by Sarah Fuller
It will come as no surprise that my friends are all assholes. I like my friends colorful, with a rebellious edge to them. I can proudly say that I have intelligent, creative and hilarious friends. They are also complete pains in the ass with lots of first world problems.
My friend Matt once wrote a letter to the Buffalo Wild Wings corporate office because they discontinued his favorite sauce. Matt isn’t a fat guy who sweats on his sofa while playing video games. He’s a high-powered executive who I thought had a busy schedule. Apparently, he has time to write letters. Most of my asshole friends are civilized like that.
I said to him, “You literally have time to write a letter about this situation?”
“Sarah, it’s my favorite sauce.”
“But it is just sauce, you realize that? I thought you wrote letters when schools were cutting funding, or when a pedophile moved into the neighborhood. I didn’t think spicy buffalo sauce was worthy of a formal letter.”
“You have obviously never had this sauce,” Matt said, rolling his eyes at me.
My friend Roberto wrote a letter to the grocery store co-op because they changed the cleaning chemicals they used to mop the floor. My running joke with Roberto every time he has a small issue is, “Why don’t you write a letter about it?”
My friend Zoe wrote a letter to Michael’s craft store because they allowed nonservice animals to stroll around the aisle with their owners. I don’t care much about buffalo sauce or cleaning chemicals, but I can get behind this complaint. I get that Rover shouldn’t be left in the hot car while you’re picking out scrapbooking materials… Guess where Rover should be? At fucking home. Leave him there, and then I don’t have to relive my dog issues while I’m shopping for glue sticks. What if I brought my cat to the store with me? Everyone would immediately start sneezing and complaining. Or how about my pet snake? I don’t have a pet snake, but what if I did and I carried Mr. Boa around the store? Totally not cool. So leave your dog at home; unless you own the business. Like my Pilates studio. They have a dog, but it’s sort of different if you are the boss.
Zoe keeps telling me that I should make an anonymous complaint when I tell her about issues. I halted one day when we were walking and looked at her. “What is this method of making anonymous complaints? Do I cut out letters from magazines and paste them on a piece of paper, all like Murder She Wrote?”
“Do you ever make references from this century?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Rarely.”
After hearing of my friend’s experiences, I’ve concluded that writing letters is completely ineffective. The sauce hasn’t come back, the chemicals still burn Roberto’s nose, and if some diva wants to bring her purse dog into Michael’s, she’s probably getting away with it. There’s a sign on the entrance of Trader Joe’s, my favorite place on Earth, that says, “Only Service Animals Allowed,” but does that deter the lady with a rat-dog? Of course, it doesn’t. But I’m not saying anything because, again, Trader Joe’s is my favorite place, and I’m not making any enemies there. People like dogs, and if I make a case against them, then they’ll figure out I’m a cat person, and no one will like me then.
Since my friends are all pretentious assholes, I have to mess with them. Back in 2008, I volunteered on the Barack Obama campaign. I grew up in politics, in a way. My mother was a very active Democrat who constantly brought me along with her to rallies and campaign events. I met Michael Dukakis, the 1988 presidential candidate, when I was five years old. I still remember him kneeling and shaking my hand.
“I have a granddaughter your age,” he said, and I swore he looked into my soul.
I knew about these politicians. They were all-powerful. They knew that which we didn’t want them to know. They were fucking Santa Claus.
I looked at the potential next president of the United States and said, “How do you know how old I am?” Then I yanked my hand from his and stomped off.
I didn’t realize then that he was estimating my age. I didn’t know that I was being a jerk. I was, as I would continue to be, confused.
My mother thought it was funny; when you’re a child, your behavior is usually seen as cute. Thankfully I wasn’t a jerk to Bill and Hillary Clinton when I greeted them and the Gores during their campaign. I wore my “Yellow Dog Democrat” pen while I campaigned for them, blanketing the Walmart parking lot with propaganda. Yes, it’s probably wrong to make children work in politics, about like forcing religion on innocent minds.
