A Border Patrol Story

As mentioned in my list of things I learned up north, there be some assholes working at border control.

See, my darling friend Mantana and I made great time on our drive to Vancouver, until we got to the epically long line to get through border control from Washington to Canada. At this point we'd been in the car over ten hours, and we started to get delirious with impatience, and then rage as people started trying to cut in front of us.

We screamed obscenities out our open windows, to the amusement of other drivers nearby.

We started cracking incredibly inappropriate jokes.

Mantana decided the honk of a nearby ferry horn was "boat for 'fuck you!'".

We finally got to the point where we picked a line for the different terminals, and somehow, our line was the longest one. It crawled. And inched. Cars passed us by. We were starving and aching and desperate to drink the champagne we bought to celebrate Mantana's birthday. We couldn't stop laughing and whining at the same time.

We became convinced the geese were laughing at us.

The line, it crawled.

We finally made it to the front, and discovered quickly why our line was the slowest, why everyone had to sit so long at the booth before being waved on through.

Our officer was a DICK.

The second he learned Mantana was from Montana, he asked if she owned a gun. Yes. Was it in the car? No. Oh, but he insisted it was, and insisted so for at least five minutes, threatened her with federal prosecution at least twice if not three times, clearly getting off on the little bit of power he wielded.

"I'm an attorney, I know the laws," she insisted.

"DO YOU?!"

"You can search my car," she offered.

"Oh, I KNOW I CAN." He shot back.

This went on forever, he interrogated us about how we met (about which I swiftly lied, although I would have loved his reaction to "on a Weight Watchers message board"), he kept returning to "if you tell me now where the gun is,  you won't be in trouble."

He finally let us go.

And didn't even ask about the crack we were carrying.

Amateur.

A Dog Story

I once saved a puppy from drowning in a pool.

For reals. I jumped in and saved her! I am pretty sure I was clothed at the time, but I can't promise you this. I was seven or eight. Can't remember.

Is this worthy of bragging rights? I ask for a reason.

Basically, I'm contemplating my online dating profile. The fated day approaches on the distant horizon. Is that the sort of hilarious fact one could share to entice the fellas? 

Probably not.

See, I could use the same profile I had last time, and clean up with the messages quite well I'm sure. It worked out for me in the past, got me plenty of attention. I actually got more than a few comments about my profile being "really funny, most girls aren't actually funny", which really annoys me as I know I've mentioned, but what can you do. 

But I don't really want to use the same profile because a of all, boring, and be of all, what if someone recognized it and was like, weren't you on here LAST YEAR? I mean, that would be creepy status, but whatever.

New profile, new name, fresh start, new fun facts.

I've lived in Belfast, was mugged in Paris, I'm a future sexy yoga teacher in training...

I...saved a dog from drowning?

Nah. 

I have to take out Bacon though. 'Cause if you Google that shit, I come right up.

A Wild Attack

I have an embarrassing boy story to tell.

You've been warned.

So, freshman year of college, I got invited to this party by a girl my friend and I were in The Vagina Monologues with. (Yes I stood on stage and talked about my Native American vagina, and also sold cookies with vaginas on them on the quad.) My friend wasn't explicitly invited, I was bringing her along with me, which I think provoked the following bit of venom.

"Don't go off making out with some guy and leave me alone," she said with a sneer as we walked to the apartment off campus where the part was.

For clarity, I had never done this.

So once I got drunk, I decided do.

Honestly, I had too much beer, threw myself at every guy in the party, eventually picked one that was adorable if totally unattractive in a nerdy, Irish, over-eager kind of way, tossed him against a wall, and made out with him.

Then grabbed my friend and stumbled home, in a "so there" sort of gesture.

I don't know what prompted the re-telling of this story, except maybe seeing my victim on my Facebook newsfeed, or wanting to throw a dude against a wall.

This is my story. It kind of makes me cringe, but also I'm guessing he enjoyed it, so we really have no problem here, do we?

The Story of Taylor: A Birthday Retrospective

As legend has it, I was born in a dumpster in Phoenix, Arizona.

Well, perhaps that is a bit misleading. Maybe I was not born in said dumpster, but the family joke is that I was found there by my parents, picked out on the cheap. You know, free. Dumpster baby.

See, when my mom was pregnant, I guess their insurance required them to go to the "discount" hospital, or so my sister discerned one night over dinner when we were in high school. (Though my mom says it didn't end up being so "discount" once she demanded more drugs.) This devolved into a long running gag about me being fished out of the trash.

Such is my family's sense of humor.

Anyway, that's me. March 14th, 1988, rescued from refuse. Bargain baby.

Baby Taylor does not want sisterly love.

Other birthdays of note:

1992, Age 4: Had just moved to Los Altos, California, which necessitated an early birthday party in Phoenix prior to the big move. We have it on tape, and some amazing sisterly moments were captured. Like when one of my friends told me what my present was before I opened it, and my six year old sister shrieked, "YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO TELL!" Or when I opened a gift that was two presents together, a Barbie and a Skipper, and my sis snatched one from out of my hands and announced, "This one is MINE." I just sat there quietly. On my actual birthday, we were in a hotel, and my cake had nuts. I was not happy. To this day I do not believe nuts belong in my desserts.

