...Do you suffer from Mad Cow Disease?

Yesterday I went down to the American Red Cross and gave blood. I had to read a binder full of information about Mad Cow (AKA Creutzfield-Jakobs Disease) and West Nile Virus and HIV and Hepatitis. The very nice nurse asked me about 50 questions about my "history" from 1977-present. Uh, I was born in 1978 - why don't you tell me about what I was doing in 1977?

Anyway - gave blood, whimpering and moaning like a little girl. But, it only took 10 minutes to do something decent for humanity for a change.
(a thought that was quickly pushed out of my head while driving thru Westwood - because I suddenly understood the mad desire to send every other person to "The Island Of People I Hate.")

Long story short - there is a huge need for blood and blood products in this country. If you have 45 minutes free, please make an appointment to donate. It takes less than 10 minutes, and hardly hurts. (and boys, you hurt yourselves a lot more than that just playing FOOTBALL)...

www.redcross.org

Why I love California...




Recognize these??

Only in California can you visit the very Dinosaurs that starred in "PeeWee's Big Adventure" at a REST STOP in Cabazon.

...and 5,6,7,8...

Last night, we started dance class. "We???" you ask? Yes, WE. Basic dance, chacha, swing, tango...the works. How did it go? Well......

We arrived 5 minutes early, having just had a very nice Indian food meal and forgetting the breath mints.

There were about 9 other people there, 7 women, 2 men, all pressed against the wall as if it would have collapsed without them. Mike asked me, "why is everyone squished up against the wall?" "Nervous," I explained, as the gentleman next to us leaned over to whisper, "TERRIFIED."

Eventually, about 15 others trickled in, followed by a short, stout asian woman in her 40s with teeth like Austin Powers in the first movie. She walked around the room for about 5 minutes, fooled with the stereo, avoiding all eye contact, and finally turned to us.

"Welcome to 'Let's Dance!' This is not ballroom dance. My name is Linda Lees and I will be your instructer for the next 6 weeks. (6??!! My registration form says 5). In this class, you will be learning the ChaCha, the East Coast Swing, American Tango, and a fourth dance of your choice! (oh, woohoo). I have been dancing for 40 years, and just finished shooting a Mountain Dew video..." (okay, need to stop for a sec. Mountain Dew? The glow in the dark soda marketing to 15 year old boys and X-Games enthusiasts? Since when does Mountain Dew cast from the AARP casting list?) Anyway...

At this point, Mike is getting nervous, checking himself out in the mirror. I am already regretting my choice of footwear. And she starts taking ATTENDANCE. I wait. And Wait. And Wait. That certainty growing in the pit of my stomach that she's going to butcher my name..."Bill Nichols? Susan Ortiz? Mary Ortiz? Jaime (HI-MAY) Pona?" HIMAY??? I want to kill my parents at this point. Yes, Mom and Dad, I'm talking to you!

"It's Jaime," I say, sheepishly as I walk over to sign my life away. "WHAT?" she screams. "Jaime. Just Jaime." "You're name is Just Jaime?"

The whole class laughed. Sigh. Nothing like flashing back to the first grade, at 27 years old. But, an ally stepped forward. "Gerard?" "Gerrad," I hear from behind me..."It's Gerrad." "But it's says GERARD here..." she insisted. "Yes, I know. But it's pronounced Gerrad." "But there's an R here..." she continues. "It's just JAIME," he replied, winking at me. The class is in hysterics at this point. HMmmmm... I like him.

Anyway, before we know it, we're step/touching all over. She wants us to Freestyle after the first 20 minutes. Before I know it, we're rocking out to the Backstreet Boys. I have never felt as foolish as I did in the moment I found myself dancing next to my boyfriend, doing the step/touch to the Backstreet Boys.

But then we moved on. The ChaCha! I know the ChaCha! I can do the ChaCha! AHA!

But wait. Mike, not so much. At this point, the sweat is flowing, the lip is bitten, and I can see the counting in his head. One, Two, Chachacha. One, Two, Chachacha. Wait! He's getting it! Looks about as comfortable as a slug sprinkled with salt, but he's doing the ChaCha!!!

