MAY 31, 2007

RUDE, CRAZY, OR BOTH

I've been thinking about that Sociology class I took last semester - I was thinking about how it applies to me and my job, and it occurred to me that the Malibu Colony is just one big Sociological Experiment. Maybe there are some scientists who planned all this, who put all these crazy rich people behind the Colony gate and stuck me in there to see what would happen. Let me tell you, some days it feels like that's the only possible explanation for what goes on around here.

Sure, there are some people around here who aren't so bad. Mrs. Caldecott seems like a nice lady, and there's a redhead staying in the McAllister place while she sorts out her divorce or something who seems real nice. The jury's still out on her, but I think she's got some potential. She at least she looks me in the eye when she speaks to me, and I think she genuinely cares what I say to her - not like 99.9% of the people in this neighborhood, who just talk to me to prove they're "okay" with the "working class." She seems like kind of a spitfire; I think deep, deep, deep down inside she might be kind of a smartass. And in my book, if you're not at least a little bit of a smartass...you're not really worth knowing.

But those people are the exception, not the rule. Everyone else here is either rude or crazy or both. Take the big-time director who lives down the street. He's in his sixties somewhere, never married, no kids. At least no kids that I know of, and I seriously hope he doesn't have any because any child growing up in that house wouldn't even have a fighting chance of growing up without some serious issues. To call the guy meticulous would be a definite understatement; to call him pure crazy would be probably be closer to accurate.

Don't believe me? That's probably because you've never been to his house. If you had, you would know that he doesn't just make you take off your shoes before you enter, he makes you take off your shoes, rinse off your feet, and wear special little paper slippers like people wear over their shoes in hospitals. He's petrified of getting sand all over his house or something, which seems like kind of a strange fear for someone who bought a multi-million dollar home ON THE BEACH.

And speaking of the beach, he doesn't exactly have a normal approach to that either. He has a team of guys who — I'm not kidding — clean up the sand in front of his house. Every day they comb it for trash or seaweed or sharp shells or anything else that could possibly offend Mr. Big-Time Director's eyes or hurt his delicate feet. And I don't think he even likes the beach anyway, because he hardly ever goes out there. I think he pretty much just spends his weekends inside freaking out about sand getting into his house and scratching up his shiny marble floors.

Sounds like a great way to relaxing on your days off, huh? Which is why I have to admit that even though he has a gorgeous house that costs more than I'd probably make in ten lifetimes while I'm facing eviction from my flea-farm of an apartment, I can't really say I envy him. Because I mean what's the point of having all these damn things if you can't enjoy them? (And you know who else I sure as hell don't envy? His houseguests. It's probably pretty hard to relax and enjoy yourself at the beach when your host practically inspects between your toes with a magnifying glass every time you come back from a swim.)

Believe me, Mr. Big-Time Director is only one on a long list of people around here who prove that rich people really are different from you and me; they're crazier.

I'll try to blog some more this week, but I've got my hands full with Nana and her yap yap monster. I swear that dog has already got 4 feet in the grave and the only reason he's still on an earthly plane is because his tail is holding on for dear life. Lord forgive me...but I would really appreciate it if you would take that mutt off my hands.