumbled
something about expecting me to pay more attention to him. Umm, seriously? I
order another drink and focus on trivia, telling myself that it will all be over soon. Did I mention he talks a lot? I forgot
to mention that he was also a know it all. We’d get questions that I knew like,
“What city is the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in?” I've been there, many times,
so I'd write down Cleveland, Ohio. He would get angry and tell me that he’s 100%
positive that I’m wrong, there is no Rock and Roll in Cleveland and would change the answer to something moronic, like L.A.. This happened with over half the questions and
every single time we got the question wrong. I was less than pleased-I was hoping to win the $50 bar tab.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s when my friend Faye walked in with some shitty news.
The show I’d worked on for a year at CBS had just gotten cancelled. Although I was no longer working on the show, I was still
close with the staff and felt horrible for them! I was devastated
and excused myself from the date to step outside to call one of the producers to see how he was holding up. We
chatted for a good ten minutes, he was touched that I'd called and vented about his future and supporting his family, etc. Maybe it was rude of me to call my friend while on a date, but it was important to me
and Graham was being a jerk. When I returned I was visibly upset as was Graham; he was pissed that I dared console a friend while on a date with him. Icing on
the cake was when he ordered his next drink, which he needed to make himself feel better about being ditched for ten minutes. Erin, the bartender who also
happened to be one of my close friends, was at the other end of the bar, you
know, serving drinks. Well Graham wanted a drink and apparently didn't want to
wait like a normal person, instead he snapped his fingers at her and said, “Barkeep,
yo barkeep, I need another.” She took one look at him, one look at me (pity in her eyes) and turned
her back to him and continued serving drinks at the other end of the bar. He was not
humored and got louder, demanding she serve him another drink. At this point I told him that
I was too upset about my friends show getting cancelled and wanted to call it a
night. We walked out together, he got on muni, I waved goodbye and I walked
back into the bar and finished trivia with my friends.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day I got a text from him apologizing for his
behavior the night before. He stated that he was acting like a horrible
<b>boyfriend </b>and should have been more comforting in my obvious time of need, then offered to come over if I needed a shoulder to cry on. Uh, <i>boyfriend</i>? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I told
him I appreciated the apology, but I don’t see us having a future. He was devastated
and asked me to reconsider, that he really didn't see this break up coming,
especially via text message.<o:p></o:p></div>
Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-61016533110755127982013-03-21T20:25:00.001-07:002013-03-21T20:25:54.242-07:00Dating Disaster #1<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe I’m just bored at work, or maybe the random blogs I
was killing time reading got in my head. Either way, I’m inspired to write;
which is exactly what I’m going to do.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the blogs I stumbled upon earlier highlighted the
writer’s disaster OKCupid date. As I read it I thought, I can totally top this.
Not only with a handful of horrific OKCupid dates, but with a bunch of other catastrophes
ranging from the “never should have met you again sober” to “I hate my friend
for thinking this blind was a good idea”. Therefore, this is the start of my
new blog series: Dating Disasters.\<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I guess I’ll begin with my OKCupid experience. I went on a
total of 3 dates from the popular dating website, each one was worse than the
previous one. Let’s start with the most recent, because it is fresh in my mind
and one of my worst dating experiences, of my life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me preface by saying that all of my OK experience happened
while still living in San Francisco. I have heard great things about the dating
website from friends around the country, including SF; unfortunately I did not
fare as well as they did. On one particularly rainy SF night, I was bored in my
room contemplating braving the rain and walking to my local dive bar for a
drink when I got an email from OK that I’d received a new message. It caught my
attention because it was sarcastic and the guy was decent looking in his
picture-plus he was Jewish which was a plus (for my mom more so than me); so I
decided to write him back. We chatted via email for a while, which helped pass
the time as it poured outside. Before I went to sleep, we exchanged phone
numbers and promised to text tomorrow. Wow, even as I write this I’m depressed
by how dependent I am on technology…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The following morning, I woke up to a “good morning” text,
aww, how sweet. I was convinced I’d found my soul mate. We spent the day
sending cute texts to each other-every chance I got at work I was in the back
room checking my phone and responding to one witty text after another. After a
few days of this we decided it was time to meet for drinks, so we made plans
for the following Friday. I was working until 10pm that night and chose a bar
nearby to meet him at, Gold Dust. For those of you who are familiar with SF,
you now know how long ago this date occurred-Gold Dust was still in business.
Man, I miss that bar.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ended up getting out of work a few minutes early and made
my way to the bar. I ordered a drink and started talking to two older women;
they had to be in their 60’s. They were on vacation and although they’d only
been there a night, they loved San Francisco. I told them that I was waiting
for a guy I’d met online, this made them giggle and we came up with a signal in
case he turned out to be a creep. It consisted of rubbing my nose frantically. I finished my drink and realized he was 10
minutes late. Rude. Not a great first impression. As I begin to bitch to my new
best friends, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I look up-not very far I might add,
he totally lied about his height-and finally looked face to face with the guy I’d
been texting for the last week. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hi! Melvin?” I asked, trying to sound coy. “No, I’m just some
random guy-um, yeah, Melvin,” followed by, “This place blows, let’s find somewhere
a little bit classier.” My new best friends immediately began frantically
rubbing their noses.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I told him I had to say goodbye to my friends and would meet
him outside. I assured them that I would be ok and told them it was probably just
too noisy, that he wanted somewhere quieter to talk. We exchanged numbers and
they told me to text them every half hour to ensure my safety.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After discussing where to go for a good five minutes and
getting harassed by four homeless people, we decided on Lefty O’Doul’s; well, I
decided on it, he wanted to go to the top of the Mark. I was not dressed for
it, nor could I afford a night of drinking at their rooftop bar, so I suggested
a “quiet bar” aka total dive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We found a table in the very back, away from all human
interaction and settled down to look at the drink menu. Seconds after sitting a
waitress came over to take our drink order and check our ID’s. I think I was
24, he was around 28. I handed her my ID and he says (I kid you not), “It looks
real, huh? I told her it was money well spent.” The waitress looked at me skeptically.
I assured her I was in fact over 24; she did not believe me. I explained that
he thought he was being funny, that it’s a first date and is probably just
trying to break the ice. She glared at me as if to say I wasn't going to get away
with lying on her watch, and then quizzed me on all of my personal information.
