Close the win-dah

I wish more people remembered the specific reference I constantly say when I go "Casper...close the window..its cold." And now everyone will. So if one day I tell you to close the window and then curl up like a little kitty cat at the end of your bed....you'll know why. Finally.

Hooka

I think I just made the barista at this Starbucks think I was a stripper when I handed her a bunch of singles and said, "Tips right? What are ya gunna do?"

I actually wish that I was a stripper because I am certain they make a hell of a lot more money than I do. This coincides with a conversation I recently had with my friend, where I was arguing that I really didn't think that doing porn was that big of a deal, that I would (mom don't read this) probably consider doing it if I weren't wanting to become an actor, because it's a seemingly simple job for lots of money. It's just another job! And his rebuttal was, "Well yes Riley but you could say that being a drug dealer is just another job." To which I retorted, "And if I knew how to make crystal meth, do you think I would be folding towels for pennies?"

Set. And. Match.

For those of you who don't know, the way I have been sustaining myself out here in Vegas is by being a Spa Attendant/Receptionist at one of the big ol' hotels. When I'm actually an attendant I work on the men's side of the spa, which is essentially a locker room, and I clean up after the old naked men that walk around and drop their dirty towels on the ground. Naked...yes, naked. My job is essentially penis. Penis all day. Yes, I expect the obvious responses to this statement being, "Oh, you must be in heaven." or "Isn't that what your people like?"....to which I reply, "If I could...I'd pay midgets to tie you down and chew off your feet."

But I digress.

Tying this all together, I think for some of the patrons of the spa, I might represent some kind of porn fantasy. "Spa Boys 7: Steam Heat" or something of that nature. I was giving a tour to an older gentleman (crackhead) one day and showing him the couples spa and the following conversation ensued:

Crackhead Jim: What time y'all close?

Me: 8 pm sir, every day.

CJ: Ok...I see I see....and is this where y'all keep the hookers? (indicating treatment rooms where services are performed)

Me: Um.....no. No, we don't have hookers here.

CJ: OH...You know, that was a big thing back in my day.

Me: ....Hookers?...or hookers giving massages?

CJ: Yes.

Me: .......alright then. Whattaya know.

CJ: What time do y'all close?

So that was my experience with crackhead Jim. I know that doesn't tie into my porn fantasy theory...but this one just might.

A customer had just left the spa, tipping me five dollars, and going into the lobby to see if his wife was there. After seeing she was not, he came back inside and whilst I folded my towels the following interaction ensued.

Man: I guess I'll just wait back for her inside here.

Me: Aw, you just knew I was the more entertaining option in here.

Man: Yeah....why don't you get on the table and dance for me?

Me:......................................

Man: ........................................

Me: Ha.....heh.....uh....maybe if you had more singles! (internal "ba-bum-bum chhhhh")

Man: Well do you have any change?

Me: I....you know...alright, this is getting a little too real right now.



So....I'm a geisha.

Too Cute for Japan ^-^

Living at home with a minimal amount of friends around me has definitely made me more independent. Not that I wasn't when I was in college but I for sure do a lot more things alone these days than I normally have done in the past. For example, seeing Harry Potter, eating out, going to get coffee, reading David Sedaris at bookstores because I refuse to buy books when they are there to be read for free, sex, etc.

It is no surprise to me, however, that when I woke up this morning with an amazing hangover, that my solution was to drive down to a little chinese restaurant called Pei Wei (you probably haven't heard of i,t it's really underground) and eat some beef and rice as a cure. Now, I don't know if you, mistress reader, have ever woken up hungover and still drunk at the same time, but for me personally, it causes me to speak in a very drawn out, raspy, slurred sort of speech that probably makes everyone I come into contact with assume that I am either high, or brain damaged. And the latter is probably entirely true.

So this jaunt to Pei Wei followed an hour spent on my couch, not moving my head, watching the second half of Hook. I really don't know whether it was the remaining alcohol in my bloodstream, the pounding headache, or what...but I have never been so invested in a movie before. I cried. God, did I ever cry. I cried when he flew, I cried when Julia Roberts got huge in that bubblegum princess dress and kissed Robin Williams, I cried when Rufio died, I cried when Maggie Smith said "Boy, why are you crying?" I cried, cried, cried, cried ,cried. Am I embarrassed? Yes, 100% and yet here I am writing about it. Get at me. And I'm sorry, this is one of my top three favorite films of all time but good God, Robin Williams just looks creepy in that Peter Pan outfit. Could they not have done away with the tights? Were they absolutely necessary when no one else in the entire movie was wearing any? Come on Spielberg.

So I arrive to Pei Wei, still partially intoxicated, and proceed to try and bargain with the counter girl on my meal. Something like,

Me: Look...I just want Mongolian beef in a rice bowl, just hook it up."

Girl: Um...I'm sorry sir, I can give you mongolian sauce on the side?

Me: WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?! I'm sorry I'm really hungover.

Girl:.........yeah I could tell. I thought you were on something actually.

In retrospect, chinese food was a bad idea. It's not that I was embarrassed that only half the food was making it into my mouth when I tried to maneuver chopsticks around, it's that I was within eyesight of someone fairly attractive who was watching me do it.

