Thou Shalt Not...

one woman ad for prohibition

2011-01-28T15:40:00.000-08:00

My flirtation with alcohol has followed a fairly hilly yet predictable path over the years -- from taking my first sip of beer at age six to getting drunk alone at home this Wednesday. I'm proud to say I was on the wagon for ten whole years after that first disgusting sip of Coors my dad let me have, after much persistent begging on my end (how was I to know it didn't taste like Tab?) In high school, my mom decided it would be a good idea for me to have my first full blown drunken experience at home. I had a whole glass of Bailey's (on the rocks, of course) and proclaimed it was better than cough syrup. Surprisingly, I didn't drink in high school and it was another two years before I reluctantly tried beer again. The pressures of college life and the desire to fit in overrode my total body revulsion from my first can of Natural Light and I managed to build up a tolerance for beer flavored water. I didn't drink all that much throughout my four years at school though, and when we celebrated our freedom from college life by drinking mimosas and spraying champagne all over each other before swimming across the disgusting pond on campus, that was pretty much as sloppy as it got.

Because I was in a committed relationship throughout college and for the year after, I didn't really go out and party like I should have. This meant that when I inevitably broke up with my boyfriend who lived 3,000 miles away, I was faced with the not-entirely-disappointing realization that I was finally able to do whatever I wanted with my life, which included drinking to excess and making horrible decisions, which I did, with relish. For the next ten years.

Cut to 2011 and things aren't a whole lot different. I don't go out as often as I used to, but I'm freshly single again so I imagine that's going to change soon. The only thing now is that when I drink to excess on a Wednesday evening, getting up at 6:30AM to be an adult isn't as easy as it used to be. I try to make grand proclamations such as "I'm not drinking for a month" but those never stick because being the only sober one in the group is no fun, and let's face it, I'm funnier after four vodka sprites. Once it hits your lips...

I don't know where I was going with this. Reading it over, I can't tell if I originally intended this post to serve as a denunciation of drinking, or an endorsement. It's actually only served to make me thirsty. Who wants a drink?

bakers dozen

2010-09-24T15:39:00.000-07:00

If, three months ago, you had asked me if I had any interest in training for and running a half marathon through the streets of downtown San Jose come October, I would have looked at you, called you a fucking moron, and resumed eating my potato crisps.

However, here we are, one week shy of October, and I have not only surpassed my previous lifetime achievement of longest distance covered on foot above a brisk walk (though barely) of 4 miles, but I have run without stopping 12 whole miles using my own two feet! Humans shouldn't have to cover distances that far without wheels in this day and age!

Aside from the moderate complaints of slight hip and lower back pain, and a possible stress fracture in my right foot (merely a flesh wound) my body is holding up surprisingly well during these runs. I've overcome the mental hurdle of running this distance by tricking my body into thinking that if it just goes one more mile then I will let it stop and give it ice cream. Just one more...then one more...then one more...now ice cream? Right after this next mile... And then my body totally forgets about the ice cream when it registers that using this tactic it has successfully covered ten miles and burned 1,000 calories and who needs ice cream when it's 9:30AM and you've already accomplished so much??

Another big benefit of running this much is the superiority you have over pretty much everyone else you'll come across the rest of your weekend and how you get to lord your achievements over them mercilessly. For instance, if they tell you how they finally got around to staining that cabinet that they got from Goodwill last month, you can say "hey that's great, but you know what's even greater? Running 12 miles at 7:45 in the goddamn morning, that's what."

And then they win because you've showed them the joys of comparatives, and you win because you're obviously a more disciplined and higher functioning person.

It is also a real pleasure to walk into a sporting goods store or footwear establishment and when the salesperson walks up to you as you're admiring a nice pair of Saucony's, you drop a careless "yeah I just wonder how these will support my ankles during mile nine..." then pause for effect "...cause ya know, I'm a runner. I run."

Nevermind that I nearly faint if I push it over a 10 minute mile pace, or that sometimes each step sends a stab of pain up my right ankle and into my calf. Or that if I run with my sister's dog, at any given moment I can look down and he will be WALKING and looking up at me as if to say "is this all you've got?"

Because I am a runner. I run.

fall chicken

2010-09-07T14:17:00.000-07:00

So last night as I was getting ready for bed, delicately putting my pajamas on so as not to jostle the insanely huge dinner in my stomach for fear I would explode, I realized with horror that something was "not right" in my joints.

Not the kind of "not right" that is laughing at midgets. Not the kind of "not right" that is Katy Perry's career. No, this was the kind of "not right" that involved attempting to contort myself in a variety of yoga and yoga-esque positions in a vain attempt to release the air pocket that was lodged somewhere between my stomach and my kneecaps.

I never used to have these problems. I was the indignant one when a friend or associate of mine would shove their hands under their necks and crank sideways in order to release a volley of snaps and crunches that I was sure would end in their death before my very eyes. People who cracked their knuckles were worse than parents who kiss their babies' heads.

But, after starting to work out pretty regularly about three years ago, I realized that strain on the body results in odd puffs of air being trapped inside you where you least expect them. Then, when you turn to the side to catch a glimpse of a fat squirrel running across the street and your back snaps unexpectedly, releasing you from a tension you didn't know you had, it's on. You spend the rest of your days trying to recreate that sensation, like a drug addict chasing his first high.

If you have never known the frustration of needing to "crack" a body part, then let me break it down for you. It starts as a little seed of an idea: "You know what would feel good right now? A tiny little pop. Just a small one. Loosen those joints up."

It quickly progresses to: "Yeah remember when I said it would be nice to release some of this built up air in between your bones? I meant that if you don't do it soon, this shit is gonna get real."

Then escalates to: "You fucked with the wrong air pocket this time. You think you were uncomfortable before? You can twist your spine off now for all I care. This shit's gonna stay unpopped till the break of dawn."

I twisted and flopped and stretched and pulled for hours, trying to get comfortable. Never in my life had I experienced air so stubborn, or so painful. I never did get it, and I spent the entire night in uncomfortable positions, unable to get a solid hour of sleep in.

This brings me to my next point: I am getting old.

I don't know how this happened, but although I am currently in the best physical shape of my life (I'm not one of those people who are proud to be in "high school shape" again...I'll admit it, I was a fatass in high school) and yet I am plagued by aches and pains that I thought I didn't have to expect until I was 55 at the very least. What the hell, body? Do I have to break your spirit so you let me sleep at night without complaining about a sore ankle or a tender muscle?

I have four weeks left until I'm scheduled to run a half marathon, but at this rate I"m wondering if all of my parts will be in working order on game day. Best case scenario is I'm the one snapping and cracking down the street in my race bib, trying to convince my body that age is just a number...

and then I ate a whole pork loin

2010-09-02T13:45:00.000-07:00

Last week I took out a frozen Hormel pork loin that Hector had bought a while ago, in anticipation of him coming home and me cooking a feast to celebrate his joyous return. Fires broke out and he had to go out of county, so I had a defrosted pork loin on my hands that I didn't really want to eat in the first place and REALLY didn't want to eat all on my own.

I put off cooking that nasty pork loin for as long as possible. I reasoned that it was, after all, vacuum sealed and so it would last longer than a pork loin fresh from the butcher. And since it was from Hormel, I couldn't even be sure that it was technically pork in the first place, rather than "pork composite".

I attempted to recruit others to share in my bountiful loin, acting reluctant to split up the gifts that had been bestowed upon me by the pork gods. When there were no takers, I resorted to pleading and bribery. As in, "if you come over, I'll make sure you are fully supplied with libations" and "are you sure? There's gonna be cookies!"

However, when all was said and done, I had a vacuum sealed pork composite loin to eat all to myself and had no idea how to cook it. The last time I ate one of these (because Hector so thoughtfully purchased two), it was barbecued and not very tasty. It had a weird texture that no meat should have and was surrounded by a "lean" layer of fat that I am now fairly certain was created to add to the illusion that what you're eating is actually from an animal.

The first night, I ate the loin as nature intended, unadorned with a side of broccoli and cauliflower. The second night, I had to spruce it up and used it as a topping on my homemade pizza. The third night, again I just shoveled the sliced loin into my mouth without accoutrement because I had no time to prepare a fancy meal for one. And now, at lunch, I just successfully polished off the last of my pork loin masked in chicken fried rice. It took all week, but I did it America! Now if only I would use my powers for good instead of evil.

a 90 minute wait does not a good crawdad make

2010-08-30T13:32:00.000-07:00

Brian's birthday was last week, and he decided to celebrate by organizing a meal at the Boiling Crab in San Jose. My old vet was next door, so I had driven by the front several times but wrote it off as just another seedy Chinese restaurant in the strip mall my vet is located in. When he said he wanted to go, I looked it up on Yelp and found out that a) it is NOT a Chinese restaurant and b) its popularity borders on cult status among the Asians in the area.

After reading that the restaurant routinely has an hour-plus wait time, we decided to try to beat the rush by going at 2:30 on Sunday and patted ourselves on the back for our cleverness. We were rewarded by a swift kick in the face of reality when, upon arrival, there were buttloads of other clever people who had gotten there before us and now the wait was an hour and a half. An hour and a half to go sit in a restaurant the size of my living room and pay $9 a pound to shuck crawdads for as long as we could stand it.

The Boiling Crab sets new visitors up for disappointment. If you wait an hour and a half for something - ANYTHING - you expect that when you get it, it is going to be pretty damn exciting. Perhaps even the best thing you've ever seen/eaten/done/ridden. How in God's name can a plastic bag of boiled relatives of the cockroach stand a chance? Granted, they are covered in a sauce that Yelp reviewers claim is akin to crack in its addictive qualities. But still, they aren't going to crack themselves open so you can get at the tender meats inside, and therein lies the root of the problem.

I don't mind getting messy in the name of shoveling delicious epicurean treats in my belly. However. These crawdaddies came swimming in a sea of chili seasoned garlic butter, and they weren't too keen on coming out of their shells without a fight. Plus, I had no experience in dealing with getting into a crawdad. So it took a few trials and errors to get a rhythm going that would minimize the crawdad juices sprayed on me and my companions. Add to that, those babies were spicy, so after ten minutes in, I was covered in sauce, crawdad guts, and snots and still wasn't getting any closer to fullness because the meat was the size of a peanut once you finally pulled it out.

In retrospect, I should not have ordered the two pound bag of crawdads. I know many of my decisions are faulty at best and made like this one. I wasn't sure I liked crawdads and had never in my life encountered a whole one before, but I knew that two pounds was more than one and therefore that's what I wanted. I think at some point, my battle with the crawdads became more of a test of will rather than a real desire to eat any more crawdads. My fingers were shaking and my face was spattered, but dammit, I was going to finish what I started.

I began foregoing the claws entirely and focusing just on the little curled up tail. If you've ever had to remove the meat from a lobster tail then you can understand what pulling apart a crawdad is like, only performed on a 1/20 scale. If the meat from a lobster tail pairs nicely with a grilled steak, then the meat from a single crawdad pairs equally well with a bacon bit. I began to hoard my tail meat in the hopes of having one last satisfying portion at the end of my endeavors. After shucking perhaps 10 crawdads, I had two tablespoons of meat. I don't care how awesome the sauce is, I didn't pay $18 to go home and have to eat a hamburger because my 1/4 cup of crawdad came with 1.9 lbs of shells.

In closing, unless you have more coordination that I have (probable) and more finesse in excavating the meat from crustaceans (certain), I would not recommend the Boiling Crab. Not only will your clothes get stained and your face get soiled, but you will likely have to stop on your way home to get some "real" food (pupusas).

lucky ducky

2010-08-11T12:02:00.000-07:00

I won a trip here last night: http://www.meadowood.com/

Hurray! I can't wait...

Oh you fancy, huh?

2010-08-06T09:47:00.000-07:00

Yesterday Janessa arrived at my place repeatedly singing, "Oh you fancy, huh? Oh you fancy, huh?" and I wasn't going to ask, until after the fifth or sixth rendition I finally had to buckle down and inquire what in blazes she was singing. She insists that it is the new Drake song, and although I'm not saying that Drake is by any means a lyrical genius, that hook seems a bit sub-par even for him.

Then I looked up the lyrics.

There is nothing funnier than the laid out lyrics of a hip-hop song, in my opinion. It sounds good on the radio, but just doesn't hold up to scrutiny on print.

Exhibit A:

Go
go 'head
go go go 'head
go go go go go go 'head
go go go go go go 'head
oh you fancy huh
oh you fancy huh
oh you fancy huh
oh you fancy huh

Nails done, hair done, everything done
nails done, hair done, everything done
oh you fancy huh
oh you fancy huh
you you fancy huh
oh you fancy huh

Nails done, hair done, everything done
nails done, hair done, everything done
oh you fancy huh

I rest my case.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me...you can't get fooled again. (AKA Remember that time I drank glass?)