When she ran out of things to quiz, she left to get our drinks, but not before
stopping to confer with the bartender; thankfully, I’m an alcoholic and I like
to get to know my bartenders-he glanced over, waved, and assured her I was good
to serve. Melvin thought this whole ordeal was the funniest situation of his
life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I decided that he was simply nervous and passed off the
hellish “fake ID” crap as an immature attempt to make me laugh. We began
chatting about ourselves. He went to Harvard where he studied Business. He
hates his job but doesn’t want to go through the college crap again, so he’s
stuck suffering at a boring 9-5. He thought it was hot that I’m an intellectually
inferior Connecticut girl who only went to SF State. He was concerned that if things escalated
between us, romantically, he wouldn’t remember to dumb things down for me in
conversations. We’re only ten minutes into the date and he has made the
waitress doubt my age and insulted my intellect. The waitress comes by to see
how we’re doing. I down my drink and order another; her eyes clearly say, “I’m
so sorry you’re stuck on a date with this guy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Drink number two arrives (third of the night for me) and we
somehow begin discussing family. He tells me that for all he knows his family
is no longer alive. He left at 18 and never looked back. He hated his parents,
his mom for being fat and his dad for letting her eat. Women should only eat
lady-like things, like salad, but be able to cook well for their husbands. Was
this the same guy I’d been sending flirty texts to all week?! What the fuck was
happening?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m halfway through my drink when he asks how my relationship
with my family is. I tell him that we’re actually very close. I try to talk
with my mom daily. He looks at me life I’m a Martian and begins telling me how
little respect he has for me and the fact that I have a good relationship with
my family is insane. He tells me that it’s time to grow the fuck up and leave
my family behind; old things are meant to be things of the past. This was the
icing on the already shitty cake. I texted the women from earlier that I need
an escape. I lie and tell him I have to go help a friend. He offers to come
with. I tell him it’s a solo mission. He says that the night is still young (it
was 11pm at this point, yeah, I ended the date after 45 minutes) and suggests
that I help my friend then call him so we can still have fun. I lie and say I
have work early. He finally agrees to let me go, but insists on walking me to
my next destination. I couldn’t tell him I was going back to Gold Dust, so I
had him walk me to Muni. He bought a ticket and wanted to wait on the platform
with me until my train came. The creep wouldn’t leave me alone! So, I got on a
train, waved goodbye, rode the train one stop, hopped off and doubled back to
the bar where I hung out with the awesome older ladies for an hour, laughing
about what an idiot Melvin had been. I then grabbed a train home and called it
a night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The following morning I woke up to a text from him,
complaining that we hadn’t had sex the previous night. Seriously?!?! Did he
honestly think sex was on the table after I bailed on the date a 45 minutes? I
chose not to respond, mainly due to the fact that I was incredibly hung over
and typing into my phone made me feel nauseous, but also because he was a jerk.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He texted me again later that day, asking when I wanted to
hang out again; apparently he had a really great time, you know, putting me
down and criticizing every aspect of my life. I kindly responded that I felt we
were both in two very different places in our lives right now, and I just didn’t
see a future for us. He didn’t respond so I assumed I was done with him. Nope.
Never assume a happy ending with dealing with someone who is clearly a
psychopath. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few days passed and I heard nothing, I began to heal from
the trauma of the date from hell and even accepted a date with a guy I’d met at
a bar with friends (a story for another blog post, I promise). That was when
the daily texts began; each one more confusing that the last-I think he was
trying to drive me insane. The first simply read, “I know, right?”. I assumed
he had sent it to the wrong person and ignored it. The next day I got one that
read, “She did not wear those shoes with that shirt. Ewe.” At this point I
began to glance around myself to ensure he wasn’t following me, I thought maybe
he had become my own personal stalker. I didn’t notice him anywhere (who knows,
maybe he camouflaged) so I ignored it and went on with my day. The third text,
which came the third day read, “I don’t understand why fat people think it’s OK
to go out in public.” I’m assuming that one was a jab at his mom? Maybe they
finally had a reunion. Again, I ignored. Texts like these continued for 7 days,
each getting more detailed and targeting people or races. Finally I sent him a
text, apologizing if I hadn’t made myself clear before but I’m not interested
in pursuing any sort of relationship with him, romantic or platonic. I also
asked for him to please stop texting me, it’s inappropriate and has to stop.
His response? “Who is this?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did end up learning a very valuable lesson through the whole
ordeal: How to block someone’s number to prevent them from texting you in the
future. Yeah, there’s an app for that <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-26747343957941819722013-03-15T22:01:00.000-07:002013-03-15T22:01:26.857-07:00Clashing MannersI'm not sure if it's really "Manners" but for lack of a better word, that is this blog post's title.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Tonight I encountered a difficult situation and I can't decide whether or not I'm overreacting, perhaps it is simply that people on the West Coast were raised differently than those of us who hailed from the East Coast?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Here's what happened:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For those of you who don't know, I have move about 2 hours south of San Francisco and I am now the Director of Membership for a rather successful gym. With the new job title comes a whole lot of responsibility and a team of employees. Some are better than others, as is with any business.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A few nights ago, after sending the new schedule out, one of my employees comes into my office crying wondering why I cut her hours. I explained that she had a goal of 30 sales the previous month-she made 3. Representatives from other departments outsold her. She's been icy towards me ever since, this was mistake number one. She should be proving to me that she's an asset, not pouting and giving me, the boss, a cold shoulder.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I had today off. I went into work to take an exercise class and stuck around the extra half hour to help the team close. I was off the clock but felt this was the decent thing to do-it was only half an hour after all. Well, one member of the club was still there when we closed; she was waiting for her ride. We can't leave until everyone is out of the building. One of my new hires volunteers to stay; I mention that is anyone is going to stay alone it would have to be me. His reaction? He says, "OK, bye then" and clocks out. The problem employee follows suit. The only person who offered to stay was from a different department.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Moral of the story? Leaving me to close up the place alone, on my day off-not cool. Instead of getting angry though, I'm going to get even. The new hire is still on probation he has a 90 day trial period as is California law, so that one is easy. The problem child? Remember when she cried about getting cut hours? That was 15 to 12 hours. Can't wait to see the tears when she's cut from sales altogether.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yeah, don't give the boss attitude. Not when there are people lining up for your job, who will and can do it 100x better.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, venting aside, is this a Cali thing? I mean, at my old crappy retail job everyone ran out the door the second the manager told us we could clock out, I was always the last one out; I stayed to make sure the manager got out safely. There are some shady people out there. Was I simply raised better than people I've encountered or is this a Cali thing that I need to get used to? If it is a Cali thing, that's reason enough NOT to raise my future children here.</div>
Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-3138072030125609982013-01-20T15:21:00.001-08:002013-01-20T15:22:06.319-08:00As requested, another ghost story.Tomorrow marks week 3 of my new job. I get to finally meet the CEO of the company, interview someone that's a potential new hire and prep for representing the company at a health fair on Wednesday. All very exciting, but I'm still left with SO many questions and concerns. To get my mind off all of that, I decided a blog post is in order.<br />
<br />
For those of you not glued to the TV right now watching the 49ers game, this is for you.<br />
<br />
<br />
It’s no longer Halloween, or even close to it, yet I keep getting requests for more haunting stories. I guess people just don’t like reading about me venting. I don’t have any more personal ghost stories, so I’m going to write about sightings that happened to my friends!<br />
<br />
If you have a haunting you want me to write about, let me know. Maybe call me with the story and I’ll blog about it?<br />
<br />
So here goes friend ghost account #1:<br />
<br />
This is a story that hits somewhat close to home, emotionally and location wise, therefore names as well as minor changes will be made. This is to protect the family involved and will not affect the story-at all.<br />
<br />
As I have mentioned in past posts, the town I grew up in, in Connecticut, is a historic town with houses dating back to the first settlers. One such house belonged to a friend from pre-school, let’s call her Susan. Susan’s mom, Mrs. Smith, told me and my mom this story once and it has stuck with me for life.<br />
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The Smith’s lived in a large, historic home, with a plaque on the outside stating the date the house built and naming it a historic landmark, therefore alterations could never be made to the home. The Smith’s assumed the house had a great deal of history, but were unsure of previous tenants and/or events in the home. Shortly after moving in, Mrs. Smith gave birth to her first child, Sally. One day, Mrs. Smith was in the kitchen while Sally slept in her crib upstairs. Sally began to cry, which Mrs. Smith heard over the baby monitor. As any new mother would do, she dropped everything and ran upstairs to see what woke young Sally. As she neared the room, the crying stopped.When she walked into the nursery, a woman dressed as though she had just time traveled from 1806 stood over the crib looking fondly down on Sally. Mrs. Smith stopped in her tracks, unsure what to do and questioning her eyesight The woman glanced at her then turned and disappeared into the wall. Mrs. Smith checked on Sally and she seems happy and safe, so she wrote it off as lack of sleep playing tricks on her mind.<br />
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A couple of weeks later she once again found herself in a similar situation, she was downstairs when she heard Sally crying through the baby monitor. This time, when she rushed upstairs, she found the woman cradling the baby, who had since stopped crying. Mrs. Smith was terrified to find the same woman with her hands in the crib comforting Sally. Protection mode set in and Mrs. Smith yelled at the woman to leave. The woman looked up and as her eyes met Mrs. Smith's a feeling of hatred washed over the living woman. She stared with hatred, then again turned and walked into the wall and disappeared.<br />
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Mrs. Smith was rattled. She decided to research the house’s history and previous tenants; she was particularly interested in learning about anyone who may have died in her home. After tirelessly searching through records at the local library she found a clipping dating back to the early 1800’s. It was a small blurb about a young woman who lived in the home and died during childbirth. Nothing too newsworthy, especially seeing as deaths during childbirth were common at that time. Convinced this was her ghost, Mrs. Smith returned home and prepared for an encounter every time Sally cried, but the haunt did not return to Sally's bedside.<br />
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Now fast forward a couple of years, Mrs. Smith has given birth to her second daughter, Mary. Mrs. Smith had forgotten about the ghostly woman as she ran upstairs to tend her crying baby, but just as before, the crying stopped and the woman was calming the baby; and as before she looked at Mrs. Smith with hatred in her eyes. She appeared more frequently with Mary’s birth, maybe half a dozen times; always appearing to comfort the baby when she needed it the most. She kept to gently "touching" the baby's cheeks or standing and staring down. Just as before, she stopped showing up with time. Mrs. Smith did not like her being there, but felt that as long as the ghost's hatred was directed toward her, her children had a guardian angel watching over them at home.<br />
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A couple of years later Mrs. Smith gave birth to her third and final child, Susan. This time around, the ghost made sure her presence was known. She paced the nursery floor as Susan slept and walked the halls at night. Mrs. Smith described dark feelings directed towards her, accompanied by looks filled with rage and pure hatred. She described a dark feeling in the pit of her stomach, like the ghost would stop at nothing to get rid of her. She remained longer than she had with either of the other children. As Susan began to talk, she even mentioned the lady in black, as if it was a perfectly natural sight.<br />
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Eventually, she stopped coming around, but the uneasy feeling accompanied Mrs. Smith every time she was alone in her home; so she tried to limit her time at home. As time went on, she would comment on the feeling of gloom following her from her home to work. She couldn't explain it, but felt like the ghost was with her at all times, angry at her for some odd reason.<br />
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If it was the ghost from the article, perhaps she thought Susan was her baby; or felt she was robbed of motherhood. Whatever her reasoning, it did not justify her hatred of Mrs. Smith.<br />
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As Susan went off to college, Mrs. Smith hoped the spirit would finally be at peace. She took a business trip with a colleague, the first time she'd been away from home in years. On her last night away, as the ladies drove to the airport to come home, a drunk driver hit them and Mrs. Smith died on the spot.<br />
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Maybe it was just a dark coincidence, but she always spoke of this dark cloud following her wherever she went. Many who knew her and had heard her story believe the ghost wouldn't let her come home.<br />
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She will always be missed.Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-6709167914216782232013-01-12T11:16:00.001-08:002013-01-12T11:16:24.513-08:00Moved for a better view of the West Coast<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
This about sums up my life right now, in a nutshell: new
job, new home, new life, even a new bed. To quote the MacDonald’s slogan, “I’m loving
it”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
"Like:" my new job's Facebook page! <a href="https://www.facebook.com/PeninsulaWellnessCenter?ref=hl" target="_blank">Peninsula Wellnesss Center Facebook</a><br />
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It’s about time. I was really starting to hit a slump in San
Francisco. I was doing the same thing, day after day. I would wake up late,
around 11am, shower, get dressed, brush my teeth and occasionally my hair then
head to the corner to catch muni. 80% of the time there was an issue with
muni-I don’t mean to sound cruel but I swear that every single time someone
decided to traumatize a muni driver and jump in front of a train, it would
happen minutes before my commute to work. Therefore, I would leave an hour
early to prepare for the possibility of jumpers or “technical difficulties”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Once I would finally make it downtown, I would grab a bite
to eat then head up to H&M. Every time I walked into that store a tiny bit
of my soul tried to escape, ultimately failed, and died. My co-workers, for the
most part, were fine. There was one who was convinced that because she is
black, she can’t be racist, therefore she was evil towards white people, but
she was one crappy person out of maybe 50. Not too bad. It was the customers
who kicked my butt. Why do people think
