How Riot Was Stripped of His Innocence

A large black man struck my child Saturday night. I specify his race, because this detail will appear later, as a special highlight, in this tale of love and loss. I was traveling home, after a fun-filled afternoon of sunshine and slander, and was paused at the stop light just before Hollywood & Highland. As the light turned green, my attention was on the a-hole cutting over from the middle lane. Suddenly, I heard a scraping noise and felt Riot move beneath me. I turned to see what happened. The scraping continued for an awkwardly long period of time, as the two men attempted to back away from my car, exiting just as gracefully as they entered. They had been pulling out of the mall's driveway, trying to sneak into the flow of traffic before the car behind me caught on to the light change. Major fail. We made eye contact and nonsensical hand motions, communicating that we would pull over up ahead to exchange information.

We turned onto Hawthorne Ave (AKA the street right by the Roosevelt. I had to Google map to find the name. Full disclosure.) This street, with its lack of streetlamps, is really creepy when it is night-time and you are pulling over to talk to strange men in a decrepit Buick. George, the assailant, came over and looked at my car, mumbling the entire time about how he couldn't believe this. "You didn't see me there?" I stared at him incredulously, and tossed in a delicate touch of condescension, "No, I did not see you preparing to hit my car from behind me." "I can't believe you didn't see me." "How would I have seen you? You're the one who hit my baby." "Mumblemumbleexpletivemumble." Good talk.

As he searched his car for his license, his passenger (an even larger and equally black man) came rushing over, looking through my windshield, confusedly. Apparently, George had repeated my utterance that he had hit my baby and this man was searching for said child. As I explained that the car was my baby, he pulled me in for a huge hug of relief. So uncomfortable. "I'm just glad you're nice." Let's not get carried away, sir.

He assured me that Riot's injuries could be 'buffed out'. George added that he could get that taken care of for me. "I'll let Toyota take care of it, thanks."

We exchanged licenses, I took pictures, and then I asked for his insurance information. Hesitation. Forced confidence. "Sure, no problem. Let me just find that for you." He searched the interior of his care. Fruitless. He moved to the trunk. Disgusting. At one point, he was thumbing through a folder full of paperwork - including certificates that appeared to be from some sort of drug/alcohol rehabilitation program. Shocking. "I just can't seem to find it in here. It must be at home. I can call you with that information. You have my license, you have my license plate." "Ok. I'm going to call someone to verify all of this. I just don't feel comfortable leaving without your insurance information." This did not go over well. He went on a rant about how I wanted him to get his car taken away and I wanted him to get a ticket, etc. I informed him that I was unconcerned with these juvenile accusations. I also added that I didn't exactly want him to hit my car in the first place and this was the last place I wanted to be spending my Saturday evening. "Why don't you just follow me to my house and I'll get it for you there?" EXCUSE ME? No thank you. "I have no interest in doing that." I continued my attempt to get a hold of a police officer. George and friend looked at each other, gave a single shoulder shrug and a meaningful glance and got into the car and drove away. That looked well-practiced.

The police dispatcher I was connected to informed me that the man was not actually legally required to show me his insurance information. Cool. Helpful. He assured me that I got the correct information and all was well. I prefer my well a little less car-crash-y, thanks.

As I drove home, George called and explained that he wasn't trying to scam me. "Stacie, I don't appreciate your not trusting me, just because I'm a black man." I'm sorry, what? Right. Well, George, I don't appreciate you calling me a racist, just because I'm white. I informed him that he could be a 50 year-old white woman and I wouldn't trust him in this situation.

The next day, he left a message. I left a message. I texted asking for his insurance information.

Today, I called. He said he had to call me back. He called me back, I said I needed his insurance information. He said he's been calling me for two days. Interesting, considering our accident was less than 48 hours prior to this call. Also interesting because he never called me back yesterday. Regardless. I repeated that I needed his insurance information. He said he'd have to get that together and call me back. Get what together? You're not doing your taxes, you're just giving me the name/number of you insurance company slash agent.