2010-07-14T16:00:00.000-07:00

I believe I have mentioned before that I have a certain, shall we say, "quirk" whereby I simply cannot let food go to waste. I have been known to eat frozen meat (and I cringe as I write this, yet I know I'd do it again) three YEARS after it was first placed in the freezer. 99% of the time, I am perfectly fine after I do this, elevating my stomach to "cast iron" status among friends. I have picked off the moldy parts of bread and made a sandwich, and have eaten week and a half old pizza.

I say all this, and yet even I have limits. Last Monday, I made spaghetti for my dad and sister, and it was delicious. I saved the leftovers and doled them out for all at the end of the night, but fate conspired against my finishing them in the few days after making the dish. So. This Monday, a full week later, I finally ate some of that spaghetti for dinner. I didn't think anything of it, since I have eaten week old spaghetti dozens of times. The difference was, this time I had used fresh pasta, creating perhaps a perfect storm of destruction in my stomach after ingestion. I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, with aches and cramps in my gut that usually mean only one of two things (and since I am a lady I won't say what they are). This continued for most of the morning but finally passed by lunch time. I couldn't be sure that it was the spaghetti, since I had also made pear muffins Monday night using eggs that had passed their "Use by" date two and a half weeks before. To test the theory, I ate the spaghetti again for lunch Tuesday. Unfortunately, I also ate another muffin Tuesday, and this morning at 3AM I was rewarded with intense cramping and explosive bathroom visits. Two doses of Pepto Bismol later and things hadn't even subsided a little. My cast iron stomach has been defeated by either bacteria-laden fettuccine or poisonous unfertilized chickens.

OR...it could be that glass I drank last night. Brian opened a bottle of wine for me and Janessa, and the mouth of the bottle chipped and shattered into the neck. We rinsed it out with water and even passed the wine through a flour sifter (Janessa's idea, I wouldn't even have done that much) but there was no way to be certain that each ladleful of our decanted wine didn't have minute shards of glass in it. Oh sure, we could have thrown away the bottle, but all of us agreed that it was a sin to waste a good $5 bottle of Chardonnay. I'm not sure what the reaction of the body to glass ingestion is, but it feels like it must be something like this. To be safe, tonight I am going to eat neither spaghetti nor muffin, and I sure as hell aint gonna be eating no glass, and hopefully my stomach will bounce back tomorrow, stronger than ever.

Although I did eat that week and a half old burrito today...

the joys of motherhood

2010-06-21T12:57:00.000-07:00

Growing up, I was adamant that I would never have children. So many factors were too up to chance to risk it: behavioral issues in the offspring, irreparable damage to my body (little did I know then I would do this all by myself via cheeseburgers, pizza, and alcohol), and the most dreaded - ugliness. Why would I have a child when supporting myself was a harrowing enough task? Plus, there was my selfishness to contend with.

But as I get older, I'm thinking it might not be so bad to have a little me running around, so long as it's a girl and doesn't talk back. In lieu of launching directly into motherhood, however, two years ago I decided to get a dog. If I can handle this, I reasoned, then surely a child can't be much worse? I know there are some subtle differences between raising a baby to adulthood and looking after a dog for 8-15 years, and although I have discovered that some parents can get pretty uppity about the distinction between pet and progeny, I still feel that basically the idea is the same. Your life as you know it is over either way; the only difference is that when you go on vacation you can stick your dog in a kennel, but this is generally frowned upon for babies.

Dog ownership, like child rearing, isn't all roses and glory. Yes, Sheba is soft and cute and she gives me that warm, needed feeling when she wakes up to discover I'm home and goes apeshit all over the house, but she also rubs her ass across my floor, doesn't listen to me when I call her (being deaf is no excuse), pisses in the corner, and keeps me up at night with her incessant scratching. That's something I had no idea existed before owning a dog myself: dog allergies. And just my luck, Sheba has them in spades. She's allergic to grass, which is great if you're a dog, because a nice alternative to going out on the grass to pee is just squatting wherever you feel like it and relieving yourself on the carpet. But this is not so great for the human who walks on that carpet, and so to counteract the extreme allergic reaction Sheba has when I take her out 5-6 times a day to pee on our front lawn, I am forced to give her Children's Benadryl daily so that she bites her feet 5% less than she otherwise would. The summer is the worst, and it's an ordinary evening where I'm sitting between Hector, eyes red and nose running and doped up on a powerful Zyrtec/Sudafed combo, and Sheba, feet almost bloodied due to a constant manic biting alternating with frequent scratchings.

This weekend, my Mom was visiting, and since she's allergic to Sheba, I let her sleep with me in my room and promised that Sheba wouldn't be allowed in. Apparently I should have checked with Sheba on that though, because the first night, she spent an entire half hour after we went to bed scratching on the bedroom door demanding to be let in. My mom and I are both light sleepers, so while Hector (who I had asked to please keep Sheba in bed with him in the living room) was able to conveniently ignore her desperate clawings on the door and drift off to sleep, the etchings she was drawing on my door were making it pretty impossible on our end to ignore. I know there are schools of thought that say when babies cry at night, you should ignore them so they learn that crybabies won't be rewarded in THIS house, but obviously I will be in the camp of "tough love is great, but sleep is better". I let her in and she immediately settled in to scratching under the blankets. She was in rare form and woke us up every hour on the hour with a medley of scratching, choking, and getting up to retch in the corner or stare expectantly at the door til I took her outside to use the bathroom. I basically didn't get any sleep all weekend, and if this is what having a baby is going to be like, then no thank you. My mom left this morning, so I'll see if Sheba behaves herself tonight now that she's back to being Queen of the Bed, but even this short-lived sleep deprivation has been enough to make me question my future life choices.

Until you can stow your babies in cages filled with blankets and food and water while you go to work, I'll take dog ownership over baby ownership any day.

that's an hour of my life I'll never get back

2010-06-15T15:00:00.000-07:00

There's one part of my job that I dread doing more than anything else, and thankfully I don't have to do it too often: making calls to customer service departments. Honestly, I don't know how some of them get off still calling it "customer service" since the only service they provide is that of pissing me off to the point of screaming into the telephone and imagining the person on the other line being mauled to death by a pack of hungry chihuahuas. But as bad as customer service can be, it gets so much worse when the call center has been off-shored to India. No one who has gotten to the point where they've submitted to defeat and decided to make the dreaded call in the first place is in the right frame of mind to then be put through the task of hunting down the actual phone number on the "user-friendly" website (past pop up offers to live-chat with "Terry" or "Lisa" when you know it's more like "Ambuja" or "Preeti")and tempting suggestions that you wade through the user forums where other saps like yourself may have had their issue resolved by others with nothing better to do than surf said forums. Once you do find the phone number, you have to enter a series of other numbers and information about yourself which for some reason they are incapable of keeping for the use of each successive operator they end up shuttling you through. If by some miracle you get a live human on the other end, you have to explain using symbols and grunts what the problem seems to be, and what should take two minutes to explain ends up taking 20. Then you either get disconnected or told that you're calling the wrong department and to please call the other service line, where you start the process anew.

Today I spent over an hour on the phone with Dell who, through several frustrating and resolution-free conversations over the past couple of months, have led me to the conclusion that not only will I never be purchasing another Dell product again, but I may also light my current one on fire and send it still smoldering FedEx Overnight to Delhi. I had to explain what I was trying to accomplish THREE times to THREE different people, each explanation taking over ten minutes to complete, and none getting me closer to a resolution. In the end, I wound up in the Software Support department, a place where they waste your time listening to you describe the issue for 15 minutes, only to transfer you to a manager who will ask you to describe the issue and will then try to sell you a "guaranteed resolution" for $89. When you finally buckle and agree to a now lowered price (because you flat out refused the higher one), they take your credit card information and then leave you for five full minutes, only to come back and say that resolution they guaranteed is unfortunately impossible. Commence beating phone on table. I went through all this, and even stayed on the line while the latest person I was talking to transferred me to another technician who would be able to confirm they couldn't help me. Once he did that, I held once more so I could be transferred yet again to someone who would assure me that my credit card wouldn't be charged since they couldn't resolve my issue. Except, instead of ending up with someone familiar to my case, I wound up in the Sales Department, while someone asked how he could help me with my purchase. After an hour and ten minutes, for some reason this was my breaking point, and I hung up. And two minutes later got a call back from the Dell Call Back Department, expressing their regrets that we were accidentally disconnected.

I am really dreading the call I will have to make when the next credit card statement comes in.

don't believe everything you read at Planned Parenthood

2010-06-11T18:00:00.000-07:00

If you are male, you may want to skip this post.

Getting an IUD was an idea I've been toying with for some time now, so the last time I was at the clinic for my yearly checkup, I asked the nurse practitioner or whatever they are there whether she recommended it, and got some information on the benefits and dangers of getting one. There are two kinds, one with hormones and one without, and the little pamphlet makes it a pretty easy decision (contract with Mirena, perhaps?) since it claims they both do basically the same thing, except one gives you worse cramps and heavier periods and the other gives you fewer cramps and a lighter to no period. For 5 years. Um, yes please. I left the clinic with instructions on when the best time to make an appointment would be and a prescription for a drug to take 8-12 hours before the insertion to prime the cervix (I hope that's the last time I ever write that). Long term birth control step one - done.

A couple of weeks later, I called the clinic again to make my appointment to get the show on the road. Except they had no record of me getting the information on pros and cons, which apparently is a must before you can come in for the procedure. I tried to rationalize with the 20 year old lab tech that how could I have a prescription without having been prepped on IUD 101, but she wasn't having it and insisted I come back for that consultation before I could even make an appointment for the insertion. Have you ever been to Planned Parenthood? Even with an appointment, your total visit time is never less than an hour and a half, and I can't be taking off all kinds of time at work just to thwart accidental impregnation. The only reason I still go there is because everything's free. I called back another day and got a more reasonable person on the phone, who understood that in order to have a prescription, I must have spoken to someone authorized to give one out, and she scheduled for me to come in the next week. I took the medicine as close to 8-12 hours before my appointment as possible, but because I wasn't about to stay up til 2AM to do it, I may have taken it a bit more than 12 hours before. Was this a huge mistake? Maybe.

I went in for my appointment with my papers in hand and re-read all the possible side effects (cramping, expulsion of the IUD, infection, puncturing of the uterus - yikes!) and was still confident in my decision. The paper said the procedure could cause "mild to moderate" discomfort, but I wasn't too worried because I have a fairly high tolerance for pain. I have several tattoos and once went two weeks without a bowel movement, I'm practically immune to pain! The technician showed me the IUD (a little bigger than I would have thought) and we began the procedure. It's very disconcerting to be on that table so completely exposed; you have to put all your trust in someone you've never met and let it all hang out there. It's funny when the doctor tries to make small talk like there's nothing out of the ordinary happening...I once had a doctor comment on how much she liked my socks. I guess that's all she COULD like, since it's all I was wearing. Anyway, I expected the insertion to feel something like getting a Pap Smear, uncomfortable, annoying, but not too bad.

I was wrong. Very, very, horribly and insanely painfully, wrong. When she told me to take a deep breath for the first step in insertion, I almost stopped breathing when she did whatever she did down there. I screamed. And then I held my breath, realizing I had made a huge mistake. It felt like someone had stabbed me where I didn't know I could be stabbed, and the pain radiated through my entire lower body. Once I knew what to expect, the next 5-6 pain waves were even worse, and somehow, different. Mild to moderate my ass. When she was finally finished, she brought me a wet towel to cool my by now copiously sweating body. I kept apologizing to her because I NEVER get like that, but then again, I had never experienced what I just experienced. She wanted me to stay and recover for at least 15 minutes, but I just wanted to get out of there and never come back. The whole drive home I couldn't feel my legs or hands, and I was shaking. I felt like such a wuss, but I cannot stress enough that I had never felt this kind of pain before. I just kept comforting myself with the fact that I would now be baby-free for 5 years or however long I wanted in that time frame. And bonus, no more periods! I could handle a day of intense cramping for that.

This week, however, Planned Parenthood got their final dig, when not only did I not have a lighter, cramp free period, but instead had a worse-than-normal one that lasted longer than I would have liked. It just goes to show, you can't believe everything you read in those eye-catching pamphlets.

So it's come to this: a tale of baby voyeurism and dog-scented jalopies

2010-06-09T09:17:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted anything since September and am not promising that I will start posting regularly as of now, but I do enjoy writing even if it's only to read back later and marvel at my cleverness. To bring you up to speed with the exciting changes in my life in the past 9 months (that would have been enough time to gestate!)...Janessa has moved out to live once again with Brian (they grow up so fast) and not much else of consequence has happened. I went on a couple small vacations to Seattle and Vegas (perhaps more on Vegas later) but otherwise I've been working and gymming and sleeping according to my regular habits. Moving on!