it’s OK to treat other human beings like shit? I can deal with people not hanging
up their garments after trying them, it’s a pain in ass, but it’s manageable. I
can’t deal with assholes coming out and dropping their clothes on the floor or
demanding I help them immediately (If another customer got there before you,
they get helped first, that’s just human etiquette). I also was over the
assholes yelling at me over the state sanctioned $0.10 bag tax. Come on people,
if you have such a huge issue with spending 10 cents on a bag, reuse old ones
or buy a reusable one, but don’t shoot the fucking messenger. I had nothing to
do with the tax. I didn't say, “that girl is ugly, I’m going to charge her 10
cents”, although I thought it; I simply enforced the new law. On that note, if
you’re pissed off about a company policy, don’t yell at the employees call
corporate and yell at them. Employees don’t make the fucking rules. We simply
enforce them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I was in Walgreens the other night and watched as a man made
an employee cry, because he was too stupid to understand the wording on the
sign. It said something about buying two 80 count bottles of Tylenol cold and
getting $5 off. He bought regular Tylenol and bitched that the word cold was
small and misleading and demanded $5 off. She explained that is was only for
that one type of Tylenol. He proceeded
to call her an incompetent bitch and went off on not only how misleading the
sign was and how “horrible” walgreens is, he also told her that she was purposely
targeting him because he was an attractive male (he was 50-something, balding
and had a beer belly-he was dead serious about thinking he was hot shit). He
told her to get over not being the “popular” girl in high school. He finished
by telling her to look around, that this was the best her life would be; then
stormed out of the store. She tried to keep her composure, but seconds later
she called for a break and ran to the backroom crying; all because the fat
idiot couldn't read the sign properly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I had a dollar for all the jerks who spoke to me like
that, I’d probably have a few thousand bucks. Nothing too amazing, but enough
to buy myself a pretty present. And yes, there were a few that made me cry.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I like to think that Karma will come back and push all of those
assholes in front on muni trains, but then again, that would mean someone else
would be late for work as a result.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
In conclusion, I cannot express how happy I am to no longer
have to deal with the low-life customers at H&M. I’m also thrilled to longer
have the nickname “clear bitch”. I think this new chapter of my life will be a
positive one. More to come as I get used to life away from San Francisco.<o:p></o:p></div>
Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-22602573924012964382012-10-08T23:54:00.001-07:002012-10-08T23:55:15.892-07:00West Coast HauntingThe theme of my blog, as decided for a class in college, in how the two coasts clash. One thing that doesn't necessarily clash, is haunting's. When I moved to California I heard stories of haunted Spanish Missions and ghost spotting's at army barracks. I was intrigued, but too caught up in the party scene in Santa Barbara to really care.<br />
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My second year in SB I lived in a house on the beach, on the biggest party street in Isla Vista; Del Playa, with 11 other people. We partied hard. One roommate in particular took the partying to a whole new level. When I first met her, the previous year while still living in the dorms, she was on the shy side and had a boyfriend back home in the Bay Area. When we moved into the house, she moved into a bedroom with two other girls. She took the loft while the other two shared space on the floor. I lucked out with my own room downstairs.</div>
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Shortly after moving into the house, I noticed a few changes in the girl in the loft. She became more outspoken and let loose when partying. She even began to cheat on her boyfriend. It got to the point where if she wasn't having sex, it seemed like she wasn't happy. Nymphomania at it's finest, or at least that's what I assumed. It got to the point where she began sleeping with roommates, (the house was made up of four girls and 8 guys). Her personality really darkened and it seemed like she was in a downhill spiral out of control. At one point her boyfriend even flew into town to surprise her, she acted as though she could care less. I was even the one who picked him up at the airport because she was "too busy".</div>
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When December rolled around, she went home to visit her family and never returned. We never received an explanation, but I have my theories. That's when strange things began to happen to one of the other girls living in the bedroom.</div>
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The first week back from December break, one of the girls, lets calls her Malory, woke up in the middle of the night and spotted her roommate, lets call her Carrie, standing by the porch door staring out at the ocean. Malory mumbled to Carrie to go back to bed. Carrie grunted from her bed across the room. When Malory looked back at the porch doors there was no one there, so she chalked it up as dreaming and went back to bed.</div>
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About a week later, Malory woke up in the middle of the night once again, only this time Carrie was standing at the foot of her bed. Again she told her to go back to bed only this time Carrie woke up asking what Malory wanted. Malory looked away for one second, but upon looking back the figure was gone. Carrie saw nothing; but we discussed the matter in the morning agreeing that Malory was having very weird and vivid dreams.</div>
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A few weeks passed and nothing happened. Just as Malory began to forget about her nightmares the most vivid encounter occurred. She was woken in the middle of the night when she felt a tugging on the bottom of her bed sheet. When she woke up she noticed a blonde girl, who greatly resembled Carrie at the foot of her bed seemingly tugging on the sheet. She glanced at Carrie's bed and saw her in bed in a sound sleep. When she looked back the girl was practically on top of her, looking angry with what Malory described as crazed eyes. She screamed, waking Carrie and half of the guys in the house. No one else saw the figure, but Malory was shaking and clearly terrified.</div>
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The next day we researched how to get in touch with this figure who was clearly haunting Malory. We then I took a trip to State Street where I purchased a Ouija board and Carrie bought candles. At midnight that evening we lit the candles in a pentagram shape, to protect us from evil as the directions we found online said to do, and recited some poem about keeping our circle safe from those who might harm us. It was like we stepped out of a scene in <i>Now and Then</i>.</div>
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We started with basic questions getting yes and no answers. Yes it was the girl who haunted Mal, no it would not show itself to all of us, etc. Eventually, Carrie and I got bored and looked at each other from across the board signally that this was silly. We both removed our fingers, as lightly as we possibly could. Malory was frightened and had her eyes shut through most of the game and now was no exception. As I opened my mouth to say we should call it quits, the game-piece began to move. It spelled, "7 up". Carried joked and asked if the ghost was thirsty. Again it spelled, "7 up". We were at a loss as to what this could mean and Malory was the only one with a finger on the board, yet her eyes were closed and she looked away from the board every time it began to move. No way she had that kind of precision.</div>
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We declared that we simply didn't understand and the board spelled, "Go up 7". Again we asked it to explain and it repeated, "Go up 7". Carried suddenly gasped. There were seven pegs on the ladder leading up to the loft that formerly housed out friend. We excitedly asked if that's what it was referring to, it shot to yes. I then asked if the ghost we were talking to was up there. It shot to No. I asked if the ghost we were talking to was trying to hurt us, again No. I then asked if the ghost in the loft was trying to hurt us. The game stopped responding. After a few minutes, I decided to go up to the loft. I began to climb the stairs and swear it got colder the closer to the top I ascended. I felt as though there was a dark shape in the corner, but convinced myself it was my mind playing tricks on me. I assumed there would be a ghost so my mind created one. I started to take one more step up when I was overcome with a feeling of anger and hate. Like, whatever was up there was pissed off and did not want me entering. I quickly climbed down and we decided to call it quits for the night.</div>
