Adventures in Babysitting

My name is Luchana Gatica, and I suffer from severe 'daddy issues.'

 It is for this reason, in my self-diagnosed, expert opinion, that I have always dated gentlemen older (sometimes much older) than myself. When I was a freshman in high school, I was dating juniors and seniors. When I was a senior in high school, I was dating college guys. When I moved to LA at 19 years old, I was dating 24+ years old. The oldest guy I ever dated was old enough to be my father. My mother always married men 20+ years older than her. (She was married 3 times, so you can see that the pattern of disfunction in my own dating life is for good reason.) This blog is going somewhere less depressing, I promise. Keep reading.

In all of the dating in all of the cities I have done in all of my years (it's a lot,) I have never dated someone my age. MUCH LESS... A younger guy. I'm not sure if there is a direct correlation between the time the number of gray hairs on my head started increasing and when younger guys started trying to get their Ashton on with me, but it's become quite startling. And I guess a little flattering, if I can be frank.

Don't get me wrong, I like 29 year old me TWENTYTHOUSANDMILLION times better that the 19-year old Luchana with stars in her eyes and a fake ID from Alvarado street, who those poor 25 and over guys had the pleasure of courting. But entering 'Cougar Town' (Or in my case 'Puma Town') is a pretty ballsy move on a 22 year old's part. We have seen so much more. We've dumped and been dumped... Over and over and OVER again. We've acted like psychopaths (especially us ethnic ones) and dealt with psychopaths. There is little hope left in our hearts. And what little there is, we're saving for the children we'd like to have someday... Along with the eggs we're in the process of freezing. In short, we're ready to be done.


Are you ready to open that can of crazy, Oh young early-twenties hottie? Your naivet`e and the sweet and untarnished look in your eyes tells me, "no." But it was really cute when you held my hand when you first met me... I know that's what you're used to doing in the hallways of your high school. The old guys could stand to learn a couple of things from you. Do me a favor: go get your heart broken, sleep with about 28 more women, and call me after I have my second child.

Feliz CumpleaNos

It's the most wonderful time... Of the year. (For me.)

That's me, the incognito birthday girl with a birthday crown and TWO desserts.

That's right, BIRTHDAY TIME! Anyone who knows me knows my birthday is my favorite day of the year. I've never understood people who don't want to do anything for their birthday, or worse, HATE their birthday. Oh, you HATE the day you were brought into existence? More importantly, you HATE the ONE day of the entire year that is ALL about you and people have to kiss your ass??! Not on my Michael Kors watch, pal. In fact, I love my birthday so much, I would never run the risk of letting someone else plan it or throw me a surprise party. I don't want anybody else to be responsible for my fun. I do a great job of it myself, thankyouverymuch.

Next week, I will be turning the big 2-9. I guess people are supposed to freak out since it's the last year in your 20's, but get me the F#%K out of my 20's, as far as I'm concerned.

Did I think I would be engaged/married/pregnant/divorced or all of the above by now, when I figured out my life plan at the tender age of 9? Perhaps.

Did I ever think I would be pseudo bff's with Jamie Foxx (that's an exaggeration) and rubbing elbows with Leonardo DiCaprio and Bradley Cooper at his parties (And by that I mean shoving exquisitely authentic tamales down my gullet, while watching them chain-smoke electric cigarettes 12 feet away from me)?  Not even a little bit. I actually envisioned myself engaged/married/pregnant/divorced to one of them, probably Leo, but what can you do?

My point is, the only thing I would change about my life is in the success and finances department, so keep reading my blog. And tell your friends. And buy me a birthday shot.

Classic Jamie...

Gracias.

The Four Man Plan

 Disclaimer: I can’t take credit for this effectively devised plan, but I’d like to shake the hand of the woman (or probably man) who did.

I first heard about this ‘plan’ from a certain male friend of mine (who’s identity I’m not at liberty to reveal,) while discussing my newly acquired ‘maturity.’ Or as I’d like to call it, a dry spell. You see, everyone who knows me was surprised to learn that I didn’t have physical contact with a single man on my East Coast trip this summer by myself. They were even more surprised that I returned from Europe recently with not even an international pen pal. I won’t lie, I surprised myself, but chalked it up to simply ‘getting older.’ I’ve dated a lot in the past 7 years. I’m pretty sure I’ve dated about 79% of the straight male population in Los Angeles, as well as 2% of the questionably straight. When that didn’t work, I started venturing out to my second favorite US city, New York. I even managed to dabble in other, less exciting parts of the country. No dice.

“You need to get on ‘The Four Man Plan,” my friend said to me. At first I thought he was suggesting I get on some kind of diet, which almost caused me to knee him in the taint. Then I found out he WAS suggesting  I get on a diet. A dating diet.