Cry.

It's Hard To Be A Bug

My dear friend named Christy Coffey is a film major at UNLV. She had to do a still shoot for her cinematography class and she asked me to be part of it. I played a cockroach. This she titled, "It's Hard to be a Bug."

OKAY

So, I feel like I owe it to myself, and for whoever else could possibly be wondering (hoping its more than my aunt), to explain what happened after I lost my wallet on that just as fortunate second time running the naked mile whilst I was abroad. And yes, this was a month and a half after my foot injury, and immediately following my jump into poisonous shrubbery and naked run in with the assistant dean of students....it gets better.

So immediately after I had found out I lost my wallet, my first initial (drunken) response was to put on clothes, first and foremost, and then head back out into the pitch black night. Need I remind you, dear reader, this was the end of fall/start of winter in the English countryside. Why I thought this was the best strategy...well, I still don't know. So I head right back into the poisonous bush. And when I say bush, I mean it in the Australian sense, like the wild wild outback/jungle/wilderness sort of bush. I spent probably an hour out here, in total darkness might I add, to no avail. Especially since my method of searching was basically kicking the ground and hoping to hit something soft and leathery. But this was a NECESSITY! I needed my credit card and second form of photo ID to be let into another country! And considering I was heading to the home of my ancestors, the plush green countryside, the immaculate stone structured country of IRELAND....I was taking no prisoners. Except maybe some pheasants that got in the way of my determined legs.

Ok...So I gave up after an hour.


My next solution...wake up at 6am, look again.

Hell, why not? It's not like I was going to bed at 4 and had a whole afternoon and evening of traveling planned beginning less than 12 hours later.

So, up at 6 and my first stop was into the manor to ask the security guard if they had heard anything, and this is how the conversation turned out.

Me: (To 60 year old security guard reading the paper) Um hi...yes, hello...excuse me. Has anyone happened to turn in a black leather wallet?

SG: Wassthat you say?

Me: Um...did anyone happen to turn in a wallet..you know..that they might have found outside along the driveway?

SG: ......................................................Go to Student affairs. (back to newspaper)

Me: Oh....ok.......um thanks.

So, obviously he was just shrugging me off and getting back to his early morning business which I just had NO time for. So, back to the bush I went. But this time, I was prepared for the stinging nettles. I put on actual pants, pulled my socks around the bottom of them so no ankle flesh was visible, put on a black fleece jacket zipped up to my chin, black gloves, and beanie pulled down over my forehead. I wasn't letting any goddamn thing touch me this time.

I thought, hmmm well I put my pants down while I was in the middle of the stinging nettles....I better start there. So I spent the better part of an hour thrashing through the gardens/wild shrubbery of the manor drive, kicking and shredding my way through anything that might be concealing my wallet. I then decided to walk back down the entire mile since my ravaging of the manicured garden yielded no results. After one unsuccessful look up and down the driveway where I had such fond memories of breaking my foot, I thought I better double back around and try again. If you didn't conclude it yourself, you will now know that this calculated an entire four miles of walking, in the early winter air, up and down a gravel driveway.

This was fucking it....I was done. So over it. So over this god forsaken naked mile that just had no mercy upon me.

I took to the stinging nettles. It was their fault. They were the reason I was so hasty, so rash, so entirely instinctive like a wild animal in my naked plight. I started tearing, clawing, biting, raping any part of that damned patch I could find, probably yelling obscenities and verbally accusing wild plants for my misfortune. It was then, that the security van pulled up. It turns out they were called by that very special co-star in my humiliating moments (the assistant dean of students, Bronwyn) most likely because I was dressed as a bandit, tearing up plants, and swearing like a sailor at 8 in the morning on the school's front lawn. And this is the next conversation I had with the security guard...which I hope will be just as amusing.

SG: Oy.....what are you doing?

Me: Oh sorry....I'm just looking for my wallet.

SG: Is that you? I told you to go to student affairs.

Me: Oh, I just thought it'd be easier to look for it myself.

SG: No...no. I said go there, because they had a wallet turned in this morning.

Me: (standing in the middle of a patch of wild weeds, dressed like a snowman robber, red faced, panting) .............................................................................................................................................................................................ok.

So.....now is the time he decides to get SPECIFIC ABOUT THE SITUATION.

I walk back into the manor and before I get two steps in I hear a voice behind me, which happens to be my biggest fan.

Bronwyn: Riley!

Me: Oh...hi Bronwyn.

Bronwyn: Was that you outside just now?

Me: Yeah....sorry. I was just looking for my wallet.

Bronwyn: Oh God...I was just out walking and thought you were a terrorist.

Me.....oh yeah...ha....if I had a nickel!....right....heh...

Bronwyn: Well I have something for you!

(Extends her arm holding her baseball cap with my wallet sitting inside of it)

Me: OHHH MY GODDDDD. thank you so much!

Bronwyn: Oh yeah no problem, some man walking his dog found it along the side of the road.

Me: Weird I don't even know how that would have happened...crazy.

Bronwyn: Riley....um...do you remember seeing me last night?

Me: Yes. Yes I do.

Bronwyn:...right then. Thought you would have blacked that out. Well, off to bed with you!



And so concludes this tragic tale.