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We blew out the candles, packed up the game and decided to go down to the kitchen for something to eat. Malory flicked on the hall light to illuminate our way. Instead of turning on, the light made a popping sound and burst into flames.</div>
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*Needless to say, the girls slept in my room that night. The male roommates put out the small and very contained fire, but that light never worked again. The ghost who woke Malory up was never seen again.</div>
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--I think the roommate who lived in the loft was possessed. Or maybe she got pregnant from all the sex she had. Who knows?</div>
Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-91541946894775075012012-10-03T03:20:00.001-07:002012-10-03T03:20:20.041-07:00East Coast Haunting #2As promised, here's the second installment of my ghost adventures.<br />
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This haunting, like the last one, occurred in Connecticut; only this one happened in Waterbury, specifically a section of the town called Watertown, but that's like saying The Inner Sunset when describing the Sunset in San Francisco. If you've never been, which I'm guessing most of my readers haven't, it's a cute town that looks a lot like every other town in Connecticut complete with historic graveyards and haunted houses. When I was in elementary school, truthfully, I don't remember which grade-I'm guessing third, so let's assume I was nine years old-my class took a field-trip to historic Waterbury to learn about Connecticut history and see how people lived in the early settlement days. Our first stop was a historic home that was still set up as it would have been in the early 1800's.<br />
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Our tour guide was deep in character, she spoke with an accent, dressed in a petticoat and acted as though quilt's were the world's greatest accomplishment. My eyes were beginning to glaze over when we entered a bedroom. It was small, there were a few beds inside and a doll in the corner. The guide explained that this is where the family slept. The whole family. In one room. The entire class was in a tizzy discussing the idea of sharing a room with their entire family, discussing snoring and annoying siblings, but not me. I was drawn to the doll in the corner of the bedroom. It was away from the beds, which struck me as odd. I wandered closer to the doll which caught the guides attention. She came up close, away from the other kids, and spoke in her normal voice to me. It was along the lines of, "Aw, you noticed the doll. That doll belonged to a little girl who lived here. In those days, when little children got sick, many of them never recovered. We'll be visiting her grave when we go to the cemetery." It was spooky and probably not something she should have told a nine year old little girl, but I was fascinated. As we moved on to the next room I never took my eyes off the doll. It captivated all of my attention.<br />
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Soon after, we left the historic house and our guide took us to the cemetery across the street. It was a beautiful Connecticut day. The sun was shining, there a barely any clouds in the sky and zero wind, perfect for wandering around a cemetery. The guide pointed out tombstones that were believed to be from the late 1700's but the dates were too faded to determine. As she gave us history lessons on some of the grave styles and family plots, I discreetly picked flowers. They were mainly those little purple violets that grow likes weeds all over Connecticut with a few Dandelions for a splash of yellow.<br />
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I had picked a pretty sizable bouquet when we made it to the family plot of the home we had just visited. The guide told pointed out each tombstone and made sure to look at me as she mentioned the little girl's headstone. As the class took turns looking and moving on, I made my way to the little girl's grave. I placed the bouquet of flowers on top and took a second to take in the scene. There was a little girl my age buried there. That really hit a nerve.<br />
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When I came back to reality I realized my class was gone. I mean gone. I couldn't see them anywhere! I began to panic and cry. I was standing in the middle of a cemetery gasping for air through my tears in an utter state of panic when out of no where I found myself surrounded by a gust of wind and began to get chilled. Through the wind I heard a little girl's voice say, "They're over the hill." It was crystal clear, as though someone was standing next to me, speaking into my ear. As soon as I heard the words the wind disappeared and the numb panic I was feeling began to subside. I followed the directions of the wind and walked up over a hill to spot my class and a very worried tour guide and classmates. I re-joined them and was scolded to staying behind.<br />
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Shortly after we went home and I told my parents about the field trip. My parents urged me to research Waterbury and the little girl. Computers were far from what they are today, when I was nine, so I had to go to the local library and look through history books about Waterbury, Connecticut. I think my parents assumed I wouldn't find anything, get bored and move onto a topic other than ghosts. Instead I found a few "real life ghost encounter" books mentioning a little girl ghost in Waterbury. I obsessed over this for a while, begging my parents to take me back to Waterbury, but it was almost two hours away and they were not playing into my "haunted" fantasy. Over time, I began to focus on other things and slowly forgot my ghost encounter.<br />
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Now fast-forward seven years. When I turned 16, like every other teen I was eager to get my driver's licence. I took a driver's ed class, got 100% on the written exam, arrived to take my test and was told I had to use a driver's ed car, not my parent's car. I had only ever driven my parents car. The driver's ed car had a brake that stuck and a broken rear view mirror. The man administering the test clearly had an upset stomach and did not want to be there. When I got in the car, he asked me if I was Latina I nervously replied, "No, Jewish." I'm pretty sure that was when he decided to fail me. I swear I drove like a pro, but he marked me down every time I hit the break. For the record, 12 students took the test that day. The only one who passed was a true Latina chick from Guatemala. The rest of us failed.<br />
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I instantly called the DMV and tried to get a real appointment, asap. They had one opening, the following Saturday, but it was in Waterbury, Connecticut. No problem. My parents let me drive the entire way to the DMV. We even followed a driver taking their test and took a few practice laps before the test. I knew that shit cold. When the tester called my name, I cold feel her hating me already. The first thing she asked was why a Greenwich girl was taking my test so far from home. My heart sank but I reminded myself that I was a good driver and had no reason not to pass. We got in the car, my parents car, and I began to drive. I was doing great! I stayed in the center of the lane, I counted to three in my head at each stop, I used my signals; then she asked me to turn left. This wasn't on our practice lap. I turned my left signal on and swallowed hard. I could do this. I counted to three at the stop sign, looked both ways and pulled into the intersection. I pressed the gas and began to acceleration when a little girl appeared in the middle of the road. She looked pissed. I slammed on the breaks, terrified. I blinked. There was no little girl. The tester was smirking, she had ever pulled the emergency break to ensure I wouldn't drive as she documented the situation. I took in my surroundings and realized I was smack in the middle of a deserted road between a historic house and a cemetery. Every ghostly memory came flooding back to me.<br />