Apparently it’s as easy as it sounds, except it’s not. All you need to do is have 4 guys (or girls, depending on your preference. The plan does not discriminate, and neither should you) on dating rotation in order to avoid getting emotionally attached to any of the participants. Sounds great in theory, especially if you really like one of them, because you’re not focusing all of your attention on said participant. Everyone knows everyone is more attractive to someone when they are not as attainable, because we are a sick race. We’ve also learned though history that everyone wants to be wanted. Thus, the plan is designed with all of this in mind.

Unfortunately for me, I don’t really have the time or energy for this plan so I’d never succeed. Plus, I don’t usually like a lot of people after the second date, so the plan would fall apart very very quickly. Maybe in 2012.

To all the rest of you, try it out for yourself. In the words of the great (yet sometimes not so wise with his words) John Mayer, “No one likes to be alone at Christmastime.”

You Can't Win If You Don't Play

Have you ever dated someone who you believed was so out of your league, that you wouldn't care if this surreal relationship ended in a murder/suicide tragedy at the hands of your extra special someone? Neither have I. (Although I think I've come close to going down that street recently but it's temporarily closed for construction.)

I imagine that is what women who date George Clooney are thinking. Or at least that's what I would think if I were dating him. I would simply treasure the trips to Lake Como with Matt and Luciana and try to move on from the best 4-8 months of my life.

The reality of my life is that, according to about 79.8% of my friends, I have been known to date below my potential.  But I've always considered myself somewhat of a slutty Make-A-Wish Foundation. I've never really had a "type." I think of dating more like the lottery: You can't win if you don't play.  Basically if you have the ability to make me laugh, you also have the ability to make me take my clothes off.

For reasons I don't absolutely comprehend, my friends seem to have me on some sort of pedestal. (It's not very high.) Don't get me wrong,  there are a few who have tried to pawn me off to any and every unfortunately dull Tom, Dick, and Harry this side of Rancho Cucamonga, and those friends can no longer be trusted in 'set-up' situations. But for the most part, they seem to be on to me in the sense that I can't trust my own taste in men. Which seems to be where the problem lies.

Let's be honest, I'm no spring chicken. Things are starting to fall apart by the day, and I need to get my ass (literally) back into sextable shape due to one too many dozen chocolate croissants smeared with Nutella on my recent European escapade. If there was ever a time to lower my standards, it would be now. However, I've decided to turn this ship around and head for some greener pastures. I'm looking to start frying some bigger fish. I'm going to start playing for the jackpot instead of the scratch-off tickets, if you will.

How To Succeed in Europe Without Really Trying

Bonjour! I've been back from my European extravaganza for a week now, and while I do miss eating chocolate bread smothered with Nutella every morning, I'm glad to be back in the land of toilet seat covers and gay men everywhere. I would like to take this opportunity to share some observations/pointers from my experiences:

-If I told you I didn't experience any jet lag whatsoever would you believe me? It's true. Nobody understands how that happened... Including me. But then again, I'm also the person who runs a half marathon and then waits tables for 5 hours after. And the kind of person who does strenuous exercise, then gives blood, then drinks margaritas immediately after. (I've also been known to have a slightly mild case of narcolepsy.) But when all else fails, chase a Benadryl with a nice glass of red wine and zzzzzzzzz...

-The fact that I survived 4 cities in Italy with SO MANY TOURISTS and managed to come back without a foreign criminal record is an accomplishment I'm extremely proud of. I love Asian people, I really do. In a perfect world, I would produce an adorable set of boy/girl twins, and then adopt myself a future United Colors of Benetton catalogue with two different types of Asian babies. But the world isn't perfect. And neither are Asian tourists. They travel in large packs, they walk ridiculously slow, and they stare at things FOR. EVER. If you see a large group of them, do whatever you can to walk as far ahead of them as possible, or kill yourself. On the upside, if you need someone to take a picture of you, always ask an Asian. They are eager to please and always happy to help. (Which oddly enough is what also makes them great massage therapists.) Also, they are the least likely to take off running with your camera. God bless Asians.

-Europe seems to operate on a different "gaydar" frequency. I learned that the hard way when I was fondled by my waiter in Rome. I still thought he was gay until he made animal noises at me and demanded I meet him by the toilet. Fortunately, I was able to resist his romantic advances. From that point on, and thanks to my brilliant little sister, I decided to assume no man was gay for the duration of my visit. It turns out NO man was gay anywhere. Just European and, at times, just plain creepy. Nevertheless, I managed to return to LA with my vagina unscathed. Hooray!

-All of that being said, it never really hurts to show a little cleavage. Cleavage is a universal language and it can really get you out of a bind when you don't know how to buy a subway ticket in a foreign country.

I hope these little tidbits of wisdom will help in the success of your future European endeavors. Until next time.

Here's a little "tip" for you...