This weekend was the yearly Dog Walk that the animal rescue organization I volunteer for puts on. We've been working on it since before Christmas and it takes a huge amount of effort and coordination on everyone's part to carry it off. The day before the walk, I was supposed to go to Costco with some of the group to shop for the barbecue, but since I had also promised Janelle I would see "The Babies" with her (side note: not as bad as I would have thought), I wasn't able to make it and instead offered to drive another volunteer's truck stocked with supplies to the event. The movie was at Santana Row, so we decided to go to dinner afterward and then go pick up the truck in San Jose and take it wherever we decided to go out after. Ok. Let me back up a bit to when we first got to the theater, rounded the corner, and saw a line stretching into the parking lot for the ticket counter. Not what we were expecting at 4PM on a Saturday at the theater which shows mainly indie films. We first noticed something amiss when we started checking out our linemates...mostly 30-something/40-something women dressed even more over-the-top than typical Santana Row wannabes. Anxiously whispering that hopefully all of these women weren't there to see the Babies, Janelle and I tried to overhear what the group at the front were going to see. Turns out, the CineArts was also showing Sex & the City 2 at almost the exact same time we were to see the Babies. Aha! Now the drunken gaggles of women desperately trying to recapture their youth and band together through the common themes of love, fashion, and horse-faces made sense. I only hoped passersby wouldn't confuse me and Janelle with these pathetic moviegoers; we were going to spend OUR afternoon watching four babies from birth to age one! I stand by my choices.

So after the movie and after dinner, we headed over to my friend Jennifer's house where the truck was parked - the owner had rented a U-haul to drive to the walk so I would take her truck filled with buns, water, soda, and charcoal. I should mention that the owner fosters dogs with the organization, a fact which I didn't really think about until the three of us, dressed in semi-fancy attire, were squeezed into the cab of the Ford Ranger, literally covered in dog hair and reeking of unbathed canine. Janessa has three dogs in a 700sf apartment, and even she was offended. At first it was funny, but after a couple of minutes of driving 50mph down the freeway (the fastest it would go), unable to see out of the back window because of the grime and getting my hair blown off because of the necessity of having the windows rolled down just to breathe, blasting Usher's "OMG" (featuring Will.i.am) and looking like we were on our way to Club Miami...yeah, it was still funny. We decided not to go back to Santana Row in our new ride, but instead, and more appropriately, to the liquor store around the corner to pick up some $6 wine and drink at home. Good times! Makes me appreciate the little cube car I drive that allows me to reach speeds of 80mph and beyond with the slightest depression of my toes. It may be ugly but at least the dog hair is limited.

I just pissed myself

2009-09-03T15:10:00.000-07:00

animal cracker o'clock

2009-08-13T08:52:00.000-07:00

I have always been a pretty huge pig when it comes to food. When I was younger and other girls my age were daintily picking at their meals, I was scarfing down plate after plate of everything edible at the buffet. A woman actually came up to my sister and I after a fairly monstrous eating frenzy at the 94th Aerosquadron to say how much she'd enjoyed watching us shovel the food down in huge quantities. So yeah, you could say I like food.

I have no problem with my little food obsession, but lately I have been noticing something bordering on the alarming: when I wake up in the morning, the first thing I think of is what I'm going to eat that day. Like, "ooh I get to have my coffee in an hour and a half!" or maybe "Yes! Today is the day I am trying that new steak salad at work!" And it's not like I'm constantly eating new and exotic things; my food schedule has been the same for months. Coffee at 8:30, Special K (with strawberries!) at 10, salami sandwich with goldfish somewhere between 12:30 and 2, a piece of fruit at 3 and animal crackers at 4. You could literally set the clock by my snacking throughout the workday. And for dinner? I can work myself into a froth thinking about my options. This can't be normal.

With all that eating, I would easily be 300 pounds if it weren't for all the exercising I do to support my habits. Spinning to work off the cheese and crackers, kickboxing to counteract the effects of the ice cream sandwiches. But now that I'm (gasp!) 30, it seems like the scales are tipping more to the food side. A three mile run doesn't exactly work off that pound of macaroni and cheese anymore (did I mention I love cheese?), so I'm left with a really depressing choice. Either I work out even more - which would be hard to do since I'm already going to the gym 6-8 times a week, or I cut back on what I'm stuffing into my face. I'm not really sure I'm capable of making that decision.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some cereal to eat.

there should be a law

2009-08-06T11:28:00.000-07:00

The more I learn about childbirth and child-rearing, the less I feel like it's for me. But then, I read stories like this one and think, "Sweet jesus, if this person was allowed to procreate, then why not me??" I promise not to let MY child get behind the wheel to cart my drunk ass home until it's at least ten years old, which makes me better than this woman. (Except, of course, that I refer to all potential children as "it" which I have been told makes me seem less than motherly.)

With all the stories in the news lately, I really think there should be a law that requires all prospective parents to pass at least some basic competency tests/ mental health assessments before being allowed to take off that condom. Or maybe show that they can successfully raise a pet to its normal life expectancy...

but that mouse I left outside to its unfortunate demise doesn't count.

all grown up and responsible-like

2009-07-09T09:31:00.000-07:00

I just realized I haven't written anything in 2 months. I'd like to say a lot has happened in that time, but most likely it hasn't. The most exciting turn of events is that this Monday, I turned 30 and am now officially an adult! I thought it would be more upsetting than it was, but so far it feels just like 29, only with more gas. But that is probably from all the fruit I've been eating. Laura and I celebrated our coming of age together with a double quinceanera, which was fun and exciting and not like a real quinceanera at all. But we had lots of beer and a fantastic "under the sea" photo backdrop, which made it all better. And JC Penney really came through with a sweet orange dress for a mere $25. I knew it was perfect when, as I was coming out of the dressing room with it lovingly draped over my arm, a real live Mexican woman quietly commented "Pretty..." as she walked by. Score!

Behold:

The boyfriends really made the day magical by playing along and dressing to match their old ladies. You know a guy's a keeper when he is willing to wear convict-orange pants or a royal purple vest and bowtie to please you on your special day. Thanks, chambelanes!

Fourth of July was also pretty great, hosted by the lovely Erica and the handsome Dave. Their apartment is awesome to have the Fourth at because their balcony has a great view of three sets of fireworks. Plus, we had sparklers to wave around over the dry shrubbery below. Fire hazard! This year I curbed my tendency to overeat (understatement of the year) and only had a hot dog and half a burger. I was forced to eat two corns because after the first one, I learned that Maria had hurled her eaten cob across the parking lot below to land on the roof of the industrial building 100 yards away. And really, how can you not attempt to match that feat? Result: complete failure as my cob pathetically landed on the awning about 10 feet short of the roof. I will practice for next year. Here's Maria's first corn:

And I will say this: the next time someone goes up on that roof they are going to be in for a nice surprise, as eventually as the drinking progressed, we graduated from chucking corn cobs to hurtling empty bottles across the lot. Very few of them made it.

There was a contest for "most patriotic", and although Laura took home the apricot preserve grand prize at the party, I think if Francis had been there he would have been the recipient of a delicious apricot treat.

(Photo courtesy of my dad, who graciously watched the puppies on the 4th and never misses an opportunity to immortalize his grandchildren on film.) Here's one of Sheba, and please note how my father made no attempt to insert the flags in her collar, as she couldn't even be bothered to look up for the camera.

And what fourth of July celebration would be complete without the cheese ball eating contest? Brian won again this year, with Janessa, Maria and I warming up early but ultimately falling short.

Next year...

skeletor

2009-05-13T10:40:00.000-07:00

I've been watching the Biggest Loser all season, which is a first for me since in the past I've been content to just watch the finales. They show the before pictures anyway so you can get the idea of how far they've come. But this year, I invested in the contestants. I formed my snap judgments and denounced the ones who refused to push or who cried constantly. I cheered when my favorites lost a ton of weight and shouted at the TV when Ron was an asshole or when Laura/Shannon/Helen/Aubrey cried for the ten-thousandth time.

I won't get into all the things that pissed me off about the finale, after I spent so much time getting emotionally involved in the series (read: eating pizza/fried chicken/cake in front of the TV every week and feeling momentarily motivated to work out afterwards) but I was furious...FURIOUS when Helen came out looking like a sack of bones and ended up winning the entire thing. I was pleasantly shocked when Mike came out looking really svelte (but still healthy) and I thought Tara looked great, if a little strange looking in the face, but that could have been because of her overdone makeup. Tara should have won. She was the best competitor in the entire series, and she actually looked healthy in the finale. Helen looked like she had aged at least 10 years and hadn't had a drop of water in the last week. Seriously, the show took a turn for the worse with this win I think, since to me the message that Helen's win sends is that it's ok to overexercise and undereat/drink if it's for $250,000. Of course she lost the most percentage of body weight, pretty much all that's left of her is bone! Janessa and I were taking turns shuddering during the last 30 minutes of the finale, every time they would zoom in on Helen's haggard face. Considering how selfish she was during the entire show, I wouldn't be surprised if all her daughter will see of the winnings is a value meal at McDonalds. Congratulations, Helen!

and they said it couldn't be done

2009-04-20T16:27:00.000-07:00

It's no secret that I have a problem with food, and that problem is that I eat way too much of it. I have had people watch me in disgust as I pack away entire sides of beef, panfuls of macaroni, or bucketloads of popcorn just so none of it gets thrown away.

This weekend, we went camping and I ate more than I should have. I brought a block of pepper jack cheese to eat with salami (reduced fat, so it's not entirely bad!) and roasted garlic triscuits. Side note: that shit is delicious.

Anyway, halfway into the cheese I started to feel full. But there was still cut cheese on the plate that no one was eating. So I soldiered on...and on...and on. Berta's mom mentioned that maybe the plate should be taken away from me, but Berta wisely cautioned that it wasn't a good idea, since I have been known to bite when hands get near my food. All told, I ate about a half pound of cheese and who knows how many servings of triscuits and salami. The sad part of that story is that it's not all that uncommon.

Last night, I noticed that I still had half of my footlong Subway sandwich I had bought when we moved last weekend, hidden in the refrigerator door. That would make the sandwich 9 1/2 days old as of today. Janessa said I shouldn't eat it, with worry in her voice. Hector said to throw it away. But after working out at lunch in the 80 degree exercise room for our building, that aged sandwich tasted terrific. Jared would have been proud.

mama was a rollin' stone

2009-04-03T14:07:00.000-07:00

I'm moving next week. In the past 5 years, if I include this time, I'll have moved three times. That might not seem like that many times to some (like say, a transient) but I absolutely hate moving and this third time that I have to pack up all my crap and figure out how to get it 8.1 miles from A to B is about as not fun as it can be.

I'm sick of the same old things I've had since I first moved out on my own, but too broke to buy newer, fancier things to get sick of. However, despite all the trials and annoyances of packing, I am definitely excited to be moving out of the ghetto. The other night, as I was drifting off to sleep, I was awakened by not one (which is alarming enough), not two (getting a little scarier) but FOUR gunshots in rapid succession, which signifies to me that the shooter meant business and/or had a semi-automatic weapon, and the shootee probably at the very least pissed his pants and at the very most got killed. At my new apartment, (if first impressions count for anything) the most troubling sound I'm going to hear at 11:30 PM will be those of the local geese getting gangbanged by some ganders. For that, I might even make popcorn.

In the spirit of getting rid of stuff that I've had around the house and not used for the past two years, I threw away a few dozen shampoo/conditioner/lotion samples that have been collecting in my bathroom, and have put some things up on Craigslist to see what might even make me a few bucks out of the deal. You know what they say about one man's shit being another man's treasure? Well, I sold a box of my childhood troll dolls for $30. It don't get more shit than that.

I also sold my couch last night, since I'll be taking Brian and Janessa's urine-soaked leather one instead. There is no better illustration of the way things have been going for me lately:

Brian: Do you want my sofa bed? It's leather.
Me, looking at my current ratty blue/tan/brown striped sofa bed covered in an ill-fitting black couch cover made white by the abundance of Shebe hairs: YES!
Janessa: Tibbsy has been pissing on it daily.
Me: ... what color leather?

Since I didn't really trust the guy coming to buy my couch and was slightly worried I'd only be inviting a stranger into my home to have the place cased and then robbed, I asked my dad to come over to look menacing. He failed when he immediately threw himself on the floor next to Sheba and started cuddling with her. But it was ok, because the guy showed up with his brother-in-law and a 2 year old. No robber/rapist brings a kid along, right? Unfortunately, the guy expected me to hold his child as he attempted to shove the couch out of my door. The last time I held a baby was in high school and that didn't go well either. The only way I know to hold anything over 6 pounds is the way I hold Sheba, so needless to say by the end of the ordeal, both me and the little boy were tearstained and crying for our daddies. But only one of us got $100 out of it, so take that, little Carlito!

