by Sarah Fuller
Everyone In LA Is An Asshole
Everyone In LA Is An Asshole™ Book One
Sarah Fuller
Sarah Noffke
Michael Anderle
Copyright © 2018 Sarah Fuller, Sarah Noffke, and Michael Anderle
Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing
Sarah Fuller (and her stories)
are a Michael Anderle Production
LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
LMBPN Publishing
PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy
Las Vegas, NV 89109
First US edition, November 2018
Contents
Sarah’s Notes
1. The Biggest Asshole of Them All
2. Hooker Shoes and Other Names I Call My Ex-Husband’s Girlfriends
3. No One in LA Has Their Own Hair
4. I Shower Regularly
5. I Should Only Date Pilots
6. See You Next Tuesday
7. I Belong to a Club of Old Men
8. I Put on Pants for This
9. Will You Be My Wing Man?
10. Karma is Also Awesome
11. Guys Who Run Homeless Shelters are the Worst
12. Obama is Under My Bed
13. I Had Dinner With Jerry O’Connell
14. Can I Have Your Friend’s Number
15. My Yoga Instructor Touched My Ass
16. My Neighbors Can’t Hear Me Scream
17. I’m Like a Nine-Year-Old Boy
18. This Isn’t the Time For Your Religion
19. Why Is The Gardner Carrying A Pistol?
20. I’m Not Your Getaway Driver
21. It’s So Trendy It Makes Me Puke
22. Please Stop Sending Me Flowers
23. I’ll Have a Salad with Flaxseeds and a Side of Fuck My Life
24. Your Instagram Doesn’t Qualify You To Date Me
25. Can I Pay To Do Your Job?
26. We Don’t Teach Science Until They Know Their Pagan Holidays
27. I Live On A Tangent
28. Oh Good, My Child Is High
Acknowledgments
Books By Sarah Noffke
Connect with Sarah Noffke
Sarah’s Notes
Written October 18, 2018
Writing a book about one’s life is no easy feat. I doubted that the events I would tell would be of interests to anyone. I’m used to hiding behind fictional characters and making them do the strange things. All walls had to come down if I was going to make this book worth reading. I knew I couldn’t hold back and yet, I didn’t want to lose all my friends. In all honesty, I make fun of many in this book, but no one more than myself. It’s also important to remember that these accounts are described through my lens. In many cases, the events are told from how I felt about them, rather than how they actually happened.
All names have been changed. Events, people and experiences have been consolidated. I took many liberties with how things happened. Exaggeration was sometimes employed in order to enhance the funny factor. And I maybe made some stuff up.
Sarcasm is used heavily in this book. My ex-husband is an awesome person, hence the reason that I married him. My family, my friends, and those I interact with are wonderful people. But I make fun of all of them. I didn’t want to write a book about how we’re all gentle souls who never fuck up. I wanted to talk about the funny stuff we do when we make mistakes, when we try too hard, when we try and navigate our lives.
This book is supposed to be funny and not intended to offend. If it does, then I apologize. I truly love and value all people. I appreciate those in my life. And I hope to make them smile as they read about all the ways I fuck up my life.
Now I can truly say that my life is an open book.
Open her up.
For all four million people in Los Angeles.
You make this city great.
-Sarah
Chapter One
The Biggest Asshole of Them All
Growing up, I never watched the Beverly Hillbillies and thought, “California is the life for me.” However, much like Jed Clampett, I started in the backwoods with enough kinfolk to fill up an acre or two.
Sometimes, if I close my eyes, I can still hear the murky lake beating against the retaining wall. I can see the buoy, bobbing in the waters as the smell of pine and moss wafts through the air. And ten-year-old me is kicking my legs over the deteriorating dock, eyes scanning for water moccasins, the scariest-ass snakes on the planet.
That girl, who grew up in that small town, the one mom said was full of “East Texas Bubbas,” never thought she’d live in the City of Angels along with four million other people.
Growing up, we had one stoplight. The nearest store was twenty miles away. We had to cross a bridge to get to said store, which by the way did not sell organic produce. It did sell cartons of Merit cigarettes, Kool-Aid, bologna and other staples of my childhood home.
In my mind, Los Angeles wasn’t a place where people like me lived. It was Mars, a place where Martians lived. And guess what I’m not? I ain’t no Martian. Ask my momma. According to her, you could trace our heritage back to the Queen of England, which made no sense to me growing up. I had no college fund and only owned one pair of shoes. Guess we were the forgotten relatives. According to my mother, we stayed after the revolution and gave up our rights to the crown for a better life. I think that made us dumbasses, but she always disagreed as she clipped coupons for cigarettes.