I'm not going to lie, I'm an amazing waitress. Especially under the influence of alcohol... But that's a whole different story. I think every single person should wait tables for at least one week of their lives, no matter what kind of life you lead or were born into. Yes, it builds character, but waiting tables also makes you realize just how ridiculous and stupid people are. Here are a few tips to help you not be an asshole when you go out to get served:

1.) If you are over the age of 19 and ordering a Long Island Iced Tea not as a joke or during a bachelor/bachelorette party, you should really take a long, hard look at yourself. If you complain that your Long Island (or "Strong Island," as the classy folk call it) is not strong enough, you should probably speak to a professional about your problem. No judgement.

2.) If you give me 2 credit cards that decline for an $8 drink, you should have stayed home. Times are tough sometimes and that's ok. Let's not embarrass the both of us. Sometimes it's not in the cards.

3.) If you ask for a to-go box for your french fries, you're really disgusting. I speak from experience when I say old, cold fries are disgusting. Next day fries are even worse. Cut your losses.

4.) If you call me over frantically because you're ready to order and then you ask me, "what's good?" and proceed to FINALLY take a look at the menu, you're a real asshole. Get back to me when you have a plan. I have better things to be doing. Like facebooking. Same goes for people who make up menu items that don't exist on the menu because they can't be bothered to read and see what we actually have. When you assume,  you're only making an ass out of yourself. I have nothing to do with your stupidity.

5.) If you are vegan or gluten-free and you are at a place with a bar, chances are we may not be able to accommodate you. Take care of that on your own time. It's not my responsibility to keep up with your dietary restrictions, just like it's not my responsibility to keep up with the Kardashians. I can offer you something in a green olive from our fruit tray. Take it or leave it.

6.) If you order a drink and then vanish, leaving me walking around in circles with your drink in my hand wondering if I hallucinated your order, you're an asshole. At least wait until I get back or let me know where to leave your midori sour. Thanks.

7.) Farting in your waitress's personal space IS NEVER OK UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE. You'd be surprised how often this has happened to me. It's never ok to fart on anyone. Except maybe your roommate. (Depending on your dynamic, it can be really funny.)

8.) If you ask me to list all 19 beers we carry and then order the first one I said, you should know you're kind of an asshole. Stop me when you hear your beer!

9.) If you ask me if we have Diet 7up, Diet Dr. Pepper, or Coke Zero, ask yourself how many bars you've been to that carry any of those? If you can name 3, I will pay the Mexican busboy to go to the nearest 7-11 and get you a liter of any of those.

10.) If I come over and ask you and your group if you need anything and you all just give me a blank stare and say nothing, you're not capable of being out in public because obviously you don't know how to act in society.

11.) If you are part of a birthday or any special occasion and you have a cake and you don't offer me a piece, but you take the ENTIRE leftover cake home, you're a FAT asshole. I've been waiting on you all day or night. The least you could do is offer me a piece of cake. In that instance, I will just politely offer to box the rest of it up for you, and then slice myself and my fellow co-workers off about an 8th of your cake. I play dirty.

12.) If you leave me a tip under 16% and then ask for my phone number, you probably won't get the correct one. Bad tippers are a HUGE turn-off.

And last but not least... This is one of my biggest pet peeves:

13.) If you are practically having sex in front of me, there is obviously something else you'd rather be doing. GO HOME AND DO IT! Stop eating bread in front of the poor, as they say. I'm all for people having sex. Go get it!

This has been a public service announcement. You're welcome.

Save the Date

"I think we both make people not like us." (Actual text from my roommate, Kenny Kelleher, last Friday at 1:05am.)

"Oh yeah? No shit." (Actual text back from me, last Friday at 1:05 am.)

In the almost 6 years of living together, neither of us has had a boyfriend. Well, I've come close. And by close, I mean a couple of seemingly promising long-distance relationships. (So actually, not close.)

People can never believe that either of us are single. I can't say that I blame them. I mean, we're pretty awesome. So awesome that I kind of think we THINK we're more awesome than we actually are, proving Kenny's theory that, in fact, "We both make people not like us." The point is, if we both had a dollar for every time people asked us why either of us are single, we could live somewhere where we aren't constantly woken up by leaf blowers, trash trucks, construction, ambulances, motorcycles, saxophones, opera, and car radios.

December of 2012 will be 7 years of living together. Thus, we will be "Common Law Married." Time flies when you're scaring the shit out of each other in your apartment. It's only right that we have a ceremony to celebrate our domestic bliss. And although I'm pretty sure he'd like to be registered at either 7-11 or Taco Bell, logic tells me we should definitely register for a nice set of plates for all the cooking we never do. We are grown adults who eat our take-out and fast food off of mismatched plates with cartoon characters on them. I'm not proud.

Also, if anyone has a connection to Katy Perry or Beyonce and could get them to perform at our ceremony, that would be awesome.