And just like that, I’ve brought up the two most controversial topics: Religion and politics.
Anyway, it is in my blood to support presidential campaigns. My earliest memories involve lying on a dirty floor, coloring during the Democratic caucus.
In 2008, I spent almost a year of lunch breaks making calls for the Obama campaigns. My colleagues, inspired by my patriotic spirit, decided to get me a prize when Obama was elected as President of the United States. They had delivered to my office a life-sized cardboard figure of Obama. It’s totally life-like. Besides my Tardis, Obama is my favorite gift that I’ve ever received.
The strange thing about my Obama is that he has white hands and no wedding ring. His head was obviously photoshopped onto his body, but I love him just the same. Oh, also the funny thing is that I use him to torture my asshole friends.
When someone comes over to my house, I wait until they use the restroom, and then I haul ass upstairs, grab Obama from his place under my bed, and set him up right outside the bathroom door. When my unsuspecting guest comes out of the bathroom, they are always frightened by Obama towering right outside the door.
“Oh my gods!” my friend Sabrina said, clapping her hand to her chest. “That scared the shit out of me.” She pointed at the very life-like figure of Obama.
“Why? Why does a confident black man scare you?” I teased.
Sabrina moved the cardboard figure out of her way, to the corner of the room. An hour later, she made me put him back in his spot under my bed. “Even though I know he’s there, I still keep catching him out of the corner of my eye, and he spooks me.”
“Because he’s black?” I fired at her.
She shook her head, used to my antics. “He’s just creepy. It’s like he’s watching us.”
“He’s a politician. Of course, he’s watching us.”
I have to admit that there is something about Obama’s wide smile and twinkling eyes that sort of creeps me out too. Even when I know that he’s “out,” I still get caught off guard by his presence.
“Dammit, Obama!” I once yelled in the empty house, having come around the corner to find him lurking. I grabbed my chest from fright and shook my head at him. “You get me every fucking time.”
Eleanor thinks it’s funny to leave rubber snakes around for me to find. I know there is no way that a giant cobra should be lounging on my driver’s seat. However, for some reason, I still screamed when I opened my car door one day to find the rubber toy.
That’s why I stationed Obama at the bottom of the stairs one day and called her down to the living room.
That little squeal of fear when she spotted Obama was sweet, sweet vengeance.
I’ve been known to put Obama out for all sorts of people, not just guests. When I moved to Central California, I set him up in the bedroom closet with the doors slightly ajar. Then I waited for the movers to bring in the furniture. Making grown men scream with fear gives my life meaning. The electrician nearly punched Obama in the face when he opened the closet to find him lurking in the dark.
Needless to say, Obama has gotten a lot of use over the years. The cat actually started chewing on him under the bed. What can I say? Everyone loves Obama. I didn’t know this mutilation was going on until I pulled him out for a dinner party. He always makes an appearance at my dinner parties. My friend Matt was so delighted to get pictures with the president for his Instagram. It seriously looks like they are casually discussing global warming over the fondue pot.
Anyway, imagine how deva
stated I was one day to discover that Obama had shrunk two inches and was missing part of his ear thanks to my damn cat. It was like a member of the family had taken ill. I patched him up the best I could and propped him in the corner, since his stand was totally broken.
My friends, who are awesome as well as assholes, came to the rescue. Days later, a second Obama was delivered to the house, courtesy of Etsy.com. Now I have not just one, but two Obamas. The new one is older, gray-haired and just as frightening to unsuspecting guests.
Because I can’t trust my cat not to eat Obama, I keep the new one in a case in my closet. When I get dressed, I have to yank my clothes from my closet at lightning speed and then shut the doors before the fucking feline wakes up. Every fucking time I open the closet, it doesn’t matter where the cat is in the house, he sprints for the closet, hoping to make it before I close the door. He just won’t be happy until he takes a bite out of Obama.