1995, Age 7: We had a cake walk at school, and I won a cake! It became my birthday cake. It either had coconut, or nuts, I don't remember. I don't like coconut, or nuts, see above. WHY SO DISAPPOINTING, CAKE?

1999, Age 11: I had a sleepover with a big group of girls, and we went out disco bowling, which is the hip thing to do when you're a pre-teen. In case you don't know, disco bowling is regular bowling but with NEON LIGHTS and a SMOKE MACHINE and COOL HIP TUNES. And being super hot as we were, we wore PAJAMAS to bowl. My parents awkwardly danced and embarrassed me. Then we came home to find our big Akita Zeus had eaten half my birthday cake off the kitchen counter. But being the good dog that he was, he left plenty for the rest of us!

2001, Age 13: I had always wanted a surprise birthday party, and my parents threw me one at Chevy's! I fucking love Chevy's, to this day. I believe I hadn't planned on having a birthday 'cause I didn't have many real friends. This is a common theme throughout my life. I remember a really, REALLY awkward hug with my sister's fifteen year old boyfriend.

2004, Age 16: Another surprise party, though this one I knew was coming. A boy I was desperately in love with asked me, quite subtly, "If you were going to have a birthday party, who would you invite?" At least he tried, right? So, he throws me the party, board games and dorkdom and my father in the next room, it was oh so sweet, then three days later on my actual sweet sixteen, he broke up with me over AOL Instant Messenger to get back together with the girl he cheated on with me. Then I went ahead and dated him again when I was 21, and then he cheated on me again. And knocked her up. And married her. I really don't learn my lessons, do I? I'm getting side-tracked.

2007, Age 19: A college friend gave me a bag of weed as a present. That was pretty cool. I'm sure there was also drinking. Also, my birthday cake was decorated with Beauty and the Beast paraphernalia. Clearly my inner child is quite outer.

2009, Age 21: I had a party the weekend before at my apartment with all my best college girlfriends, and a few penises too. It was childhood regression themed. We listened to a playlist of Britney Spears and 'N Sync and other amazing 90s pop, and I wore a tiara, and my friends gave me a Belle from Beauty and the Beast Barbie. Again with the child. We played Mario Kart. It was awesome. Then on my actual birthday, since none of my girlfriends were 21 yet, a group of muscle-y crew guys took me out and got me trashed on "the Ave", my college's main strip of bars. One of them tried to hook up with me when he walked me home but I pretended I didn't notice it was happening and slammed the door in his face.

2010, Age 22: I had a bad boyfriend. He said he would get paid the next week, and buy me my present. He never did. Oh, and this was the same boyfriend from age 16.


Overall, I would say, a memorable history of birthdays. I can only hope something ridiculous happens today to add this one to the record books.

#1 Daddy

Last night, my mother and father went out to a Valentine's dinner in downtown Santa Barbara before seeing a play. They were enjoying their wine at a nice restaurant when a younger couple from UCSB was seated next to them.

Apparently, the tables at this particular dining establishment are very close together, so it was easy for my parents to overhear their conversation as they looked at the menu and realized it was prix fixe, and they couldn't afford to eat there. They couldn't decide what to do, thought about trying to see if they could share one meal, and finally stood up to leave.

My dad then offered to pay for one of their meals, the girl started to cry, and they accepted.

He is seriously the best.  I love my daddy.

The Time I Got Mugged In Paris

This is a good one, guys. Go get a snack.

Okay.

In the summer of 2011, I traveled to Europe with my family and visited London, Hamburg, then Paris...ah, Paris, my favorite place in the world, Paris, a magical mystical city where the light seems brighter, yet still softer somehow, the trees are greener, the sun is stronger, the people...are hilariously bitchy.

Paris is my favorite.

One night we ventured to Montmarte to dine at a restaurant I went to the first time I was in Paris, back when I was nineteen. Called Refuge des Fondues, this place is very well known for being, well, an absolutely ridiculous good time. You sit at long tables on either side of the restaurant next to complete strangers, and if you are seated on the bench on the far side of the table, you have to climb over the table with the assistance of a waiter. You are then served wine in a baby bottle, and you can write on the walls, and really, it's just a grand time all around. You also eat fondue, of course, as the name would suggest. We were seated next to a bachelor party (Canadian, if I recall correctly?), and at one point my mother spanked the groom with a fly swatter.

Good times.

And I was d-ruuunk.

My sister and I had tickets to see the show at the Moulin Rouge later that evening, so the four of us went to the famous Le Chat Noir just down the street for a little more wine. 

Backtrack: When our cab driver dropped us off at La Sacré Cœur earlier that day, he'd warned us of the gangs of pickpockets and thieves in the area. "Oh sure," we said. "We'll be careful." We'd also been warned before even embarking on our trip that you shouldn't put your purse over the back of your chair when you're outside---it can easily be slipped off and stolen without your notice. "Oh sure,"we said. "We'll be careful."