Unlike Jed Clampett, I didn’t strike black gold on the fifteen acres that bordered our house. I didn’t buy a mansion in Beverly Hills next to a banker. I live in a townhouse a stone’s throw from Malibu (if a giant was throwing the stone). My neighbor is a history teacher who gives me cookies from Costco because I’m too cheap to get my own membership.
In contrast to Jed Clampett, I ended up in LA quite by accident. If I could go back and tell my ten-year-old self anything (besides to invent Facebook), it would be that Los Angeles is Mars and totally awesome. It’s the strangest place I’ve ever seen, with its movie stars and divas. The vegans clog the store aisles, discussing arrowroot and potato starch. The power executives smoke with their windows down as they sit in the parking lot known as the 101 freeway. They aren’t fooling anyone with their cigarettes hanging outside the window of their Audi. They are totally getting dinged for smoking in that lease.
And then there’s me: a divorced science fiction writer with a child and a cat and a true devotion to the place I call home.
I might have thought that LA was full of Martians, but what I didn’t realize is that one day, I’d revel in the fact that I am one. Like a lot of people in this vast city, I’m opinionated, liberal, eccentric and let’s be honest, a real asshole. Guess what? I drink bottled water. It’s true. And for the life of me, I can’t fucking park my Prius. It’s always hanging over the white line. I sincerely mean to repark the car, but then I don’t want to be late to Pilates class.
I might call the people in LA assholes, but it’s out of love. Taking ourselves too seriously is never advised. LA is unlike any place on Earth; that’s why I make fun of it and its citizens.
There are some very strange things that happen here. Things that only the locals know.
Dating in this city is about like trying to find your soulmate a
t the zoo. There’s a lot of options, none of which are acceptable unless you want fleas or to be mauled. However, you keep holding out hope that the monkeys will evolve, or your standards will dip so low that the sloth starts looking more appealing.
I have a friend who has told me the easiest way to find Mr. Right is to relocate out of LA. She contends that the market here is too competitive. Possibly she’s right, and there are too many options in this city. It’s easy to swipe left when there are a million other chimps ready to disappoint me in their unique fashion. And why should the men settle on me when there are hippos all over this city who are just as appealing with their long eyelashes and chunky thighs? I’m not calling anyone fat. I’m following this analogy until the bitter end.
No one in this city wants to settle. We have too many options. If a guy isn’t trending, then how do I know if he is a good life partner?
My problem though is a bit more complex. I’m not just a thirty-something-year-old trying to date in this city full of shabby-chic-shiny dipshits. I’m one of those, yes, but I’m also…a science fiction author.
I know you’d think that, as a science fiction writer, I’d have guys lining up to put a ring on this. Although, to be honest, I loathe rings. Furthermore, the institution of marriage lost its favor with me when I flunked out of it after my tenth year. The first time the state of California made me pay dearly for not wanting to be in a bad relationship anymore, I sort of lost those romantic feelings toward marriage. I still have nightmares about the divorce paperwork.
But I digress.
My friends tell me that when a guy reads “sci-fi writer” in my dating profile, he immediately thinks of X-Files. I’m no Scully if we’re being honest.
My friend Cheryl (her name wasn’t changed to protect her because I’m an asshole) says that she reads my books and doesn’t consider them sci-fi, which I think makes me a bad sci-fi writer. She said I write sci-fi for those who don’t normally like the genre. Say what? In other words, I make the Frappuccino of sci-fi novels. If you hate coffee, no worries. The sugar and whipped cream masks the coffee bean flavor. I apparently douse my books with syrup and sprinkles.
Cheryl says that when guys read “sci-fi” in my dating profile, they think of Outer Limits and automatically assume I wear a tinfoil hat while sitting in my storm shelter, playing Dungeons and Dragons.
That’s the furthest thing from the truth. I don’t have a storm shelter. I live in California, not the horrible state of Texas, where I was born and raised. Don’t judge.
“Just put that you’re a romance writer,” Cheryl encouraged. “Everyone likes them.”
I don’t think so, asshole-friend. The only seductive bare chests on my book covers belong to aliens with three heads and tentacles.
My publisher counseled me on my dating life, because once again I’m too cheap to shell out for therapy. Taking pity on my plight, he suggested I go to Comic-Con to find a guy who shared my similar interests. Because I’m an idiot as well as an asshole, I replied, “There are no attractive men at Comic-Con.” Then realizing my blunder, I added, “Not you! Not you! I meant to say, there are no attractive, single men at Comic-Con!”
To be honest, there are probably tons of passable, potential mates at Comic-Con who have good faces. My problem is finding them. Part of my dilemma might be that I prefer to hang out with the characters in my head on a Saturday night. They don’t talk back, but they also don’t shut up when I tell them to. Yes, I’ve just admitted to talking to the voices in my head. Apparently, another thing my friends say I shouldn’t announce on my dating profile. There are so many pretentious rules with dating: Clean under your nails, shave, don’t make more than three Doctor Who references at dinner.