I have found tons of uses for my trusty cardboard figure. For instance, as I’ve previously mentioned, my next-door neighbors scare me. It’s not just the disgusting teenager who creeps me out, but also the shifty drug dealers who drop by at all hours of the night. The front yard is littered with trash, and there’s a giant X beside the front door. Real fucking curb appeal.
When I first moved in next to them, I thought about getting a security system; however, let’s be honest, I’m too cheap to get Brinks. Also, I’d obviously set the system off on accident, ensuring that the local police became entirely frustrated by my false alarms. And who needs a security system when I have Obama, the cardboard figure who frightens burly movers and my asshole friends?
The neighbors thought that I lived alone with my daughter. They obviously thought they could bully me and I’d never say anything. They were right. But strangely, they quit filling up my trash can and stealing my newspapers when Obama started making an appearance in my window.
At night, I would set him up in the upstairs window with just enough lighting behind him that his features weren’t real clear. It comforted me to know that he was looking out on the neighborhood, protecting me more effectively than a security system.
When the jerks next door started crawling over my fence to destroy my yard, I knew Obama had to be put into action. The fuckers were pissed because I’d finally mustered up enough courage to complain about their dog barking all damn day long. I work from home. Writing books takes concentration. Their yelping dog kept me from writing for almost a week.
Also, because my neighbors are such gentle souls, they would walk their dog, use a baggy to pick up its shit, and then launch the bag up onto the community carport. For six months, I looked out my office window to see piles of shit littering the roof of the carport. I have a nice view of the Santa Monica mountains from my office, but strangely, it’s hard to appreciate that when steaming bags of shit are dominating the foreground.
After the backyard incidents, I set Obama up downstairs in a precarious place between the drapes. It absolutely looked like a tall man was scanning his backyard for trespassers. Since then, the assholes next door have left me alone. They may never see my giant boyfriend leave my place, but the evidence is clear that he resides in my house. I sleep peacefully at night now with Obama standing guard. We all need a strong, black man in our lives, keeping us safe.
Chapter Thirteen
I Had Dinner With Jerry O’Connell
I’ve had dinner with many, many celebrities. It’s a perk of living in Los Angeles. Hollywood is down the “street” from my house and always bursting with movie stars and pop stars. It’s not uncommon to be hanging out at a coffee shop in Sherman Oaks while a reality television show is being taped on the street outside.
I don’t really watch television that much. I know. I’m one of those people. I see the looks I get at parties when everyone is talking about Orange is the New Black, and I say, “I haven’t seen the show. I don’t watch television.” It’s like saying I don’t pet dogs. It’s un-American. It’s unpatriotic to not eat frozen yogurt and binge-watch Netflix in the evening. I have been working on this problem of mine.
I recently put down a book and watched Stranger Things in the evenings. Then my Netflix got all messed up because George realized I was still using his account and kicked me off. Really rude. It took me a solid hour to figure out how to get my own account using my Wii. Yes, I get that Wii is outdated technology. I literally have no idea how to connect my television to the outside world otherwise. I simply don’t know what the options are. Do I get a special antenna? Is there a box that makes the Netflix magically appear on the screen?
Because I live in a cave and don’t watch celebrity news or anything trendy, I often don’t know when I’ve just encountered a celebrity. Usually, my friends have to tell me. I was at an Italian restaurant with a friend when she kicked me under the table.
“Fuck! That hurt,” I complained. “Why did you do that?”
Alissa leaned down low, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. “Behind you…”
I did what anyone would do and turned around.
“No,” she hissed, grabbing my hand to stop me. “Don’t look.”
“You said ‘behind you,’ and I feared an axe murderer was about to cut me,” I said. “And also, you’ve got a crazy look on your face, like you’ve just seen a ghost or an axe murderer ghost.”
She shook her head, her eyes focused on someone at my back. “Kendall Jenner is at the table behind you.”
I leaned down low, matching her stance. “Is this Kendall Jenner an axe murderer? Should I be concerned?”
Alissa sighed. Rolled her eyes. “Damn it, Sarah, how do you not know who Kendall Jenner is?”