Then she does it. Ms. Lees hits the stereo. In 10 seconds, we're chachacha-ing in front of the mirror to Britney Spears. The class is sweating bullets as there's no air conditioning, and most of our ears are bleeding from the cacophany that she's making us dance to.

Now, maybe I was naive, but I had 'Dancing with the Stars' in mind, as opposed to "The Britney Spears White Trash Dance-Off." Should I be disappointed? But then, I look over...

There's Mike, chachacha-ing his little heart out. Hips swiveling, arms spinning, rocking out. He's like my own hairy Michael Flatley. And he's smiling. And then I notice - Our teacher has noticed too. In fact, she's been watching him the entire class. Smiling at him. Laughing like a little scary schoolgirl when he smiles back. Is she flirting with my boyfriend???

BITCH, first you get my name wrong, then you flirt with my boyfriend?

Screw Dancing with the Stars - The Jaime Pona White Trash Dance-Off is ON!!!

Is it true love?

We're hiking at 8000ft in the rain. I'm wearing jeans, a tank top, a t-shirt, a hooded sweatshirt, and his fancy-shmancy EMS raincoat. He's wearing shorts, a t-shirt, a knit hat and a black Glad trash bag, strategically cut to provide rain protection.

He asks me if I'M okay.

It's gotta be love.

Maybe he's just weird.

...I am all for technology...as Kip once sang, I love technology. But I have recently developed this uncontrollable desire to kidnap the person (man - no woman would ever do this) that invented 'voice-activated customer support representatives.' Once I have HIM in my custody, I will perform a Swimming With Sharks and rub the stinking BA****D in Kosher Salt. You know, the kind that comes on the really good hot pretzels you get in NYC?
TANGENT WARNING:
I love the hot pretzel. HMMMM PRETZEL...Can they ship them cross-country? Sorry, back now.

Maybe I should explain my extremely violent feelings towards Mr. VACSR -

2 weeks ago, I discovered that someone had stolen my debit card NUMBER. Not card, just the NUMBER, and was using to make multiple purchases at 7-11 in Rialto, CA and Fontana, CA.
And by the way, if you are reading this, you stinking thieving garbage pail : 7-11???? You steal my fricken debit card and the best you can do is $310 at 7-11????????????? LOSER!!!!!
Anyway, as a result of this, I have been on the phone with Washington Mutual Customer Service, Washington Mutual Fraud Protection, Experian, TransUnion, and 1000 other companies. And apparently, even if some dipwad steals your identity and your money, you still have to spend 6 hours yelling at the robot chick before she lets you talk to a real person.

The Following is an excerpt from a real conversation I had this very morning with Madame Robot Chick:

Robot Chick

Thank you for calling '...' In order to provide you with excellent service,

please say or enter your social security number.

Me

Customer Service, Please.

Robot Chick

I'm sorry, I didn't understand your answer. Please say or enter

your social security number.

Me

Argh. Fine. 111-11-1111.

Robot Chick

Thank you. Please say or enter your numeric birthday.

Me

No, Customer Service.

Robot Chick

I'm sorry. I didn't understand your answer. Please hold while I transfer you to a customer

service representative.

Me

Thank god.

Robot Chick

In order to better serve you, please say the reason for your call.

Me

Argh. Identity Theft.

Robot Chick

Excuse me. Did you just say "Open a new account?"

Me

No. Identity Theft.

Robot Chick

Excuse me. Did you just say "Check my balance?"

Me

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, YOU STUPID ROBOT BITCH, GIVE ME

A F*****G LIVE PERSON BEFORE I REACH THROUGH THIS PHONE

AND THROTTLE THE ROBOTIC LIFE OUT OF YOU!!!!!!!

Robot Chick

Okay. (not Okay, but more like "OkAy, just for that I'm hanging up on you)

Bitch hung up on me.

If anyone ever tells you that AI was a work of fiction, tell them to call Robot Chick.

God Bless music downloads...but Automated Customer Service Representatives are surely the work of Satan...

I move to bring back the lynch mob - only, insead of arming ourselves with rope and torches, we bring wire cutters and screwdrivers. KILL THE ROBOT CHICK!!!