Yesterday my in-laws (or whatever it is you call the long-term boyfriend’s parents) were in town. We walked them through Olvera Street, which is just like Tijuana without the drug violence and donkey shows. Looking at the line of hutches that sell tourists Mexican-themed items that are made in China, my mom-in-law asked an innocent question aloud: “Are these only here on the weekends?” (They are open every day, because you never know when you might need a 25 cent miniature sombrero or a cat statue covered in genuine cat hair.)

Some douchebag walking next to us answers her with a laugh: “Uh, yeah, they’re here every day.”

I already wanted to kick him in the balls.

About 15 minutes later, we pass by the same douche. He yells out “Ohio?!”
My boyfriend turned around. “What?”
“Are you guys from Ohio?”

Now, the two of us have been accused of many terrible things, but this stung us to the depths of our Native-Californian souls. Couldn’t he have just called us cunts, I wondered? Is it because we weren’t wearing any Ed Hardy?

I couldn’t get to sleep last night, tossing and turning, mumbling “Ohio…”

This morning, my boyfriend said that he’d woken up at 3AM thinking about the Ohio douchebag, and couldn’t get back to sleep for another hour.

See, clearly we are Californians. We are assholes.

*but dear sweet jesus, I don’t want to be mistaken for someone from Ohio.