I am now in the process of attempting to advertise the eleven Girls Gone Wild dvds left behind by an ex 21/2 years ago in a way that doesn't get them immediately pulled from Craigslist. I've gotten some nibbles...but if the buyer wants to come to my house to pick up, something tells me I'm not going to be able to ask my dad to chaperone.

sweet jesus!

2009-03-26T13:48:00.000-07:00

this lobster is 50 to 90 years old. I don't even think I'll be able to live that long...

buns of steel

2009-02-24T14:26:00.000-08:00

If a doctor offered me today to replace my bones with steel, or perhaps a titanium alloy, I would have to say go for it. Because although my body has been generally kind to me over the years, I've been having a few problems with it lately. Last week it was my hand, causing me to spend the four-hour car ride to Tahoe with my left hand cupping the mangled right one, an ugly bruise spread across the palm and the fingers curled in and unable to straighten out. God knows what happened to it (this is why you should listen to your mother when she tells you not to drink. It really isn't becoming of a lady) but I do remember some fighting. I was pretty sure it was broken, but having never broken a bone in my life and having just canceled my health insurance two weeks before, I had no way of confirming this. So I adapted to my claw-hand, comforting myself with the fact that lots of things cope with three digits.

So I'm ok with my three fingered lifestyle, although it was depressing to learn that I can no longer eat with chopsticks. But last Friday, I started having pains in my left side whenever I breathed. Which happens to be quite a lot. I didn't worry about it too much until I woke up Saturday, still unable to breathe without wincing. I started to get a little worried, so I did what anyone without insurance has to do to diagnose their ailment. I went on WebMD.com to see what I had. Turns out, according to the little clickable body, it was either a miscarriage or some sort of imminent kidney failure. I should mention that I am somewhat of a hypochondriac, so I was immediately convinced I would need a kidney transplant and started mentally listing possible kidneys to harvest. When I still couldn't laugh without screaming by Monday, I decided to reinstate my medical coverage and go to the doctor.

As it turns out, my kidneys are fine and this is most likely a muscle strain. Possibly from my sedentary career path, but also and more alarmingly, possibly from the salsa dancing I did last Thursday night. This is frightening because the class is beginner level and there is no explanation for the intense pain I am in merely from being twirled around for half an hour. If this is what my thirties have in store for me, then I may as well order my Rascal now...although I'm not sure how well I'll be able to operate the controls.

another day, another person I want to strangle

2009-02-06T14:34:00.001-08:00

I'm tired. Really, really, tired. But that is to be expected I guess from splitting a week starting a new job and working half days at the old office. I haven't had a lunch break since Monday and the stress of trying to remember to-do items from both companies is starting to make my eyeballs pop out. But...I'll get used to it.

Now, on to the strangling.

Last night, Hector told me he was taking me out to dinner (somewhere far away, he said, and our reservations were at 8). I changed from my work clothes when I got home, and since I had no idea where we were going, I looked to Hector to tell me what was appropriate attire. I ended up wearing a sweater-y top and jeans, with my converse, which I was pretty sure would be too informal for Ruth's Chris (there went THAT hope). We then drove down the street and into the Outback parking lot.

Now don't get me wrong, I love me some Outback, but it's certainly not worthy of going to all the trouble to keep it a secret for a week that Thursday night I would be eating a 7oz Outback Special with a side salad and baked potato (hold the sour cream). So I was understandably confused as I walked into the restaurant, thinking maybe that once we got in there, the real surprise would be that all my family and friends had been gathered surreptitiously to help me celebrate...Thursday? Getting through four days of a new job? Going a whole day without spilling anything on my shirt? Instead, the only surprise was that we sat down to eat and commenced one damn fine meal.

I won't put you through the suspense I had of trying to figure out what the hell was going on. After we ate, we drove downtown and I learned that we would be going to the Sharks game. Hector bought tickets for us because he knew I'd wanted to go for a while now, and so we went. It was a surprise, and a very nice one. He got the good tickets too, the ones on the bottom where I didn't need my glasses to make out the puck and Setoguchi's sweet lips.

Unfortunately, no amount of money could have been paid to prevent us from having seats near the assholes who ended up behind us. As soon as they sat down and I heard the first piercing shriek of the woman and lame baritone "witty" commentary of the man, I knew that I would hate them with every fiber of my being, as I do various strangers at least ten times a day. But, instead of my hate passing as it does when I zoom past some jerk who cuts me off on the way to work, or when I loudly whisper to Laura "I hate someone in this yoga class", or when I let the air out of an inconsiderate neighbor's tires, this hate was to last for three periods, one overtime, and a shootout. The woman was loud, drunk, and knowledgeable of the player's names, which was a very upsetting combination. For every single play, every single time the puck was touched, my ears would ring with screams of "Come on, Marleau!" or "Get it out of there, Boyle!" or the truly enraging, "Stop fucking up, Ehrhoff!" Even Hector almost snapped at that one, since we could hear both her and her stupid male counterpart complaining how awful Ehrhoff was and how he's been screwing up all season. I certainly didn't see her fat ass on the ice doing any better for the team.

Aside from that, it was nice to be able to see the Sharks play, even though they did lose. I got to see my first ever shootout, which was interesting. And I got to eat an entire king size kit-kat to myself, which was glorious. We came very close to being on the monitor several times, which makes me think maybe I should have worn more revealing clothes or brought a baby to dress in a shark costume for crowd appeal. But there's always next time. One thing I'm thankful for, I didn't wear heels to my fancy surprise dinner.

two weeks in review

2009-01-29T11:50:00.000-08:00

A couple weeks ago, my boss called me into the conference room, which in and of itself is kind of a nerve-wracking experience (even though the last conference room meeting resulted in my receiving an envelope filled with cash). When we got in, he told me that he was really sorry, but he would have to cut my hours back to just two days a week. There isn't as much work coming in, and because he's in the business of buying property, there isn't any income right now either, making for a pretty bleak situation. I've worked with him for two and a half years, and I've never seen him look more depressed than he did when he told me all this. Talking to him, I was calm and I was understanding, but inside I was panicking and thinking I would have to move back in with my dad. Or start whoring for money. Isn't that what Craigslist is for?

After that meeting, I updated my resume and applied for everything I was even remotely qualified for in fields I had even the tiniest bit of experience in. I discovered in one morning that I've actually learned a lot more than I realized at this job, which hopefully has made me a more marketable employee. After faxing my resume/cover letter to one prospective employer, I forgot to pick up the confirmation sheet that also prints out the first page of what you faxed. So about five minutes later, a coworker came into my office looking really concerned. I had to explain what happened (feeling guilty for some reason, like I was going behind everyone's back to look for more work) and she told me she would keep her eyes peeled for any opportunity she might see. About ten minutes after that, another coworker came in and told me that she had just learned of my situation and would I mind if she called her boss' neighbor who had asked her to work for him a few months ago to see if he still needed anyone? I told her of course not! And she made the call, and learned that he had found someone, but knew of someone else who needed an assistant. So he called that guy and then called back to give me his cell number so I could also call and introduce myself. I did, and ended up scheduling a meeting for later that day.

I wound up meeting with the CEO of this new company that day, and then the CFO the following day. I left both days with a really good feeling that this might become a new opportunity for me, and WAY sooner than I could have hoped. The next week, the CEO called both the woman who had referred me and my current boss to see what they had to say about my work ethic. Apparently they weren't too hard on me, because at the end of the week he offered me the job, starting part time at first to kind of phase out at my office now, and then hopefully moving on to full time after two months. I'm excited to start with a new, stable company in what could become a really great career move, but at the same time, I'm sad that I will probably have to leave where I'm at now. I've learned that there are way more important things than money when it comes to working. It's really important to me to be appreciated for the work I do, and to have people I work with who I genuinely look forward to seeing every day. I know the new office will be like that, because everyone there seems really great, but it's depressing that I will have to leave these women and my boss who bent over backwards to help me out these past couple of weeks.

(But don't get me wrong, the money's nice too.)

Over the next couple of months I will be working like crazy, going from one job to the next and trying to ingratiate myself in the new office so that they have to wonder what they ever did without me. I have to also go buy some new office clothes that make sure to hide my tattoos, cause something tells me I shouldn't show the arm and shoulder till I'm no longer a contractor and they can't get rid of me. Turtlenecks and long sleeves, here I come!

backwards underpants: cause I'm rebellious like that

2009-01-21T08:16:00.000-08:00

Ever have one of those days when you're visiting the powder room at work, doing your business, and then you reach down to pull up your undergarments, only to realize that the little pink dog logo for your Victoria's Secret PINK underpants is alarmingly well-embroidered on the side facing you? What follows this realization is a small-scale internal dilemma: do I remove my pants and shoes here in the bathroom to correct this mistake and flip my chonies right side out, or do I bravely forge onward and continue the rest of the day (including spinning tonight) knowing that I am soiling the wrong side of my underwear?? This is a question I have had to ask myself twice now in the past month, since apparently the darkness in my closet at 6:45AM coupled with the fact that I refuse to open my eyes completely before 7 have combined to make me underpant dyslexic. At least it's almost impossible to confuse the front from the back. That would be painful.

FYI, I chose not to take the time to fix my mistake, lest my pants touch the disgusting bathroom floor in the removal process.

what's trashier than Tara Reid?

2009-01-13T11:15:00.000-08:00

I'm not going to say any of us out-trashed the trash queen, but dammit if we didn't try. I'm way too lazy to post all the pictures I took at the Second Annual White Trash party this weekend and edit them with commentary, so if y'all are so inclined, you can view the festivities here:

http://s78.photobucket.com/albums/j119/jawinn10/white%20trash%2008/

I will say that I did not think it was possible for us to outdo the costumes of last year, but I was blown away by the creativity and obvious multiple trips to the Goodwill. Well done, everyone, well done. Hooter's hot wings, Rosarita refried bean dip, eggrolls, falafels, chicken nuggets and a hostess dessert assortment graced the feasting table, and Hamm's, PBR, and the champagne of beers all made an appearance. The white elephant gift exchange was a huge success, with the most popular re-gifted items to steal being the Jelly Belly jelly bean container (complete with stale jelly beans inside!) and the porn variety pack with whip and lube. I ended up with a pegasus puzzle that is really shaped like a pegasus (!) and I have half a mind to put it together then mount it on the wall. The only thing stopping me is I'm pretty sure it was sitting in Laura's attic since we were ten years old and I know I'm going to get 999 pieces put in place, only to realize that I am missing the eyeball. I just can't take that kind of frustration again.

In an unrelated story, I was recently introduced to this site:
http://fuckyoupenguin.blogspot.com/ and apparently they are at war with Cute Overload to win the 2008 Weblog Award for best pet blog. I followed the link to what Cute Overload is saying, and it's pretty hilarious that some people are so up in arms about it: http://mfrost.typepad.com/cute_overload/2009/01/get-out-the-s-1.html I was reading through the entries yesterday while avoiding work and I couldn't stop laughing imagining people at home or work argue over who has better commentary about baby bunnies. I voted for the penguin, because that guy is hilarious, and I want to see the loyal readers of the other site go apeshit when they lose. I will be checking back frequently.

street justice

2009-01-08T15:49:00.000-08:00

If I were granted the power and authority to kill whomever I chose, (street justice, if you will) then the asshole who decided it would be a good idea to remove the dead bugs from his windshield while traveling 70 mph on the freeway with me behind him would be first on my list to die today. Fucking douchebag. Could it not have waited? Who doesn't understand the laws of physics whereby something the weight of a grain of rice projected almost vertically is going to spray the bejeesus out of my windshield when faced with a horizontal force at least 1,000 times its weight?? Every time this happens to me I really wish I had heat seeking missiles in my Nissan Sentra. But, seeing as I couldn't even get a car with power windows, I don't think the "launch missile" feature will be available for upgrade any time soon.

Next on my death list is Katy Perry, because if I have to hear the opening lines, "You....change your mind...like a girl....changes clothes" one more time when flipping through the stations, I'm going to kill a puppy.

Resolutions for the New Year and other ways to feel like a failure by January 2nd

2008-12-30T14:09:00.000-08:00

I've never really made New Year's Resolutions, (at least never with the intention of keeping them) preferring instead in past years to live through the ultimate failures of others'. Most people I know resolve to start working out in the New Year, figuring that for some reason once the dawn breaks Jan 1, they will open their bloodshot eyes after a few hours of drunken sleep and be able to resist the urge that had gotten the better of them the past 365 days and exercise rather than sleeping in and eating ho-hos for breakfast. This resolution only results in inevitable disappointment, because really the new year is no different than the last one and a new stretch of 12 months ahead of you doesn't take away the fact that you are a lazy slob. This, however, doesn't stop people from buying gym memberships and crowding my weekly yoga and spinning classes for the first few weeks of the year. Without fail though, by February everything is back to normal, restoring my faith in man's inability to stick with it.