My Pilates instructor has no problem getting a date, but she also regularly talks to people who are real. My other single friends fumble regularly but tell me the key is to get out there. I’ve taken off my tinfoil hat and decided that they might be right.
I’m nervous. I’m reluctant. I have sky-high expectations. Let’s be honest, I’m judgmental and quick to call innocent people names. And I’m certainly annoyed by the pretenses that wrap LA up into a ball of hair extensions. However, I also realize I’m not so innocent. I’m no Elly May Clampett, as much as I wish I were. I may be from the backwoods, but I was born for this city. In truth, I might tease my fellow LA peeps, but I’m the biggest asshole of them all.
Chapter Two
Hooker Shoes and Other Names I Call My Ex-Husband’s Girlfriends
Because the universe loves irony, my divorce was finalized a couple of days before our eleventh wedding anniversary. My soon-to-be ex-husband called me the day before things were official and asked if I wanted to go to a celebratory dinner—his treat! That sounded a bit like having a party at a funeral, but I love free food and, more importantly, free wine.
I accepted, and we went to dinner. In hindsight, I should have ordered the steak. Scratch that. I should have ordered two steaks. One for dinner and one to take home. Instead, I got the burrito, an entrée I only order when I don’t care how I look as I cram a giant steak-filled tortilla into my mouth.
Although my ex-husband, George, apparently wanted the dinner to just be the two of us, I wasn’t booking a babysitter for such an occasion. Therefore, our daughter sat between us at a Mexican restaurant, painting her face with refried beans as George gave me tentative stares across the table. I was pretty certain he was having second thoughts about this whole “divorce” business, which was absolutely non-negotiable for me.
We made small talk, mostly about my career as a sci-fi writer. As usual, he voiced his concerns about whether it would pan out. I tried to pretend I had big plans for my books.
Honestly, I was days away from charging into the closest university and telling them why they needed me. “I’m a great professor! I know about accreditation. I can calculate student learning outcomes and, although I find the work soul-sucking, I will do it with a smile.” No one, up until this moment, knows that I was close to caving, putting my writing life on hold to take a job that would support my little one and me.
In the parking lot of the restaurant, George said a fond farewell, like he was never going to see me again, hugging me with a bit too much closeness. I shook my head, thinking that he was going home to a freezer full of Ben and Jerry’s, which he’d consume while playing the musical Rent on loop.
That night, I received a call from George.
Here it is, I thought.
I just knew he was lying in his empty bathtub with a bottle of bourbon, burning old pictures of us. The least I could do was accept his phone call, although the Sims was calling my name.
“Hello,” I said, my voice hesitant like I was answering a suicide hotline.
“Hey, I need to talk to you.”
Of course, he does. I paused my game and took a seat in my armchair, the one I reserved for long conversations.
“I was hoping that tonight it would have just been the two of us, without Eleanor,” George said.
Of course, he was.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” George continued, ushered on by my silence. “It’s the reason I asked you to dinner.”
My stomach rumbled, probably because I needed more steak. “I thought you wanted to cheers to our divorce.”
“I did, but there was something else I wanted to clink glasses to,” George answered.
I thought hard. It was close to Mother’s Day. Over a decade earlier, I really should have chosen a wedding date better, but the venue was discounted that weekend. Years later, I’d realize why. When I was just about to thank him for acknowledging the things I’d happily sacrificed to be a mother and commend him on cherishing that, he said, “Sarah, I’m dating someone, and she’s amazing.”
Silence.
I looked around, wondering why I wasn’t drinking. Then my mind searched desperately for the exact reason this was wrong. It hit me like a bullet.
“Are you fucking telling me t
hat you took me out the day before our divorce to celebrate the fact that you’re in a relationship?” I won’t lie. I yelled. Thankfully, my daughter was at George’s house, where she was probably cold and poorly tucked into her slanted bed covered in dirty sheets.
“Well…I…It’s just—”
“Did you just describe this person as ‘amazing,’ like that was at all necessary in this initial description?” I continued, cutting George off.
“She is amazing, and if you just gave her a chance—”
“Whoa!” I yelled, clear and loud. “She’s not moving in, is she? We need rules. Boundaries. Eleanor can’t have women paraded in and out of her life.” I took a breath.
What he needed was fucking class, but I reminded myself that George was my ex-husband for a reason. He had taken me out the day before our divorce not to celebrate, but to gloat. Real-fucking-classy.
“Seriously, Sarah, if you just give her a chance—”
“Look, Hooker Shoes and I aren’t in a relationship,” I said, instantly coining a name that would follow this woman around for the next twelve months. “Eleanor needs her parents and not to be confused. Let’s give her time to adjust. Then we introduce slutty girlfriends. Cool?”