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Needless to say, I failed the test; but I didn't care. I wanted to know why the little girl was pissed. I pondered that the entire ride home as my parents let into me about failing an official driving test. For the record, I re-took the test a few weeks later and the tester told me I was a fantastic driver and that the lady in Waterbury was known for nitpicking, he made me feel much better about my driving skills.<br />
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I still ponder why she was pissed at me and why I had such a strong connection with her. Maybe she was angry because I grew up? Or maybe because I never went back to visit? Maybe I knew her in a past life? I'll probably never know; but I do know that it still makes me feel empty when I think about how young she was when she died. One of these days I'll take a trip back to Waterbury just to put a bouquet of flowers on her grave.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J7dzBKW_l1M/UGwQzUiAYQI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/IIZ0Djdr0H8/s1600/weed+arrangement+a.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J7dzBKW_l1M/UGwQzUiAYQI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/IIZ0Djdr0H8/s320/weed+arrangement+a.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.designdreamsjapan.com/2012/04/weeds.html">Flowers much like the one's I put on the little girl's grave...</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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P.S. Now that the internet exists, it's much easier to find proof: <a href="http://www.ghostsofamerica.com/0/Connecticut_Watertown_ghost_sightings4.html">http://www.ghostsofamerica.com/0/Connecticut_Watertown_ghost_sightings4.html</a></div>
<br />Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-49449923518593088762012-09-28T01:40:00.000-07:002012-10-03T03:37:47.999-07:00East Coast Haunting #1It's almost October, the stores have been selling Halloween decorations for weeks and Pumpkin Lattes are finally being offered at Starbucks. This time of year always makes me want to curl up in bed to watch a good Halloween movie, like Hocus Pocus or Halloweentown. It also makes me thing of Ghosts and the supernatural world. Lucky for me, Hollywood has helped offering a surplus of vampire movies and ghost shows. I was watching Ghost Adventurers tonight and realized that the ghost encounters I've had throughout my lifetime, thus far, are equally as spooky as those they chose to highlight on the show. That said, or written, I've decided now is a good a time as any to document my ghost experiences. So, for the next few posts I will be going into detail about the various ghost encounters I have had in my lifetime. You can take from them what you will and whether or not you believe them is up to you; but I promise every word is true and in almost every case I have witnesses to vouch for the validity.<br />
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The first encounter occurred when I was around six or seven years old. I grew up in a historic town in Connecticut with cemeteries dating back to the first settlers to came over on the Mayflower. A handful of the homes have plaques naming them historical landmarks and many of the residents are direct ancestors of the Mayflower settlers. My neighbor, Wendy, was one of those decedents and her home was on the verge of being named historic, sadly she let it fall into horrible disrepair. Everyone has that house growing up that the kids dub the "witch's house". That was Wendy's house. I grew up going over to her house to drop things off for my mom and to climb through the window when poor old Wendy locked herself out, so in my eyes it was just an old house.<br />
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One night I was in my bathroom brushing my teeth when I got this odd feeling, like someone was watching me from Wendy's house, so I pulled the blinds up and looked out. Across the way in Wendy's bedroom window was a man in a black suit, staring back at me. His stare was cold, almost a glare but not quite, just very intense. I ran and got my mom but by the time she got to the window he was gone. She told me I was just tired and whisked me off to bed. In the morning she called Wendy who told her at that time both her and her husband were watching TV in the Living Room. I was spooked, but it was dismissed.<br />
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About a month later Wendy and her husband went on vacation for a week and I was asked to water the plants and feed her cat, Shasta. I had done this many times before with my sister and it was a big deal for me to be asked to do it alone, so of course I jumped at the opportunity. Wendy left me detailed directions, explaining that to save on heat costs all the doors were to remain shut and telling me not to feel bad if Shasta ignored me, she didn't like strangers. Seemed easy enough. The first two days went great, by the third day Shasta had even warmed up to me and let me pet her. On the fourth day I sat in Wendy's big comfy chair and Shasta jumped up and curled up in my lap. I was calm and thrilled to have to "evil" cat like me. I even let my guard down, forgetting about the scary man from the window. Big mistake. As I cuddled with Shasta I suddenly heard a creak on the floorboards above us and a door slam shut. Strange, I thought all the doors were already closed. The door slam was followed by more creaking, in the master bedroom. I gulped, Shasta jumped off my lap and ran upstairs. I slowly followed her upstairs calling out "hello" as I went. Shasta was pawing at the master bedroom door trying to get in. I kept yelling things like, "my daddy is big and he'll fight you" but got no answer. I opened the door and no one was there. Shasta stayed by my side as we went downstairs together, content that it was an old house and must have been in our heads. That's when I heard more creaking and what sounded like someone running across the room. I freaked. I ran home and got my Mom. She assured me there was nothing to be afraid of, that old houses creaked, that was normal. She made me go back upstairs with her. I was shaking the entire time. When she opened the bedroom door the window was open and glass of cold orange juice sat on the windowsill. I know for a hundred percent fact the window was tightly closed and there was no glass there earlier. She chuckled and told me Wendy must have left the door open and the wind must have slammed it shut. The glass was still cold from the cold air outside. I was terrified. I knew the room was not as I had left it earlier. My mom closed the window and brought the cup down the kitchen explaining that she didn't want Wendy to come home to ants. We then went back to my house.<br />
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When we got to my front door, it was locked. Neither of us remembered locking it in our rush; luckily we had a key hidden under the mat. As my mom put the key in the lock and began to turn it, the key broke clean in half in the lock. As we knocked on the front door and waited for my dad to come open the door, I looked up at Wendy's bedroom window. I swear a man was looking down at us. I told my mom to look, but all she saw was a curtain moving ever so slightly.<br />
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I refused to return to the house the remaining three days to water the plants, so my parents took turns doing it for me. Neither had a ghostly encounter. When Wendy returned from her vacation she thanked me for watering the plants and feeding Shasta, but told my mom, rather annoyed, that she thought she had made herself clear about staying out of her bedroom. When they returned home they found a glass of orange juice on the windowsill and the window was wide open.<br />
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<br />Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-33302407846801478692012-05-12T15:06:00.003-07:002012-05-12T15:07:10.063-07:00Mother'sIt has been forever since my last post, and today's topic will seem like a stretch for the overall blog theme, but it's on my mind and I need to share.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and my Mom! Happy Mother's Day!</td></tr>
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Mother's day is tomorrow. Mother's day is one of those days that I find myself envying my friends who get to spend the day with their loved ones. I am super close with my mom; we try to talk on the phone once a day, she gives me stellar advice and she claims she doesn't judge me when I tell her my crazy California stories. That's the problem though, my life is in California, her's in on the opposite coast in Connecticut. This makes me homesick and often times sad. To counteract these emotions I try to remember the annoying things she has asked me to do, pulling the whole, "I'm your Mom, I know best" card. Well, earlier today, while stalking-er-browsing through- my 1000+ friends on Facebook I came across one I was certain I had unfriended thanks to my mother. Now that I'm ahead of myself, let me give you the back-story:<br />