Hours pass. I leave a voicemail letting him know that I would really like to get this taken care of ASAP. His voicemail greeting is just one more element of special to add to this story. It is an expletive laced, generally incoherent conversation between him and another man. Classy. Hours pass. It is now almost 5pm, meaning I will be unable to make any forward progress on getting poor Riot fixed up. I call again. It goes straight to voicemail. I hate life. I politely request that George contact me by tomorrow morning, or I will go ahead and file a police report so I can get things rolling. I feel like that's not going to go over well.

I can't even get in normal car accidents. Loud sigh.

Let's Not Make This About Me

My childhood memories are, as a whole, vague and sparse, but there are certain incidents I am able to relive in full color. I feel like these must mean something? This is the special moment that popped into my head this morning:

In elementary school, the gifted classes were given a standardized test by the state, complete with medals for the top scorers. This may or may not have been one of my favorite times of the year. In 4th grade, I was chatting with my teacher, while the rest of the class was at recess (I was SO cool.) She had just received the test results and was very excited to let me know that I had beat out another child in our class for first place.

Immediately, I ran outside to spread the good news to my classmate. Fun fact about this classmate: He was the reigning "Moo-ing" champion at the Nebraska State Fair. Yup. I mean, it was actually kind of impressive - his moo was SPOT ON. Well, fourth grade is no state fair, homie. You just got beat.

Me: "Guess what?! Mrs. Sellmeyer just got the results back from the state test - you got 2nd!!"
David: "You just wanted everyone to know that you got first place, didn't you."

...

No, really, David. This is your moment.

Don't touch my medal.

Mani/Pedi's Give Me Anxiety

ithinkironyisSOfunny and I went to get a mani/pedi on Saturday. A relaxing afternoon activity. For some people.

The salon was packed with people, and the receptionist greeted everyone with a gust of energy - some might say too much energy. She stood over our shoulders as we selected our colors, remarking on our choices. I was debating between hot pink and neon pink, and she assured me that there was no debate, as the hot pink was perfect for summer. This innocent exchange foreshadowed what was to come.

She asked ithinkironyissofunny and I if we would like shoulder massages along with our nail treatments. I said no, ithinkironyisSOfunny said yes. I laughed at ithinkironyisSOfunny's delivery, the receptionist took that as me saying yes. As I sat in a chair, Cindy appeared behind me, unzipping the top half of my dress, and going after my knots for a dollar a minute. I resigned myself to accept that I probably needed a massage anyway.

Enter the manicurist. She asked if I would like to trim my nails: "You don't want to cut, do you? No, I don't think you do." Um, I'm pretty sure that is leading the witness. "Actually, I would - I like them short and round." She made a face and put her head down to attack my cuticles.

The pedicurist had trouble understanding my English, which always stresses me out in nail salons, because I don't want to seem like an a-hole for being unable to decipher her accent, but I also want to make sure that she understands exactly what I want. Manicurist helped to translate. With attitude.

I chose Flurry Up (Sephora by OPI) as a top-coat. Initially, I wanted the glitter only on the tips of my nails. Manicurist's earlier face made an encore appearance as she explained this to the pedicurist. When it came time for the glitter application, I changed my mind and decided I wanted a full top-coat on my toes and just the tips on my nails. Manicurist shook her head, "Full-coat is better. Not just tip." Maybe she was right?

When the time came to pay, she had already run my credit card for the mani/pedi/massage, but there was no space to leave a tip. I sat drying my nails, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do, as the receptionist had somehow disappeared. So awkward. I kept making eye-contact with this woman across the way, who was staring at me, expressionless, hardly easing my anxiety. Eventually, Cindy came over to say thank you and I took that as my cue to hand over some cash. Awkwardly.

Loud sigh.

Next time I should probably just take a Xanax.

The Coconut Water Cure

There is a restaurant in Santa Monica (True Food) that I frequent pretty regularly. There are three things on their menu that I order. One of these things is a beverage they call the "Hangover Rx". It is composed of coconut water, orange juice and pineapple juice. And it is delicious. And if they happen to be out of it one day, causing your day to plummet into tragedy, the man behind the bar gives you two coconut waters on the house. Hypothetically speaking.