This year I think I will try out a few resolutions that I'm pretty sure I can keep. This will not only boost my confidence and ability to follow through, but will make me look better than everyone else when, come February, I am still riding high on my accomplishments.

My New Year's Resolutions, 2009 Edition

1. I will slowly stop working out and will let the fat resume its hold of my ass and thighs.
2. I will eat more beef.
3. I will squander my paychecks on items I can't account for later and will barely be able to make my rent payments with the balance.
4. I will be more anxious.
5. I will spend at least one hour of every day wasting my life away.
6. I will not pursue a more financially rewarding career.
7. I will purchase more fabric and stow it away in various places in my closet, vowing to sew "projects" that will never get completed.
8. I will incorporate cheese into at least 85% of my weekly food intake.
9. I will not have a nice round number of resolutions.

Already I am ahead! 2009 is promising to be a very good year.

Hope everyone has a happy and safe New Year's Eve. After this we've got at least six weeks of no holidays. Adios, 2008!

end of november to remember (in bits and pieces)

2008-12-09T11:39:00.001-08:00

A week late, but here are some pictures taken from the second annual Thanksgiving 2 at Dave’s house. Or maybe there were more than two but that’s how many I’ve attended. Most of these pictures I remember taking, but things started getting a little fuzzy towards the end there.

So let it begin…

The first shot of the night: the host (Dave) and Hector, relaxing while all the guests filtered in.

Hector and I before dinner…but not before I had a couple glasses of wine.

Erica being cute.

Dave and Brian, then Dave, Erica and Brian on the couch.

Janessa and Erica taking a picture, while I take a picture of them. Always delightful and flattering.

Not sure when these were taken so I’ll just put ‘em here:

Me and the baby.

Taken during dinner…

Taken after dinner (I think)

And here’s where I started to lose time.

We danced to “Sandstorm” for the entire song. I don’t know how it started, or why, but I do know that it would have been extremely embarrassing if I could remember it. For some reason, dancing in a living room to the shock and horror of friends is always a good idea after a bottle of wine.

It’s a shame Thanksgiving is but once a year. Thank God there’s December to help ease the pain.

flat turnovers, and the good luck continues

2008-12-02T12:35:00.001-08:00

I said bunny rabbit yesterday. So why is the second day of my good-luck month already filled with disappointment and shame?

I actually remembered to say it this month, after maybe 6 months of forgetting to, before saying anything else like "Look, I'm still alive!" or "Hector, please tell me that's Sheba's nose between my butt cheeks" first thing upon waking up every first of the month. Because everyone knows that speaking anything before "Bunny Rabbit" on that day will ruin your chances of happiness and fortune for the month. Or so my mother tells me. But although I said it, I certainly don't feel any luckier yet.

For example, if this is going to be a good month, then why did Sheba take a crap on my kitchen table? Why, instead of getting over my cold, does my head seem to be filling up with more mucus than my body should be able to produce at an alarming rate which makes my voice sound like Gus Gus on Disney's Cinderella? Why were all the treadmills taken last night at the gym? Why did the free pastries and coffee this morning induce horrid cramping and several restroom trips, on top of the ones already caused by the pains in my ovaries? And why, after eagerly microwaving my leftover mushroom turnovers for a pre-lunch, post-breakfast treat, did I open the door to discover 5 tiny flattened crescents with soggy crusts?

I know in the grand scheme of things, this isn't as bad as, say, getting trampled to death at Wal Mart on Black Friday, but sometimes these little injuries add up.

I guess things could be worse. I could be Sheba.

life's a pretty sweet fruit...

2008-11-26T11:07:00.001-08:00

...but not this week.

I've been feeling under the weather this week, which has made me sluggish and a little slow on the uptake. It's worked out ok so far, since I left early yesterday and only worked half-day on Monday. But things are definitely not right. My brain is fuzzy and I'm pretty sure I ate moldy muffins this morning. I can't wait for this afternoon when the most adventurous I plan on being is when I dress Sheba up in her reindeer costume and make her pose by the christmas tree, snapping pictures like my life depends on it while she quivers in fear and tries to scrape her antlers off on the floor.

An example of my week thus far:
An hour ago, I noticed a large-ish spider crawling up my left cubicle wall. I immediately grabbed my stapler, came up behind it, and smashed it within an inch of its life. Unfortunately, I had my pinky under the business end of the stapler as I smashed, and in the process of killing my enemy, I managed to get about half an inch of staple lodged straight into the fatty part of my poor pinky.

As I pulled it out and unleashed the bloodstorm, I couldn't help but gloat in my pain. Sure, I may have foolishly punctured myself with the Swingline Professional Plus Series, but that same staple would have killed a lesser being. Such as the spider. So I win.

= 1

= 0

these motherfuckers are delicious!

2008-11-21T08:21:00.001-08:00

Pamela, heal thyself

2008-11-19T12:10:00.000-08:00

Last week, to my dismay, my "Service Engine Soon" light came on in my car ("Pam", counterpart to Janelle's new "Jim"). I have been known to drive for a year with that light on, because really, "soon" is relative. But in my '97 Ford Escort I expected it. In my '04 Nissan Sentra I was upset by it. Not upset enough to actually take it in, mind you, but disturbed nonetheless. I looked up what it might be, if there were any known issues with that model, and found that most likely it had to do with the O2 sensors and emissions. Great! I had this problem with my Escort and it cost me about $500 total to fix. Not to mention the problem with Smogging the damn thing. It became a race from the mechanic, who would reset the sensor, to the testing station, who would tell me I was an idiot and not fooling anybody. So I would rather not deal with that again.

But I am happy to report that Pam has decided to stop the fighting and has turned off the light all by herself! I am exceedingly happy by this, as it allows me to ignore the underlying issue for at least another month or so. I was gonna just put some black tape over it, but this works just as nicely. Now if only she would change her timing belt for me...

On an unrelated tangent, I have decided to go back to my "In a Relationship" status on Myspace because Hector clearly wasn't feeling the sting I intended by matching my status to his (Interested in dating? REALLY??). I had thought that rather than whine about it on his comments section, I would just show him by doing the same myself, and then gloating in all the male attention/gangbangs that would ensue. Turns out that didn't happen, so I'm giving up. Back to being in a relationship for me, even if it is a relationship with someone who refuses to acknowledge me on the incredibly validating forum of Myspace. It's too bad, really. A gangbang would have been good leverage.

ernie and bert...tight skirt

2008-11-10T12:56:00.000-08:00

Saturday night, Laura and I went to see the Faint at the Warfield in SF. Laura had never really listened to their music so she didn't know what she was getting herself into, but we were both in for a surprise when the second opener turned out to be Kool Keith, accompanied by MC Ultra and DJ Doom. Um. Correct me if I'm wrong, but they primarily dabble in the "Rap" genre, yes? And the Faint is generally classified as new wave/dance punk/electronica-ish? The two go together like gum and peanuts (together at last!) and it was extremely apparent when almost immediately the high-energy vibe of the crowd turned to "wtf?" and then "seriously?" followed by "oh my god what the hell must have happened to the real second act for these guys to get sent out here?" Hands that were in the air like they just didn't care slowly lowered, and the number of standing members of the audience dwindled to just a solo white girl attempting to "get down" all by herself.

Laura and I just laughed throughout their entire 45 minute set.

Honest to god lyrics and smooth harmony:
MC Ultra: "Ernie and Bert! Tight skirt!"
Kool Keith: "Uh! ... Uh! ... Yeah!"

Other subject matter for the set were the story of How the First Album Was Stolen and then Abandoned... Newer, Better Album is Born, and We Like Sex. A Lot. And then we were lectured for 5 minutes on the importance of wearing condoms. Worst. Openers. Ever. But, they did make the eventual appearance of The Faint all that much more titillating, so keep on rockin', guys!

I love this site

2008-11-05T16:01:00.001-08:00

superpoop.com

Post #100, holy shit it's Election Day

2008-11-04T15:05:00.000-08:00

So...today's the big day. I voted this morning at 7AM, did you? You better have. And right away, I was scared. Why? Because the volunteers running the polling place didn't exactly instill confidence in me that the most important job they're not getting paid for of their lives was going to be carried out successfully. As I was waiting in line in the freezing cold for half an hour, I had ample time to read the rules and rights we voters have. So, when I was finally inside, and a young-ish woman went up next to me as I was receiving my ballot explaining that she had made a mistake and could she please have another ballot, I knew this was within her rights to get it. However, the white-haired retiree who she was facing did not seem to have read that bulletin on the teacher's lounge wall. She took the ballot and immediately began screeching, "What do I do? This young woman's spoiled her ballot. SPOILED IT! What to do??" Finally, one of the other workers explained that she was to allowed to mess up three times (sweet jesus) before she could finally be denied a replacement ballot. Fine. The poor embarrassed woman walked off with her unspoiled ballot, presumably to go sit for another ten minutes making damn sure she didn't write outside the lines again. But that wasn't the worst. When I went back to drop off my ballot, the same confused volunteer was now shrieking because she could not find that "spoiled" ballot. Mother of God. This is probably happening all over the country.

I'm gonna need a drink tonight to calm my nerves as I attempt to track the results without TV. This election has become kind of a beacon of hope for a lot of people, and while a change in the White House may not do all that we want it to, at least it would be a start. I really think one of the most important outcomes, should Obama win, would be the restoration of at least an iota of respect for America overseas. And that is huge. Cause in case you haven't noticed people, we have no credibility in other countries. I know there's nothing I can do to stop whatever's going to happen at this point, but I'm more than a little afraid. Because clearly we can't trust people to make the right decisions, or to use reason or good judgment, and that's frightening.

But hey, Krispy Kreme is giving away free donuts in the shape of stars today. So if McCain does win, I can always start in on the diabetes. And follow it up with a nice helping of ice cream, courtesy of Ben & Jerry's.

rock the vote...but only if you're gonna rock it my way

2008-11-03T12:50:00.001-08:00

WARNING: Things are about to get political.

So tomorrow is Election Day, and usually I am pretty apathetic about things like exercising the right granted to me by the 19th amendment, mostly because of my increasingly cynical world view, but also because I live in a state overwhelmingly supportive of the candidate I would vote for anyway. During the first election I was eligible to vote, my philosophy was that my vote would be canceled by my boyfriend at the time’s anyway, so if neither of us got off our asses then the scales would remain in balance. After voting for the first time 4 years ago, the election turned out so f-ed up that I vowed never to vote again, reason being if you had enough money and power you could override the system to suit your needs and my vote made not one bit of difference.

But.

This time, regardless of the fact that California’s electoral votes are going to Obama whether I vote or not, notwithstanding my severe reservations that anything can save our country from the downward, self-destructing spiral we’ve been in for the past 7 years, and despite the possibility that I am setting myself up for major disappointment yet again, I am going to vote tomorrow because damned if I am going to say I did nothing to prevent the country I live in (for now, we’ll see what happens after tomorrow) from being handed over to a near-senile old man and his psychobitch running mate. For the first time, I feel like even if I don’t get the results I want, if I do nothing to affect the outcome either way, I will be a useless turd and will have no right to complain when I’m standing in line for my watered-down cabbage soup next year.

Another reason I am voting tomorrow is to attempt to prevent California from making the mistake of becoming a bigoted asshole like the Midwest. I can’t believe Proposition 8 has even made it on the ballot, let alone that it may actually pass. To attempt to force one’s views on another is what I thought this country was against in the most basic of principles? I don’t care if you don’t believe that two people of the same sex should be married, what gives you the right to make other people adhere to your moral rules? Banning gay marriage is not going to make people straight. We’ve come way too far to even have to justify this point. I’m ashamed that there are still so many people living in this state, in this day, where we are supposed to be so forward-thinking and setting examples for the rest of the nation, out there in the rain waving signs about keeping marriage sacred and using scare tactics to appeal to the parents who are terrified that their little Melanie is going to be taught to be a dyke in kindergarten because Prop 8 didn’t pass. Just ridiculous. So…yeah, I’m voting against that.

Anyway, vote tomorrow. Unless you want to be a useless turd. And unless you’re planning on voting for McCain. In that case, stay home, cause you’ve probably got to watch your stories anyway.

now are you sure you want a piece of me?

2008-10-28T10:34:00.000-07:00

Question: What's worse than Mondays?

Answer: Tuesdays.

