Nothing beats a day at the beach when one would ordinarily be hovering over a cash register trying to smile at dozens of expectant customers. I awoke early this morning, because it was 100 degrees in my room last night, and I needed to sleep with the shades open in order to best utilize the large box fan wedged into the frame of my bedroom window. I stopped at Yellow Mart to buy a bottle of soda, and since I wasn’t wearing my glasses (I’m growing tired of being one of the bespectacled) I accidentally grabbed a Diet Coke instead of Cherry Coke. Neither Sunny nor Jin-Ju warned me as I approached the cash register that I was straying from my normal soda of choice, but then again they barely speak English. Although, Jin-Ju sometimes says, “Heyo Eban” to me as I exit or enter the store. The drive to Santa Monica was bitter (like the unpalatable crispy bitterness of a diet soda), but quick. I picked my mother up outside her hotel and we drove to the Lazy Daisy on Pico for breakfast. I considered ordering the french toast but settled for a bacon egg ‘n’ cheese sandwich on a plain bagel, because to stray from the norm would unlock a whole series of potential “what-if” scenarios that would last through the remainder of the day. But then again, you can’t possibly comprehend the neurotic thoughts that run through my mind on even my sanest days. I’m like a mix between an autistic child and a paranoid schizophrenic with my adherence to routines.

Then I got my car washed. It was more exciting than it sounds. Some Arab-looking guy driving a silver mini-van was hitting on my mother. Apparently the color of my Volvo is red, which was a big surprise to me considering the car has been perpetually looked brownish in hue due to a combination of pollen, mud and tar that has settled into the finish over the course of the last six months since I’ve visited a car wash. Also, you’ll be happy to hear that all the bits of rice that fall out of the Qdoba burritos I can’t seem to not-eat until I get home from the fast food joint have been vacuumed up by a pair of overly-nice, unusually-quiet Mexican dudes at the car wash (also located on Pico, a few blocks north of Lazy Daisy and the Farmer’s Market).

I was informed that I was inappropriately dressed for dinner, so we had to go to the store and buy me a collared shirt. That’s always a big (what’s the opposite of boost?) to my self-esteem. Why not just tell me I look like a vagrant? Whatever, we bought me a new shirt and then we decided to spend a few hours relaxing by the pool. Two of my all-time favorite hobbies, back-to-back: clothes shopping and swimming. Luckily for us, the pool provided enough entertainment to make it slightly more than unbearable. There was a woman who was clearly high on heroin struggling to keep her head above water while her rich, older-gentleman companion read a magazine and worked on his typical L.A. tan. Her eyes were rolling back in her head, and her tits were not even close to contained inside her bathing suit, but she didn’t seem to notice or care. I haven’t seen anyone that smacked-out since…well, I shouldn’t name names. Also, much to my delight, there were three super-hot French girls sunbathing near the pool’s entrance who looked like they just stepped off the set of Gossip Girl or one of those chick programs. Now, I don’t speak too much French, so does anyone know what “quatorze” means?

In the shower, before dinner, I had a hard time closing the hotel’s complimentary shampoo bottle. It slipped out of my hand like a condom water balloon and somehow propelled itself over the shower curtain and halfway across the bathroom. As I stared for an uncomfortably long amount time at the orange rubber fish bath toy laying on its back near the shower drain, I realized that I was taking way too long to shower. I felt like Batman in that movie where he played the serial killer. Then I slipped and almost died getting out of the shower. Imagine that: someone under the age of 85 falling to his death in the shower. What a fucking embarrassment. I think the only death less dignifying than that would be if I had a stroke while jerking off and the cerebral bleed killed me before I could pull up my pants.

Dinner went off without a hitch. The moms seemed to enjoy each other’s company, everyone got a kick out of Corey’s fast-talking East Coast attitude, and my penne and vodka sauce with bacon was just about the greatest, bacon-y-est thing I’ve ever tasted. Il Fornaio is highly recommended for anyone who enjoys really good pasta dishes. The fried calamari was also quite good. After dinner I returned to my mother’s hotel room, grabbed my belongings and left. Her last words to me were, “Make sure you get your headlight fixed this week!” I love you too, mom.

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