It is a rare day when I am hungover (shocking, I know), but it is a frequent day when I am craving Coconut Water-based scrumptiousness. But what happens when I actually am hungover? I'm now immune to the only prescription they offer. Luckily, it's a very simple solution, harking back to the age-old adage involving the hair of a dog: add vodka. 100% effective.

This incident may or may not have occurred recently. (Yesterday.) When the server brought me my cocktail, he announced it as "A Very Ironic Hangover Rx". I meaannn how fitting is that?!

I am aware that the amount of joy that half-second encounter brought me is awkwardly weird, but it was a large amount. It's the simple things in life? And yes, the only reason I am choosing to share this story now is that he referred to it as ironic, and I found that very, very special.

Jesus Wanted Me To Jump

Saturday afternoon, I jumped off of a cliff. Intentionally. People who are well-versed in my love for adventure were unsurprised. People who know full-well how dearly I cling to the existence of my life were dumbfounded. I was somewhere in the middle. This vignette focuses not on any of these nay and yay sayers, but on Jesus. This may come as a bit of a shocker, but Jesus wanted me to jump.

Let me back up.

A friend of mine mentioned cliff-jumping. I said I was totally down. I thought I meant it. Then I started thinking about my life, and how much I love having it. I’m a Taurus; I like having things. I concluded that adventures like skydiving and paragliding are awesome because they have built in safety precautions. They also have someone to blame (and possibly sue) when things go awry. In cliff jumping, there is no one guaranteeing your existence post-activity. Ok, there were 11 people doing this, but they were holding Tecates at the time, which sort of diminished their credibility.

Fast forward two weeks. Friend is moving to NY. Friend decides cliff-jumping will be his stellar going-away activity. Conflicted, I hesitate but eventually agree, although I make no promises to fling myself from any elevated heights. Friend gives limited details as to what is involved in this escapade.

I figure we will drive somewhere, with cliffs over-looking large bodies of water, and proceed to jump off said cliffs, in our bathing suits. I picture flat lands, complete with bathrooms and drinking fountains. With this in mind, I slather on a solid dose of sunscreen, tie on a bikini, throw on a crop top and a frilly skirt and trek out the door in my comfy black loafers. I go back in the door to grab a pair of flip flops and a towel.

When I get to the apartment where we are all meeting up, I realize that almost everyone else seems to be in tennis shoes. Odd choice for a casual stroll off a cliff.

We walk over to grab some breakfast sandwiches while we wait for our crew to assemble. Two of the actors from Lost show up – separately. Water. Cliffs. Death. Good to see the day has a theme.

18,000 wrong turns later, we make it to San Dimas. To a trail. Specifically, a hiking trail. Well-worn loafers are not conducive to maintaining traction. I am beginning to sense that I am ill-prepared for the day’s activity. I manage to scramble up the path with the group to the cliffs. I get a good look at the 45 feet separating us from the grotto and reaffirm my decision to stay on land. Unfortunately, I am 12 and I really do like to have adventures, even if said adventures have possible life-threatening side-effects. I also don’t like to not do something that everyone else is doing, because I am awkwardly competitive. I decide I will jump. Problem. The route to get back up to the top post-jump is arduous and requires footwear. I am not taking this leap of tangible faith in my loafers.

I am defeated. My games are done for the day.

This is where Jesus comes into play. Sitting on the rocks, near our belongings, is a pair of beaten up Vans. They don’t belong to anyone in our group, and there is no one else around. Abandoned shoes! I check the tags. At first glance, I see a size 8 and decide that I’ll attempt to shove my feet in them anyway. I look closer. They are a men’s size 8. This means they are a women’s size 9.5. For those of you failing to grasp the gravity of this situation, I am a size 9.5. These discarded kicks are, miraculously, exactly my size!!!

Ok, Jesus. I’ll jump. Into water, that is. Don’t go getting any crazy ideas.