I have been at work for three hours and I feel like it's been closer to ten. I'm exhausted, partly because I couldn't shut off last night but more accurately because the homosexual couple down the hall from me decided that Monday night at eleven o'clock would be the perfect time to host a soiree. I've seen this elusive couple only a handful of times in the year I've lived at the apartments, but each time, judging by the hotpants and glitter, I could tell the score immediately. Watching the sexier of the pair (and I say this only because they have to be ranked somehow) shimmy up the stairs and exclaim with glee over the strawberry buttons on my dog's collar, I shouldn't have been so foolish as to think that some night soon, the Cure WOULDN'T be blaring out of their open windows at 1AM. The rayon blend shirt practically demanded it.

So, last night as I was walking Laura down the stairs, I can't say I was completely surprised to hear Rihanna "breakin' dishes" at top volume because her man had done her wrong. And as I scuttled past their open front door (I didn't want to linger in case it seemed like I was being nosy) I heard a high pitched voice ask if everyone had seen that little dog. To which, oohs and ahs followed. I had half a mind to parade Sheba back in front of the door, because after all, attention is attention. But two hours later when I was finally ready to go to sleep, and I could actually FEEL their music in my bed, I just wanted to go over there and strangle them all with their pom pom scarves. But of course, to beat them at their own game, I'd do it singing Britney-style "you want a piece of me?" I love me some gay men, but you mess with my REM cycle, you're just asking for a bitch slap.

not dead but dying

2008-10-27T10:39:00.001-07:00

Erica brought it to my attention yesterday that I haven't written anything in a while. This isn't because nothing has happened to me lately, but because of a combination of an extreme amount of work, effectively making it impossible for me to take a half hour out of my day for paid blogging, and my ever-present excuse -- laziness. So I will pull together all of my faculties in an attempt to post something today, even though I am pretty sure I killed at least 10% of my brain cells this weekend and am not entirely certain my sentences are complete.

It was Berta's 30th birthday celebration on Saturday, and although I have been taking it really easy on the drinking over the past few months (although Hector would probably disagree) I decided that all the stops would be pulled for this party. We got rooms at the Holiday Inn right next to the bar the party was at, which I feel was extremely responsible and forward-thinking. Unfortunately, Hector found out he would have to work Sunday which put a damper on things and made me vow not to get totally wasted so he would have to deal with me. Cut to 6 hours later, and I am black-out drunk. Apparently, four drinks is all I can handle these days, since it reduced me to falling in front of the elevator and cussing out guys punching security guards outside the bar. Hector says he had to carry me because I refused to walk, and wanted to be left behind in front of someone else's hotel room. Wonderful. So much for Plan A. But on the plus side, I had a really good time before scenes started missing and I remember distinctly having some great conversation with Laura which we don't get to do as often as we should anymore. So aside from pissing Hector off and probably making his day miserable Sunday, things were not as bad as they could have been. Until I woke up Sunday morning. I am not exaggerating when I say I was still pretty drunk. I had the spins, and I had to run to the bathroom multiple times when I was getting my stuff together to attempt to empty the contents of my stomach. Hangover: 1, Me: 0. In an effort to hide the fact that I had smuggled in Sheba, I went out the side door of the hotel rather than through the lobby and spent the next ten minutes painfully making my way in the bright sun around the entire hotel to my car. When I got home I threw everything down and proceeded to sleep for the next 4 hours. You know you're getting old when sleep does nothing to cure your hangover. I woke up feeling only a little better and spent the rest of the day feeling sorry for myself. My dad came over and although he acted sympathetic, I think he gets a sense of satisfaction from seeing me suffer for my sins. I guess it's not every day you get to watch your daughter curled up on the couch in last night's makeup, moaning every five minutes and shaking uncontrollably, evidence in the flesh of the poisons of alcohol.

Thank god I will forget all about this in a month so I can do it again for Thanksgiving.

a good time will be had by all

2008-10-09T12:26:00.000-07:00

"One hundred years ago, in May 1908, 16 US Navy battleships with dozens of escorts and 14,000 sailors entered San Francisco Bay. Called the "Great White Fleet" because the ships were painted white, the fleet remained in San Francisco for two months, departing in July for Hawaii and the remainder of its 14-month cruise around the world. This was San Francisco's first Parade of Ships and first Fleet "Week". One of the objectives of the Great White Fleet's voyage was to ensure that Americans were aware of the reasons for having a strong and capable Navy and to let them see those capabilities first hand. This objective still resonates 100 years later and provides the primary rationale for our annual Fleet Week celebration.

The modern version of Fleet Week commenced in 1981 and it has become one of the best-attended annual events in Northern California. In 2008, we are fortunate to have the participation of the USS Bonhomme Richard, an amphibious assault carrier, and USS Pinckney, a guided missile destroyer, as well as the Coast Guard's newest cutter, the USCG Bertholf, which was commissioned in August 2008. We will also feature a robust air show with both the US Navy Blue Angel and Canadian Snowbird jet demonstration teams.

Fleet Week is also our annual opportunity to honor the men and women currently serving in the US and allied armed forces, particularly in the United States Navy, Marines and Coast Guard, and to learn about their character and skill, and the pride with which they carry out their duties. Please help me make them feel welcome in our City and assist me in thanking them for the remarkable contribution they are making to our security and well being."

What the Chairman of the San Francisco Fleet Week Committee forgot to mention, of course, was that Fleet Week is also an excellent chance to bang Seamen. (and women, if you're into that).

See you there!

number 3,473,962 on my list of hates

2008-10-01T12:30:00.000-07:00

I admit it, there are a lot of things that get my blood boiling. I mean, a LOT. So it's no surprise that maybe 60 times a day various people/events/actions/breakfast items piss me off to no end. But there is one thing that deserves special mention, since not only is it supremely annoying, but also pretentious, self-satisfied, idiotic, and just plain lame. I'm talking, of course, about those ridiculous decals that proud mothers get to adorn their hideous minivan/SUVs. Only slightly more infuriating than the "Baby on Board" signs that were so popular in the '90s and yet still somehow remain today, these decals not only advertise that the driver is a dipshit whose number one accomplishment in life was to spit out two, three or (save us Jesus) four children, but they also presume to imagine that we, the other drivers on the road, give half a shit. What they really do is make me wish I had a larger vehicle to ram them, their basketball-loving son, ballerina daughter, and goldfish right off the road.

I'm not saying having a family is bad. But is it really necessary to plaster them on your back windshield? I think not , unless those specific members of your family have done something special. A decal of a little girl in pigtails holding up a flask containing the cure for cancer is something even I can't find fault with. But until then, I think I will continue to hate silently in my car as I'm stuck behind the Chevy Astro crawling along the freeway with the happy stick family smiling at me from their perch on the glass.

And maybe, someday, I'll have my own family I'm proud enough to slap on the back of my car...

you ought to be ashamed of yourself

2008-09-29T11:37:00.000-07:00

I meant to write this Friday, but was too lazy and tired to do it. Plus these days, by the end of the week, my fingers are curled and bent from five day's worth of carpal tunnel and I can use my right hand for little more than clutching my first post-work Screwdriver. Thankfully I am ambidextrous when it comes to drinking, and if worse comes to worst I can skip the worry altogether and get my alcohol hands-free with a straw.

So. Here I am with semi-fresh tendons at the start of a new week, but still bitter about Friday's turn of events. I'm talking, of course, about my trusted financial institution going under. I knew Washington Mutual was in trouble, but I had no idea things would happen so quickly and how much it would piss me off. I mean, there's a reason I chose WaMu (and I shorten their name with regret -- I'm against all silly corporation nicknames in general but laziness prevails here) as the organization to safeguard my massive fortune. Wells Fargo horribly screwed up my checking about five years ago, and I figured any bank with free checking AND free smiles was worth holding onto my monthly net profit of $3.47.

But people have proven me right once again with their stupidity, and this time, it's affected me. A couple weeks ago when news of WaMu's instability got out, the idiots flooded the banks and immediately withdrew gargantuan amounts of money, preferring to horde their savings in their homes rather than trusting the FDIC and the bank to protect their money. Now, I understand that amounts over 100K would not be insured if the bank went under and no one stepped up to buy the accounts, so it makes sense to spread your money around should you be lucky enough to have that much to need to protect. But for the rest of us hard-working, middle class bank customers, running to Washington Mutual to pull out all of your savings results in only one possible outcome: you are speeding along the very effect you're so worried about! Over a ten-day period, the very same people who bought generators, duct tape, and plastic sheeting after September 11th took out their life savings from Washington Mutual and stashed it in safes, lockboxes, and cookie jars throughout their houses, collectively withdrawing over 16 billion dollars. The end result? WaMu no longer has the money to back up their debts and they go out of business. Congratulations, panic stricken Americans, you were right all along. Meanwhile, all the smart burglars out there are casing your house and getting ready to steal that money that was so unsafe at the bank but will never be noticed behind the peas and under the ice cube tray in the freezer. Real smart.

The thing I'm most annoyed about in all this is that now I have to remember all the things I have electronically debited from my account and at some point in the future, change this over to either my new account with JP Morgan (who I am worried don't offer smiles for free) or my old account at the credit union. Washington Mutual, rest in peace. I enjoyed you while you lasted.

part of this balanced breakfast

2008-09-18T15:13:00.000-07:00

I didn't go to bed exceptionally late last night. I wasn't drunk when I hit the pillow. And I am not on any medications. So it was surprising, when, this morning, I woke up to a room filled with the light of the breaking day and looked over at my alarm clock to see "7:52" splashed across the screen. I looked away as I always do to make sure I'm not lying on a Sheba turd she may have left for me in the night, and then it registered and my head flew back to the clock. Seven. Fifty. Two. That is 30 minutes AFTER I am supposed to be in my office, at my computer, pretending to get my work done.

After all was said and done, I was over an hour and a half late getting to work today, and I'm still pissed off about it. Nothing puts you in a bad mood like waking up realizing you're already behind. But on the bright side, I didn't have dog droppings all over my sheets, so maybe things are looking up after all.

wtfimt, inspection, at&t, electrocution, the vet: a week in review

2008-09-16T00:38:00.001-07:00

Today was a busy day. My boss was playing with formula race cars all day, and I was left to man the ship, but after the shitstorm that was last week, I consider myself lucky that the worst that happened today was being told a tenant found mouse droppings on their conference room table. A good day, indeed.

So where shall I begin with last week? It should be a good indication of how crazy it was that I am just finding the time to complain about it now, but I will start with the beginning. Last Monday. And you get headings.

WTFIMT??
Monday morning, Hector left as usual around 7AM to go to work for the week, and I was running a little late so I quickly took Sheba out to go to the bathroom and then came back inside to feed her and leave. As I was putting her food into the bowl though, I looked up and noticed something was off in Shelly's tank. As in, Shelly wasn't in it. Now, Shelly is not a large turtle (about the size of a cheeseburger) but she is pretty obvious in a tank that contains a bowl for water, a fake palm tree, a thin layer of dirt, and a Shelly. Sometimes she hides behind the palm tree but since she is not flat, I can usually find her fairly easily. But this morning, Shelly was nowhere to be found. At first I just slowly looked around, expecting to see her shell peeking out from under the water dish or sticking up over some dirt. But lazy eyeballing soon gave way to frantic pushing of the dirt when I still couldn't find her after three minutes. I forgot to mention that when I take Sheba out every morning, since it takes five minutes tops to get her to use the facilities, I never lock my door. So after searching for at least six minutes for Shelly, I finally came to the conclusion that Someone Had Stolen My Turtle. I realize how ridiculous that sounds, but honestly it was the only explanation I could think of, since Shelly can't scale glass. I left for work because by this time I was late, but I called Hector on the off chance he might have decided to take her to work to help prevent wildfire. He hadn't, so I told him that someone had come into my apartment, ignored my purse by the door, and taken my turtle. He's experienced firsthand the dementia of my neighbors, so although he might have laughed at me, he bought it and sounded worried too, which was all I needed to panic even more. All day my stomach was unsettled, thinking someone had come into my home and removed one of my animals. By the end of the day, I was certain that when I went home Sheba would be missing as well. Long story short, when I got home Shelly was in the open next to her water dish where she usually is, and although I'm still not convinced that whoever took her didn't just break back in to put her back, I am open to the possibility that she might have gone completely under her water dish, since I never lifted it up. But it's unlikely.