Cut to Le Chat Noir: we're on an enclosed patio. I am, as previously stated, d-runk. And I put my purse on the back of the chair, since the patio was ENCLOSED and all. We're sitting, we're drinking, we're laughing. All is well.

I feel something brush against my back. I glance to my right, and see a guy in a football jersey walking quickly away. I almost turn back to my wine, when I see a bit of pink scarf poking out from under his arm. The new pink scarf that was tied around my purse. The Coach purse that had my wallet, and passport, and...not my camera, 'cause it was on the table, but still.

In my drunken state I suddenly thought I was a superhero, and I jumped up out of my chair and grabbed onto the back of the guy's shirt, yanking him back towards me. He managed to get loose of my grip and ran out of the patio, with me right behind him, believing my tubby self had the ability to chase after a mugger. This was not the case. Five steps out of the restaurant I fell FLAT on my face in the middle of the street. My dad flew over my head and went after the guy, and I peeled myself off the pavement and turned around to see  my purse on the ground. Apparently, this mugger was smart enough not to run down the street with a Coach bag in hand.

My sister, mother, our waitress and the manager of the bar all fussed and fawned over me, cleaned up my wounds and gave us free champagne, and we were sitting shocked and already amused back at our table when finally my sister thought to say, "Maybe someone should call Dad?"

Oh, right.

My father came back, and told us he had nearly caught up to the kid when he too fell flat on his face, scraping his chin, but he popped right back up and kept on his heels, until the perp had run into a sex shop. Of course, the guard at the door wouldn't let my dad in, pretended not to speak English, and so the game was over. 

But I had my purse back, and we were left with battle wounds and some good memories.

Sidenote: My sister and I then headed (limped) to the Moulin Rouge, and the line was ridiculous to get in. So, my sister being my sister, told the staff that I had been the victim of an attempted mugging whilst IN their line, I brought up some fake tears, and we got the best seats in the house.

True story.

The Time I Met An Armadillo

I moved around a lot as a kid. Actually, I've never lived in one place longer than five years...at least not continuously. Mostly California, but I lived in Houston for a year and a half, back when I still wore glasses and preferred the Spice Girls to pretty much anything else. And I still rode a bike back then. (It has been a long time since I rode a bike. But that's neither here nor there.)

So, I'm riding my bike to school one day when we'd only been in Texas a few months. Strapped on my back is maybe ten pounds of books, five of which probably weren't even school related. I must have been distracted by something shiny, because all of a sudden an armadillo appears right on the sidewalk in front of me.

A fucking armadillo.

I swerve, and the weight of the nerd on my back throws me off balance, and I fall face to face with this disturbing looking creature. He stared at me with his twisted little eyes, and I swear he smirked at me before he scurried past and left me struggling to drag myself, my bike, and my backpack off the concrete.

Moral of the story:

Armadillos are assholes.

The Time Kevin Bacon Winked At Me

It's story time, children! Gather around, grab your sippy cups, and let me tell you a tale of great importance and meaning.

This one time, Kevin Bacon winked at me.

I was seventeen, and had conned my friend's boyfriend into taking me as his plus one to a Santa Barbara Film Festival after party (she was away at college, I am not a terrible whore). I'd gone with my mother to the ceremony honoring Kevin Bacon for...something, and afterwards went with my friend to the furniture store that was doubling as a party space.

We were definitely the two youngest people there, and we ran into a girl we knew from our high school theater program. The three of us were hovering awkwardly by a display of tacky modern glass cabinets, when Mr. Bacon himself strode by with a few big burly security guards.

I totally stared, obviously. My eyes were probably bugging out and I'm pretty sure my mouth was hanging open, cartoon-like.

Have I mentioned how much I love Bacon?

So as he sauntered by, all movie-star like, he glanced my way and smiled. Then winked. And kept on his way.

FLOOR.

Obviously this was more of a "look at that adorable child gawking at me"-wink as opposed to a "check out that sexy fox"-wink, but I'll take it.

I consider the Baconwink one of the most defining moments of my life. I even have it in my dating profile. 'Cause who doesn't want to date a girl who got winked at by Kevin Bacon?

True story.

The Time I Got Molested

I'm in a story-telling mood today, and decided it was time to share my tale about being molested by an old Scottish man.

I was in Edinburgh for a month for the Fringe Festival when I was nineteen. I was reading my Ken Follett in a lovely little park, sun shining, birds chirping, headphones in, when someone sat down next to me. It was a white-haired man in plaid, probably in his 80s, and he immediately struck up a conversation. I'm a polite sort of girl, and try to be nice to the elderly, so I chatted a bit. Gave it maybe ten or fifteen minutes, but I really wanted to read my book and he was clearly not leaving. I lied and claimed had to meet a friend at a coffee shop. He said he'd walk me to the stairs.

So, we stroll. He asks for a hug. I am too nice. And he proceeds to full on grab my boob and pat it ever so lovingly, while saying, "I'm your niiiiice Scottish friend. I'm your niiiice Scottish friend."

I pushed the fucker and ran away. 

True story.