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Everyone seems to have that childhood forced friendship, you know the type, your mom's are friends therefore you are stuck playing with each other at least once a week. You seem to be best friends until you get older and realize that you in fact have nothing in common, other than your parent's friendship. This is when you start to protest play dates and develop friendship's all on your own. Well, like everyone else, I had one of those, or so I'm told. Let's call her Lynnette, her real name is one of those unusual ones that you would probably think I'm making up anyway so Lynnette she is. I don't really remember playing with her as a child, but I do remember the day I told my Mom I didn't like her. I was at a fancy dinner with my parents and sister and we ran into her with her parents, truthfully I can't remember if her sister was there, but honestly, who cares? It was a restaurant we had been to many times and I had gotten to know some of the wait staff. They were nice to me and gave me cookies. The magician even turned my normal sized penny into a tiny one and let me keep the tiny one. I was in heaven every time we at at said restaurant. Well when we finished our meals our parents began to chat, telling us to go play (it was a very kid friendly place). We complied and were having fun until the magician came by to say goodbye. Lynette looked disgusted and as soon as he left asked me why I was friends with the help. That was it for me, I hated her and everything she stood for from that day fourth and I refused to play with her again in the future.<br />
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Thankfully we went to different elementary school's and in the six years apart I forgot she existed. When I entered middle school I had zero recollection of the brat from my youth but I encountered her again in band class when she proudly showed off her sterling silver trumpet, a gift from her parents. Plain old brass just wasn't enough. I went home and complained about this obnoxious girl who thought she was better than the world. My mom explained that she was the very girl I hated in my youth and decided to call her mom up and catch up. She tried to re-force a friendship, but I was older and wiser and refused. Lynette was constantly in a rival position throughout school from band to theater in high school. We both went out for the part of Lily in Annie during a school production, and both landed the part, being forced to alternate and share a wig and costume. She would complain to her friends that my boobs were too big and would stretch out the chest of the dress. I would complain to my friends that her gut made me sick. When I saw her outside of school with one of my various boyfriends she would call me a slut, when in reality I was still a virgin she was the one who lost it to some random guy simply because he told her she was "cute". This behavior went on until graduation, her always trying to put me down and one up me. In her eyes, I was the "help". In my eyes, she was a bitch, because that was the reality.<br />
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Then I moved to California for college. She went to some top-tier school on the east coast, but I had the balls to pack up and leave everyone and everything behind for a new state on the opposite side of the country. I finally won. I even ran into her one visit home and she gushed to her new friends that I was a childhood friend visiting from <i>California</i>, "how cool is that" she asked her dumbfounded friends. But I didn't care, I hated her in youth and I still hated her in adulthood. I would never get past her "help" comment at age five.<br />
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Last year our mom's ran into each other at the farmer's market (well, what Connecticut considers a farmer's market). Her mom told mine that Lynette was moving to San Francisco, that she had always dreamed of it and was deciding to make it happen. Funny choice, seeing as it's my city now. My mom told her I love it and thought Lynette would too. A few weeks later Lynette's mom called mine explaining that Lynette was miserable, she had no friends, hated the weather and was calling her crying daily. She begged my mom to give me her email address to reach out to her. I still hated Lynette but I would do anything for my mom so I agreed to drop her an email. This is what I said:<br />
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"Hey! I guess our mom's ran into each other and I'm told you just moved to SF. I've been living her for a few years now. I know it can be a big adjustment from the east coast so if you have any questions or need anything, let me know! Maybe we can grab a cup of coffee sometime and catch up?"<br />
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Her response can be summed up in a few words, although it was much longer and insulting, I'm pretty sure you can use your imagination. My summary is this: You live in SF? That's reason enough to move back to CT.<br />
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Morale of the story? Tomorrow is mother's day, and I love mine with all my heart, but next time she asked me to get all buddy-buddy with one of her friend's obnoxious children I'm refusing!<br />
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Happy Mother's Day to all those mother's out there! I hope you children's forced friendships turn out better than mine did!Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-59117367479586517792012-02-02T16:52:00.000-08:002012-02-02T16:52:40.598-08:00Clashing Weather?Graduating from college seemed to have left me with the desire to talk instead of keep this blog updated. Sorry.<div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.guamsustainableag.org/knowingyourcrops.html">http://www.guamsustainableag.org/knowingyourcrops.html</a> </td></tr>
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</div><div>Due to the recent "heat-wave" in San Francisco I felt the urge to write. Today it is in the high 60's in Sf, surprisingly warm weather for early February. It's in the high 40's in New York, also unseasonably warm for this time of year. For once, the coasts seem to be on the same page! </div><div><br />
</div><div>As happy as I am to walk to West Portal and work up a sweat from the sun, I am forced to ask, what is all this warm weather doing to our crops?! When I lived in Santa Barbara and worked for a small local TV station I worked on a weekly story about the agriculture in the county. We went from farm to farm learning about crops and livestock from broccoli to cattle. Across the line the farmers used to express their concerns with the weather. Unusually cold seasons meant their crops would freeze and die off, leading to a price increase at the local markets. Unusually warm weather lead to either sped up growing or rotting fruits and vegetables, ultimately resulting in certain crops being available for a short time, too early in the season. Generally, the livestock farmers were in better shape.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Last year was unusually cold, there was blizzard after blizzard that hit the farms in the deep south and blanketed the east coast. Remember the videos from North Carolina last year? I still shudder when I think of those poor animals that were stuck outside in the snow because their owners weren't use to such a heavy snowfall! Thanks to the excess snow, there was a limited selection of crops in the various markets and prices shot up. Imports from places like Mexico were deemed unsafe in some places because they were watered with "dirty" water. Pumpkins were a rarity around Halloween because they just didn't grow right. All-in-all, it was a disaster.</div><div><br />
