I arrived into the state, anxious about what awaited me. I’d been told that I’d be met by a camera crew and they’d get me coming down the stairs. Having traveled all day, barely slept, freshly tattooed and in pain, I could only expect the worst. I’d spent the last couple of days strategically placing napkins underneath me to avoid weeping of ink and plasma from my backside onto sitting areas, largely successfully, with some embarrassing slips, and I was limping noticeably.
I walked out of the secure area: no one was there. Phew. I went to grab my baggage and turned around- there’s the camera and the fertility agency owner behind me. They didn’t recognize me, and I took a moment to breathe in and say hello. After hugs and introductions to the french girls, I had to reenact getting my luggage, followed by a there time reenactment of us walking through the airport doors. Dismayed, I learned that this is what reality TV is about, even if they tag the word “documentary” to it.
We arrived at the agency owners’ house and hung out with the kids, repeating my entrance there four times and I quickly passed out.
The next day, we filmed breakfast. I deliberately wore a soul survivors shirt for the occasion (the day before was my bane zip-up). Why not plug my workplace in France?
They picked me up in the convertible mustang and we went to the fertility doctor’s office. I wore my rise and fall T-shirt cum dress for this one. We had to pretend that I’d never done this procedure before and the doctor hated acting more than anything. I was terrified they’d actually make me get examined, blowing my recently tattooed ass cover, but I protested enough that they left me alone. Afterwards we drove to tustin to meet up with Nicole and brandan at strike, Nicole’s bowling alley workplace. We got drinks and she killed me at pool on camera, and the rum made my lips looser than I would have liked, and though these girls were pro-egg donation, since it’s TV, I know they focused on my and my friends’ tattoos and will edit my responses to lean toward the sensational. It airs in October, so I’ll find out soon enough. I eagerly anticipate the emails I’ll receive from old co-workers after.
The next day, Nicole went to work and brandan lent me his cruiser bike. I rode 21 miles to Huntington beach and marveled at the ubiquitous affliction and tap out gear. Remember when I just found out what that stuff was a week ago? Thank you France for shielding me from the white hat culture this past year; I can’t thank you enough. I hung out at the beach, ate yogurt and rode back, getting a sweet sun burn on the way. That night consisted of going to a Mexican restaurant that wouldn’t stop saying hey later on in the night, and drinking at this infamous Johnny’s bar. Sweet shooters will be the death of any drinker. The next day, we, collective hungover messes, hung out at the beach and ate more yogurt. We’d been invited to go to watch the fights that night at this dude’s house, so that was the plan for the evening.
Here’s where California starts, and kaytee stops getting it. We’re at this huge house worth two mill, having a chill dinner, then people started trickling in: Some ufc fighter, some personal assist to the owner of the kings, oh and the owner of the house is the singer of this huge band with their logo on everything, including the pool table, the bar stools and yes, the beer pong table. It turned into a rager, the girls had plastic surgery, botox, and your token anorexic was there, being hunchy in her baggy size zeroes. There’s a remote that you point anywhere and it made sound come from everywhere. There’s a recording studio with platinum albums on the walls, a future jacuzzi to be built in the backyard. I didn’t get to see the upstairs, but the ceilings were well above ten feet high. These people? Graduated the same year as me.
House owner got riled up after beer pong and ushered everyone outside- we’re going to a bar. We got to this place with a retardedly huge line-up and walked through the velvet rope, getting shown to our area, bottles of alcohol on the table. I found no cups so I filled half a can of pineapple juice with red bull and vodka and started dancing with complete strangers. There was a mechanical bull in the bar. An unfortunate girl thought she can handle it and fell off twice, hard. I got told that dancing in chucks is so “punk rock” of me and got saved by Nicole. It was by far the most ridiculous night I’d witnessed in a long time. The crazy part to me is that this is regular life for these people! The bottles at the bar? Free, just to have this celeb in their bar. Fucking insane.
My incredulity isn’t to be mistaken for judgment at all, however. I realized this weekend, that much like my mom’s culture dictated how she’d be toward us, which often frustrated me, Californian culture is the same way. That concern with appearance, it is their culture. It’s not mine, and I would have a hard time living in that, but it’s not terribly different from that of France, except the french ones, I mostly agree with, subjectively. While the french would never be caught dead in sweats even taking out the garbage, the Californians refuse to have wrinkles past thirty. Potato potato.
Yesterday involved yet another hangover (how is this possible when I spent most of July in the bottle sans consequence?) and shopping. Oh and yogurt. I bought great essentials, and that’s that.
that made me want to die over how fucking cute this dog was, and he’s like, I want a dog like Hooch, and I couldn’t remember what he looked like. 