Inspection
The Friday before last weekend, the apartment management had put a notice on my door saying they were going to inspect my unit on Tuesday. Normally, they perform inspections once a year to check on the renovations they've installed in the apartments, but when they do that, they do a whole range of apartments. This time, it was just mine, according to the notice, and it was being performed by the "Community Compliance Committee". To me, that sounds a little ominous. The maintenance guys had been in here working on my bathroom before the notice was sent out, so I could only assume they were the ones who had tipped the management off about something, but I couldn't figure out what. It's not that I didn't know because I haven't done anything wrong, I just didn't know which violation of my lease they had noticed. How was I supposed to fix it by Tuesday if I didn't know what they were looking for? My first thought was Sheba, who isn't illegal per se, but I technically should have notified the management before I bought her and am supposed to pay a $500 deposit for. But then also there was Hector, whose stuff is all over my apartment and I am not supposed to have any guests over three days according to my lease. I can't be legally held responsible for the bondage gear and extensive lube collection, so those were the two items I thought might be checked up on. I tried to hide everything I could see that was Hector's in my place, but as I was trying to do that, it made me realize how even with his toiletries, clothes, and guitar hidden, it still kind of looks like a man lives here. I have a huge Mohammed Ali poster on my wall, a man's razor in the bathroom, and the only edible things in my refrigerator are a hot dog, month old nectarines, and some pickles. Laura agreed to watch Sheba on Tuesday, so Monday night I was running through the house trying to remove evidence of my dog as well as my boyfriend. It was much, much harder to do the first one (sorry, Hector). I hid her bowl, her blankets, and her bones, but the layer of hair that has settled over my entire apartment was a lot harder to get rid of. I vacuumed twice, which pretty much only served to push the hair around, kick it up, and then allow it to settle in different places. So I spent two and a half hours on my hands and knees around the apartment applying and ripping off packing tape to the carpet. And of course, during this time, Sheba was assisting me by running around after me and losing half her coat in the process. I'm not sure how the inspection went or still even what they were looking for, but when I got home I noticed that I had forgotten to remove the giant bag of puppy pee pads that was on top of my refrigerator. So, either the game was up at that point, or they think I am incontinent and prefer to urinate on my carpet.

AT&T
Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday were all nonstop days at work. I barely had time to eat and use the restroom, let alone do a crossword or look up the comic of the day on Natalie Dee. We are finally getting set up on our new server, which made Monday a wonderful mixture of "why doesn't anything work" and "where the hell is my email?" and "oh look, I get to reinstall my entire hard drive!". In addition to that, my boss was transferring his phone from Verizon to AT&T. Meaning, I was transferring his phone. Of course, it couldn't just work like it was supposed to according to the easy setup guide. And if you don't already know, I am technically brain dead when it comes to anything IT. So me coupled with the Blackberry Curve and something called a Blackberry Enterprise Server would have been a lethal combination even on the best of days. I called AT&T to see why the phone wasn't working and had to have them activate it remotely. Then I had to call back an hour later because although it was on, it kept turning itself off. So after "solving' the problem with one technician, I had to call back in another half hour when it happened again. That guy told me I would have to go into the AT&T store and have them plug my battery into a new phone to see if it was the phone that was defective. I went to the closest store in Palo Alto, waited for 45 minutes in their ridiculous line, then spoke to a barely legal salesperson who told me that no, he could not put the battery into another phone to test it, I would have to do that in their special customer support store in San Jose. At this point I was ready to chew his eyeballs out, but there really wasn't anything he could do to help me, so I was forced to drive the 30 minutes back towards home to go to the special store. I waited there for another half hour, but after that, the guy gave me a totally new phone that didn't have the issues the other one was having. I get back to my office three hours after I initially left it, triumphant with new phone in hand, and call our IT guy, who decides this is a good time to tell me that the internet package I ordered with the phone is not the right one, and I would have to call AT&T again to order the right one (which he had never told me about and was not on the website to purchase in the first place). It is never a simple procedure to speak to a representative at AT&T. I think the fastest I've ever gotten a live human on the line was ten minutes. But I finally talked with someone, made the change, and got bossy's cell phone up and running, all in a mere 6 hours. So imagine my ecstasies when my boss tells me Tuesday that since I'd now "gotten the hang of" dealing with AT&T, I would get to order this complete wireless system for his dad's ranch near Tahoe. I won't go into it too much because my hand is starting to cramp, but there went my Tuesday. AT&T goes to great lengths to ensure that not just anyone can order service on your account, which I suppose is a good thing, but I figure if someone has my social security number, address, and mother's maiden name, which you need all of to get into the cell phone account, then the last thing I really need to worry about is them trying to add unlimited text messaging to my phone plan. By Wednesday afternoon I had finally made my last call in to AT&T, and I hope I never have to call again. But I know better.

Electrocution/Vet
Hector got off work Thursday morning, so he was home with Sheba for a bit Thursday. When I got out of the gym, he gave me a call saying I needed to come home because Sheba's eye was so puffy she couldn't see out of it. So I sped home thinking she was on death's door, and when I got in the house, she looked so pathetic I wanted to cry. Her whole left eye was swollen shut, since she had been scratching at it pretty much all day. Wednesday Laura put some aloe on her stomach cause she was scratching and biting till she bled in some places. She's done this on a lower level since I got her, but only this last week was it getting way worse. I gave her a benadryl Thursday night, but to be safe I made an appointment for Friday for the vet since I had no idea why all of a sudden it was getting so bad. I started making dinner late because our plans to go out to eat fell through, and it was when I was plugging in my rice cooker that I got electrocuted. When the stupid planners for the renovations at the apartments designed the new kitchens, it was someone's bright idea to install under-cabinet microwaves in all the units. That's great, except they block the one useable outlet on the counter line. In order to plug anything else in my kitchen, I have to contort my body and squeeze my arm into the 21/2 inch space between the microwave and the wall. This is normally not an easy process, but when your fingertips are slightly damp and you are just jabbing away in the general area of the electrical socket because you can't see through a microwave, what happens is you get however many volts that normally power those appliances coursing through your body instead. I heard the pop, saw the flash, and screamed pretty much all at the same time, and then my hand was out without my realizing I had pulled it from behind the microwave. I had scratched myself down the lengthof my arm though because instead of pulling out at a right angle like I had gone in, I just went straight out and along the sharp bottom edge of the microwave. My finger was still hurting the next day, but on the plus side I am waiting for my superpowers to kick in.

The best part of the week was when my boss told me I could "work" from home the rest of Friday after the vet appointment. Unfortunately, I really did do work. At the vet, we learned that Sheba is highly allergic to either food or her environment, and we got a nice arsenal of pills to put her on for the next two weeks till we have to go back for a checkup. The visit was $216, most of which Hector paid since I had no money. Happy Birthday to him! It took them 20 minutes to check us out since they couldn't seem to work their billing software properly and then I had to go back ten minutes after I'd left because they forgot to give me the hypoallergenic food Sheba has to eat for the next six weeks to see if it's food she's allergic to. I didn't sign up for this. Deaf, sure, I knew about that. But a pill-popping, allergy riddled dog who can't eat anything but low allergen dry food and can only handle the outdoors after a dose of benadryl followed by an immediate bath? Sheba may have to accidentally "escape" one of these days.

So that was my week. After typing all of that, I think the next thing to go wrong will be full blown carpal tunnel. But then I can wear those cool wrist braces, so really it's not all bad.

artsy fartsy

2008-09-03T10:44:00.000-07:00

Last night I attempted to watch "The Tracey Fragments" which I had rented from Netflix. I think I lasted about 5 minutes before I had to turn it off. I believe I have mentioned before that I can't stop any movie or book once I've started it, no matter how badly it blows or how lame its subject. I finished "The Next Best Thing," for god's sake.

But this...this was unwatchable and infuriating. The movie (at least the first five minutes of it) consisted of 4-5 squares on the screen with different, but related scenes playing out in each of them. So your eyes have to be all over the place to get a feel for what's going on. I wonder how long they figured it would take the average viewer to realize, "oooo I get it! Fragments! Like the poor little heroine's shattered life! How symbolic!" and then praise the director for his masterpiece in innovative movie design. It took me one to hate it, then four more to fight the urge inside me to immediately hit eject.

Bruce McDonald: just because something's never been done before doesn't mean it's the good kind of avant garde. Symbolism isn't supposed to be so literal. And maybe if we were spiders and had four times as many eyes, this would work. But with only two, neither of which care to look at any of the crap you put onscreen, it doesn't work.

Instead, I watched Kenny vs. Spenny, which Hector bought last week and I had never even heard of. I watched the entire DVD and was cracking up all by myself in my house. Now THAT is some fine television.

eeeeeeeeeeee

2008-08-27T09:47:00.001-07:00

The Office season four comes out on Tuesday! Sweet Jesus, if it is not in my hot little hands by Tuesday night, I am going to throw myself on the floor, good ol' fashioned tantrum style.

Just wanted to give everyone a heads up to what's coming. And to vent about coming downstairs this morning, all ready for work, to find that my battery was completely dead. The system of checks and balances strikes again.

cripes!

2008-08-26T22:46:00.001-07:00

I just got internet at home after not having any form of telecom in my abode for the last year. And all I have to say is...

How in blazes did I ever go without 24-hour access to new and varied pornography? Seriously, does the internet do anything half as good?

Now if you'll excuse me...

like mother, like daughter

2008-08-21T09:40:00.001-07:00

A couple months ago, I got a nail trimmer for my dog. I had contemplated just using my personal nail clippers but the combined thought of the nastiness in then using them myself and the certainty that they wouldn't be big enough to get her fat claws into forced me to peruse the options at Petco. And jesus but those bastards are expensive! My choices ranged from the cheap and dirty scissor-like clippers (which I'm sure wouldn't even cut paper) to the questionable "Quick-finder" clippers that claim to make it foolproof to avoid having your dogs' paws bleeding like a virgin on prom night.

I was looking for the Pedi File, (I later learned it's called Pedi Paws, but since Janessa kept referring to it as that and I enjoy the horrible un-PCness of that brand name I will stubbornly refuse to address it by its proper name) a tool that just basically sands your dogs' nails down to oblivion without you having to cut anything. But they didn't have it, and the Oster Nail Grinding Kit sounded a little too barbaric for my tastes.

So I got these clippers but hadn't done anything with them for fear of accidentally cutting off a paw or cutting into the blood vessels, since Sheba's nails are black and I have no idea where the quick is, and am just generally inept when it comes to pet grooming. But last night after my dad's comment that Sheba looks like that man in India whose nails are all curled up inside socks, I decided to go for it.

In the end, both of us did pretty well. My strategy was to just grab and clip without spending too much time trying to decide if maybe I was cutting off too much, and her strategy was to squirm and twist and immediately eat all of the clippings that flew off as if they were made of prime beef. It was pretty disgusting, but then, she does lick her own anus.

Today is Brain's 30th birthday. Happy birthday to Brain! I just ate a biscotti in his honor.

drumroll please...

2008-08-19T12:49:00.000-07:00

I really hate all the work it takes to upload pictures from my camera, resize them for the web, upload them again into Photobucket, then rearrange all the html links to form a pleasing storyline so it’s not just an onslaught of disturbing and random images. But I do it because I care, and because it’s better than doing work. Please enjoy.

These first ones are from my first installment of the now finished tattoo. All of these are taken in the bathroom at E&O, where, I’m pretty sure, we are no longer allowed. Janessa was drunk. And if you don’t believe me…

…you probably do now. Here’s baby gently removing my bandages. I’m sure this violates health codes at the restaurant.

And here she is drying my skins after she washed me in the sink.

Here’s what it looked like for a couple weeks till the rest of the color got filled in.

I think this is in chronological order…but so much time has gone by, who can tell. Dave and Amy took two birthday shots of Jaeger. Nasty.

Erica doing her best impression of a T-Rex

And some more pictures from that party:

I hope I made Talal do this.

Berta was kind enough to invite us to Petroglyph. It was most of our first time, and I am more than a little ashamed of my lack of artistic flair.

Erica organized Ladies Night at the Melting Pot in San Mateo. The food was good, but the waiter was slow. Here are the pictures at the start of the 4-hour meal.

Okay, now on to Vegas. The ride up in the backseat of the Impala was pretty fun.

I only got a couple from the ceremony since cameras weren’t allowed.

And here’s the reception. Marky gave a speech I couldn’t really hear, but that’s probably a good thing since I had already cried plenty.

I didn’t get very good shots of the cake cutting but I tried.

The reception. I got a little more tipsy as it progressed.

Maria took several pictures of Hector listening to Josh. Methinks I wasn’t the only tipsy one.

They look like an ad straight out of JC Penney.

We went to the Beauty Bar at the Old Strip after the reception, where Hector bought Chris & Jenn a shot of Patron.

And Janessa was kind enough to take pictures of the awkwardness that was Janelle trying to get me out of my dress. Luckily I was drunk or I probably would have felt violated.

The fauna on our trip:

Brian relieving the gases in the position Janelle taught him.