</div><div>This begs the question, what's in store for us this year? Jacked-up prices? Rotten fruits? We desperately need a solution to global warming.</div></div>Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-58964815909437399002011-04-27T23:26:00.000-07:002011-04-27T23:26:50.383-07:00Clashing PunchesI have learned quite a bit about California over the last six years of living in the beautiful state. I’ve learned how to dress, what to order in a restaurant and what’s in season at the farmers market; but I have yet to learn how to fight like a Californian. Three years ago, while living in Santa Barbara I got into a drunken altercation with a feisty girl who was struggling to break into my home. I watched her trying to break open a window, attempt to pick the front door lock and as she began to climb the side of my house to get in through an upstairs window I walked outside to confront her. I asked her if I could help her with something. She chose not to respond but instead tried to shove past me into my home. At this point, one of my roommates returned home as did one of her friends whom I later surmised was her boyfriend. I blocked the entry to my home with my body as the three stood outside.<o:p></o:p> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“Move,” she slurred, “You’re in my fucking way.”<o:p></o:p></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“This is my house,” I answered, “I’ll move if you tell me why you’re trying to break into my house.”<o:p></o:p></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">In hindsight, I was a little drunk and probably should have just locked myself in a bedroom and called the cops, but like I said, I was a little drunk. She never answered my inquiry but announced that if I don’t move she was going to physically make me move. <o:p></o:p></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I responded by saying, “Listen bitch, I’m from New York. Do you know what that means? Don’t mess with a New Yorker. We have fighting in our blood.”<o:p></o:p></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">At this, she turned as if she was walking away but her boyfriend was pushing my roommate and blocking her path, so she turned back and swung at me. Maybe she put on brass knuckles, maybe she had a sharp ring on her finger or maybe I’m weaker than I thought, but the blow made my eyebrow begin to gush blood. When she saw this, her and her boyfriend ran from the scene, never to be seen again. The following day I had a black eye and my pre-med roommate made me go to the emergency room where I got six stitches.<o:p></o:p></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I realized that day that east coasters have a much different way of fighting than west coasters. On the east coast, we are physical fighters. We get in each other’s faces and yell. Here on the west coast people seem to take the passive approach. They seem to avoid fights at all costs, even if it means ending a friendship over it.<o:p></o:p></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Personally, I prefer the east coast technique, but I’m probably biased.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I still have no clue why that crazy drunk girl was trying to break into my house.<o:p></o:p></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwXHTPnrPxy5UZX0K7g_HMYgeeIcu3Xyt0dpiProd9qxvevRwfCBCB0yslYoHLWWgeuenv_NlJPMHSod8JRYQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-72050709756511352602011-04-27T21:50:00.000-07:002011-04-28T08:30:59.842-07:00Dialect Clash<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwScg_8urcwsXrUZN91OWlcNd-9smJU1xIbgdZ_4Vr1xl2ZjFSAS6uZjiWLhytFHcLutg4M6XB21dtseuE3Kw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><u>Your dialect clashes with mine<o:p></o:p></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I have been living in California for six years now but I still maintain the same dialect I had when I made the move in 2005. I know, shocking, right? Believe it or not I don’t speak like I just stepped out of Jersey Shore nor do I drop the letter “r” in my speech. If I had a car, I would park it, not pawk it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I can’t begin to tell you how frustrated I am with the idiots who just can’t get over how quickly I lost my east coast accent. Newsflash: I grew up speaking the same dialect as 90% of Californians. I have learned that certain parts of California have southern (as in the Deep South, not southern California) accents, but you don’t see me asking them if they grew up in Georgia? No, that would be rude.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">As soon as I tell someone that I grew up on the east coast I notice their eyes start to glaze over with confusion as they ask me how long I’ve lived in California. When I explain that I moved west for college I get an almost identical responses each time, “But, you don’t talk like an east coaster.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">What does that even mean? How can someone talk like an entire coast? Have these people ever even been to the east coast? Most of the time, no, they’re just going off of the stereotypes they see on TV. It’s starting to become a joke among my closer friends, but the reality is, it’s no joke. It’s incredibly aggravating.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Someone needs to make an accurate TV show, set on the east coast, with no accents. I’d watch it.<o:p></o:p></div><br />
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</div>Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-80022319147261616822011-03-02T22:25:00.000-08:002011-03-02T22:25:30.274-08:00Apparently Red and White ClashI know little to nothing about wine. I confirmed this earlier tonight a lovely little wine bar with a couple of friends. The owner/waiter asked me what type of wine I prefer, I answered white. He smiled and asked me crisp or flavorful? I thought this over for a minute and decided that flavorful sounded a little bit more appetizing, so I went with that option. The wine he brought me was tasty, but to be honest, I could barely tell the difference between the ten dollar glass I was served and the two dollar bottles of two buck chuck that I buy at Trader Joe's. This got me thinking, is my lack of wine knowledge stem from where I grew up?<br />
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Don't get me wrong, I have friends on the east coast who love wine and know what seems like everything there is to know about the fruity alcoholic beverage. I for one am not one of those people. On the east coast I learned about art, music, snow and how to mix a strong cocktail. My friends here on the west coast can tell the difference between wine from Northern California and wine made in Central Valley. This makes me wonder, is my lack of wine knowledge due to the fact that I grew up on the east coast? Any thoughts?<span id="goog_1626991556"></span><span id="goog_1626991557"></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/"></a>Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6404422950319066999.post-33961642326449393412011-03-02T18:18:00.000-08:002011-03-02T18:18:45.084-08:00Clashing EqualityThis might be a somewhat controversial post, and to be honest, I'm not sure how I could possibly provide visual examples. This is a topic that has been on my mind recently and I feel compelled to write about it: civil union-ship, also known as Same Sex Marriage.<br />
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Yesterday, I was talking to a particularly close minded individual who asked me if was difficult growing up on such a conservative coast. I asked him to elaborate on what he meant and he said, "You know, all the conservative jerks, you can't smoke pot there you know." I'm guessing that he was referring to the fact that Marijuana is practically legal in California. I mean any "sick" person and go out and get a card allowing them to legally purchase weed. In other aspects, the east coast is massively more liberal than the west. For one big thing, marriage is legal for all in both New York and my home state, Connecticut. I know that this is a sore point among many in San Francisco due to the recent failed passing of Prop. 8, but the fact of the matter is, same sex marriage is legal in many of the states on the east coast. I would argue that this bill alone makes the east coast somewhat more liberal than the west coast.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://suttonhoo.blogspot.com/2008/12/his-husband.html">http://suttonhoo.blogspot.com/2008/12/his-husband.html</a><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">VS:</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-YAEBZITyLQc/TW76AOF7lKI/AAAAAAAAAEg/28bq700ss00/s1600/California_marijuana_template.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-YAEBZITyLQc/TW76AOF7lKI/AAAAAAAAAEg/28bq700ss00/s200/California_marijuana_template.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:California_marijuana_template.jpg">http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:California_marijuana_template.jpg</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Yes, I might get a ticket or worse, arrested, for having weed in my possession on the east coast, but I would take that any day over oppressing anyone's right to marry whomever they love. East coast wins this one.Lauren Rubinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853169076984217499noreply@blogger.com