“I don’t watch television,” I stated.
“You don’t have to watch television to know about the Kardashians.”
I pushed my bowl of pasta away. “You mean that dumb reality television show?”
I’d heard of the Kardashians. Apparently, they live just south of me, in Calabasas.
Fun fact: The city of Calabasas is a landfill for Los Angeles. And it’s the place where the rich and famous, like Justin Bieber, Jennifer Lopez, Katie Holmes, and many others, have set up camp. The Osbournes originally made it famous with their reality television show. Calabasas is close to Hollywood, but out of the smog and congestion of the city.
Whether you live in Hidden Hills or the Oaks, the exclusive gated properties where many celebrities reside, you’re still under scrutiny. It’s not enough to live in a neighborhood with ten-million-dollar houses. The residents snub each other based on what gate they live at. They name each other’s houses, politely poking fun: The Lemonade Stand, The Ranch, The Crack House. Okay, I might have made up that last one…maybe.
It was a bit ironic to me that the city of Calabasas dumps their garbage in their own backyard, shoving it down year after year, while also working to fund a ten-million-dollar animal crossway. The cougars might have to live among thrown out Prada-purses and empty alkaline water bottles, but they will one day have access to the other side of the 101. Then they can broaden their mating territory and not ‘be as incestual as the residents’ apparently are. That was told to me by a friend who knows the inner workings of the gated communities and gave me a small peek into the strangeness that goes on there.
The residents of the communities aren’t allowed to take out their own garbage because it’s seen as crude. Can’t have trashcans lining the streets in Hidden Hills. Man, I’m sort of envious, since my neighbors never actually bring their trash cans in from the curb. They just chunk garbage at the open can, hoping that it makes it into the receptacle. When it doesn’t, I’m sure they console themselves with the thought that they are composting.
Garbage and landfills aside, this friend told me a quaint story she overheard while at a playdate at a friend’s house in one of these gated communities. One of the girls tells my friend’s daughter that her grandpa is always shouting at and about his neighbors.
“What does he say?” t
he other little girl asked.
“Oh, he calls them a bad word and hollers for hours about all the things they do that irritate him.”
My friend’s daughter leaned forward. “What is the bad word?”
The other little girl cut her eyes at my friend and then whispered, “He calls them a Kardashian. It’s always ‘damn Kardashian’ this and ‘damn Kardashian’ that.”
“What’s a Kardashian?” my friend’s daughter asked.
The girl shook her head. “I don’t know, but it’s not good.”
The girls played for another hour, and then apparently, my friend’s daughter did something the other little girl didn’t approve of. So the other little girl grabbed the toy out of her hand and shook her head at her.
“You Kardashian! I don’t like it when you do that!”
As I mentioned, Justin Bieber lives in this same gated community. He is the reason I once sat in traffic for three hours, a few miles from my home. The police raided the little jerk’s house after some vandalism incident, and the raid locked down the 101, giving me nothing to do but sit in traffic for hours and watch helicopters streak overhead.
My friend Matt works for the property management company who oversees a certain celebrity mansion. Apparently, they pay hundreds of thousands of dollars in fines each year for neighborhood violations. He says they are small things that they could avoid but just pay for in order to not deal with. I can completely relate. I do that all the time with library fines.
Back to lunch. My friend was thoroughly disappointed that I wasn’t more excited that we were lunching beside Kendall Jenner. I was disappointed that I was prohibited from speaking for the rest of the meal so that Alissa could eavesdrop. I got to hear all about Kendall’s upcoming schedule, which sounded hectic with lots of photo shoots and whatnot.
I’m apparently supposed to care about this kind of stuff, but I live too much in my nerdy world to be impressed by reality television stars. George found it pretty cool that the daughter of a famous rock star was in Eleanor’s class. George is in the music industry, so I guess I can appreciate it. I’d much prefer that Eleanor went to school with the daughter of a famous author like Dan Brown or Phillip Pullman.