On the Monorail

Going the wrong direction…

Baby found this on the wall in our room and immediately applied it to her crotch. Oh, if only it were true…

Janelle, my and Hector’s sleeping arrangement for this trip

We enjoyed a delicious meal at Benihana, despite the neighboring conversation between Star Trek fans

On the way out there was a waterfall, which you can’t see, and if you don’t think it’s embarrassing trying to re-create a scene from Flashdance on a public walkway…well it wasn’t since I had a bottle of sake to help out

Janelle was cold because the casinos were freezing and she was slutting it up Vegas style

On the way home, we all agreed that if Janelle was a dog, she would be a Yorshire Terrier

And we learned the hard way that Janelle is allergic to Latex…

A good time was had by all.

FIN.

If it wasn’t for bad luck

2008-08-14T09:59:00.001-07:00

I should have recognized the symbol of ill portent for the weekend when I was rear-ended by a giddy Asian boy last Wednesday night coming back from the 4 hour Melting Pot gluttonfest in San Mateo. But, like the carefree lamb who has no idea he is about to become Easter dinner, so too did I enter the Vegas trip unaware of my impending misfortune. Armed with 1.75 Liters of Stoli, I thought I could brave the worst that the most fortunate day of the year could throw at me.

Things started off ok, although I did only have 4 hours of sleep the night before and nothing says grumpy like having to wake up at 4 AM on your day off. Our first snag was being delayed 45 minutes because the Hertz Rent-A-Car employees also shared our displeasure at having to be up at the ass-crack of dawn. But we were off, semi-cheerfully, and ready to begin the 8-hour drive to the land of "so what if I gained 65 pounds since the last time I wore this, I still look terrific!"

We made pretty good time driving, despite Janessa's repeated voicing of contempt for Brian's desire not to get a speeding ticket in counties over 300 miles from his home. When we got to the MGM, Janessa and I decided that we would go together to attempt to woo the unsuspecting clerk into upgrading our suite, using our feminine wiles and subtle promises of monetary/sexual gain. We were first put into a line in front of a man who clearly would have been more swayed by Hector and Brian's attentions, but then switched to the open line next to us and turned on the charm. Unfortunately, the hotel was completely booked to capacity so we were stuck with the room we reserved, and Janessa slowly slipped the 20 she'd been holding as incentive back into her purse.

Five people and two Queen beds in a hotel room mean one bed is going to be pretty cozy. It's a good thing Janelle on her side takes up 6 inches and I demand complete body fusion when Hector is nearby, or else it would have been impossible to sleep at all on this trip. Janessa and Brian rudely flaunted their space by laying like starfish to our sardines.

My first real bit of bad luck came when I was getting dressed for the wedding, and discovered that the leopard ribbon I'd sewn on the empire waist of the jersey dress I bought to wear had effectively made the opening to fit my head and shoulders through about 20 inches. Janessa and Janelle had to shove and pull the dress over my upper body, arms akimbo and squeals of pain all around. Janelle got several handfuls of breast, most of which I firmly believe weren't necessary, but hey, when the opportunity presents itself...

The wedding was very nice, short and sweet and filled with tears despite Janessa and my
worry that our makeups would be ruined. We got our fill of pizza and cake afterwards, which I firmly believe should be the standard at more weddings. Why suffer through dry chicken or fish when you can have your choice of pepperoni, artichoke, combination, and Hawaiian? I think I ate 5 slices.

On our way to the old Strip where the after party at the beauty bar was taking place, we were forced to get a limo since it was cheaper than getting a taxi for 7 people. This was especially annoying because the stupid guys who usher you into the taxis kept giving us pricing for transportation we couldn’t have. “Oh yeah, you’re gonna wanna get an Escalade to take you to the Old Strip. That’ll be $50. How many people do you have? Seven? There are no Escalades available. You want a minivan taxi? That’ll be $60. But it only seats six max. Ooh what about a flying zebra? You want one of those, that’ll be $150 plus air tax. Except the last zebra just took off for the night. Damn, I guess you’ll have to get that limo then.” It was on the way out of the lame-ass limo where we weren’t allowed to touch anything or look the driver in the eyes that I lost my phone. My purse tipped over and when the driver handed me some tickets which had fallen out, it wasn’t until much later that I realized that those tickets were in the same pocket my phone was in. And that definitely didn’t get handed back to me. Hector turned the couch at the Beauty Bar upside down looking for my phone later, since by that time I was drunk and had no idea where I lost it (funnily enough no one searched that hard for Janelle when we misplaced her) but my little Motorola Slivr was lost to the night.

The rest of our time in Vegas passed in a blur of sleeping and eating. We went to Benihana Saturday night, which is much nicer in Vegas than it is in Cupertino (although to be fair I haven’t been to this one since it was remodeled – they may very well have installed a waterfall since January) but the major downside of that location is that it was smack in the middle of the Star Trek Experience. We got to share our table with two groups of fans who bonded over which battleship was their favorite. One of the pasty white freaks I swear had a Bluetooth in his ear the entire meal and kept referencing his “girlfriend” and his ability to speak Spanish since he lived in Texas. Unfortunately, he also repeatedly mentioned the inconveniences he had to endure at the hands of the Mexicans whose ultimate goal in life was to take over his management position at the Taco Bell, which invoked Brian’s rage and almost (until we learned that this bigoted asshole was a black belt possessing bigoted asshole) a fight. Luckily for our timid and adorable Japanese hostess, crisis was averted.

We spent the rest of the night unsuccessfully trying to get drunk. We went to bar after bar in various casinos but couldn’t settle on anything. In the end, as we pathetically drank a single watered down cocktail at a bar in our hotel, we wished we hadn’t been so quick to pass up Toby Keith’s bar at Harrah’s which at least promised beer for his horses.

It was as we were about to leave our pitiful experiences behind that Vegas got me one last time. We were at the Hertz trying to add all our names to the driving list when the woman handed me back my embarrassing convict photo license and asked for one that wasn’t expired. Apparently you have to renew your license every five years…who knew? I never got anything in the mail and so never knew that the ability to operate my vehicle was in jeopardy. I was a bit unnerved that I had been driving for the last month and a half, speeding, cutting people off, and openly drinking alcoholic beverages while passing highway patrol ILLEGALLY. Jesus.

The take-home message of all of this is that you shouldn’t lie, steal, cheat, or eat Cheez-its, because in the end, the all powerful Vegas gods are going to exact their revenge on you. Oh, and if I ever had your phone number, please e-mail it to me because I lost all of my contacts with my SIM card when that bastard limo stole my phone.

Hang tight for a photo blog highlighting the fun times on our trip…cause you know I can’t resist.

a near death experience

2008-08-06T14:04:00.000-07:00

As I was driving at lunch today on the ongoing hunt for a leopard-print button, I saw in the corner of my eye a little squirrel crossing the opposite lane of Foothill Expressway. I squealed "Nooooooooooo!" as I zoomed past him going 45mph and immediately looked in my rearview mirror to see if he made it past the cars in his lane. I was most likely putting my fellow drivers lives in jeopardy as I cheered the squirrel on in his journey to get to the other side. He made it to see another day, in case you were wondering, unless of course he got smashed on his return trip. If I were a squirrel, I'd stay in my hole all day and have helper squirrels to do my bidding.

In other news, isn't this just the most poorly-timed ad campaign ever?

Two days till Vegas!

Discovery!

2008-08-01T13:45:00.001-07:00

I despise carrots. With a fiery hatred, in all forms except totally overcooked and smothered with pot roast. But just now, I realized that I can also tolerate them in slivered form and disguised with some sort of italian dressing, as in this Safeway broccoli pasta salad thing I just picked up while I was buying toilet paper.

Who knew? Now I have to rethink my whole outlook on life...

what you don't want to wake up to in the middle of the night

2008-07-31T11:10:00.000-07:00

is the sound of shattering glass and screeching tires. It's not pleasant, and it gets the heart racing. Last night as I was busy dreaming of unicorns and cheeseburgers, I was awakened by just such a sound coming from the parking lot outside my window. I'm not startled by loud noises in the complex anymore, as I've had to endure 4AM blarings of the Cure by my neighbors (accompanied by strained and tone-deaf singing), post last call domestic arguments lasting for hours, and various assholes using the straight and mostly empty road the apartment fronts on as a way to test the maximum speeds of their impalas. But last night was different. I jolted out of bed and ran to my window in time to see a large dark SUV speeding away out of the parking lot next to mine. I'm on the third floor so I had the perfect vantage point to spy from. I've used it numerous times to check that my car wasn't being stolen and to judge the woman who brings her two kids home from god knows where at midnight at least twice a week.

A few people came out of their apartments after all this happened. I heard some screaming, and the kids who initially got to go look at the commotion were quickly rushed inside. Then more people came out and looked pretty upset, which was really disturbing since I had no idea who/what was crashed into and couldn't see very well, given that it was dark and there was a fence separating my parking lot and theirs. But I kept staring, and finally noticed that where there should have been a window and wall at the corner of the apartments, there was now just a gaping hole. A hole! That stupid SUV had somehow slammed into the side of the apartment, into someone's bedroom, and obliterated their window and corner wall. Just imagine, you're sleeping soundly in your bed, not a care in the world, and all of a sudden a Suburban comes to tuck you in. I am amazed that no one got hurt. Except, I hope, for the driver of that SUV.

I looked today and couldn't find any mention of this in the paper. Maybe "San Jose Man High on PCP Demolishes Tykes Bedroom with Escalade, Ruining Winnie the Pooh Lamp" wasn't an intriguing enough of a story for the Mercury News this morning. But I sure am glad they did that shocking exposé of why teens drop out of school in our county. Who knew pregnancy and gym class don't mix?

Unbreakable!

2008-07-25T10:54:00.000-07:00

I think it's safe to say that I am clumsy. Awkward, ungraceful, some might even say, elephantine. How this began I have no idea, but I can remember falling on my face every year I was forced to participate in my elementary school's Turkey Trot, where I raced like my very life depended on it rather than just a free turkey for the holidays. Damned if I didn't want that turkey, and damned if I didn't always end up running with so much concentration that I ended up face down in the dirt. Embarrassing.

As I've grown older, my clumsiness has expanded into new and startling arenas of pain and embarrassment caused by stupidity: gouging out my knuckles whilst peeling potatoes, slicing into my palms after stubbornly ignoring the advice of a seasoned avocado-slicer and pit-remover, somersaulting into the Merced river after trying to baptize my hair. I don't know why I do some of the things I do, but I am amazed and thankful that I have yet to break any bones.

I say I am clueless as to how I wake up each day to new bruises, scars, and peeled away flesh, and yet this very morning before work I found myself ironing the ruffles flat on my blouse in front of the doorway, not on the ironing board as I was taught in all my fashion design classes, but on my body as I was wearing it. If I didn't think my iron got hot enough before, I most certainly appreciate its strength now. Who doesn't want a nice smooth patch of burnt cleavage skin for the summer beach season?

In happier news, as we're entering weekend two of July/August Budget Crackdown, I've managed to do pretty well and not spend any unnecessary money. I've been cleaning out my freezer and cabinets, and last night managed to make a pretty delicious meal using risotto, chicken broth, remnants of mozzarella cheese that probably should have been tossed a month ago, and leftover tamales that Isabel was kind enough to give to me. I've hit the bottom of the freezer though, so this looks to be a weekend filled with chopped walnuts in a baggie, canned fruit cocktail, and Vietnamese rice vermicelli. Sounds like a challenge for Iron Chef to me! If I don't wind up with botulism before Vegas, I will be as surprised as anyone.

hos in different area codes

2008-07-22T12:01:00.000-07:00

So I put one of those little map things on my blog because Laura had one and, like a younger sister, I want everything she has. What I have discovered from it, if true, fills me with a mixture of elation, rage, and shame. Elation, because I had no idea anyone was actually reading this thing, and like any garden variety egotistical ass, the fact that my ramblings are being read (and in my mind, adored) the world over is pretty damn exciting. Those tiny dots have the power to control my self-esteem.

Rage, because come on! I live in the Bay Area. All my friends and family live in the Bay Area. So WHY, dear god, is the dot for the Bay Area so ridiculously miniscule? This means my friends and family are shirking their duties to read and worship my writings. Shirkers! You know who you are and you will be punished.

The shame is because I care in the first place. I'd like to pretend I don't, but hey, if someone stumbles onto my site because they were looking for kitten porn and the red dot increases in size for that geographical location, then so be it. I'm not above accidental hits to the page. In fact, I should start peppering my paragraphs with popular search phrases so as to make it seem like I have juicy content. But that would take too much effort, so instead, please enjoy this photo.

you can't get blood from a turnip

2008-07-21T14:37:00.000-07:00

...because, as Janessa so astutely points out, you can really only get turnip from turnip. Unfortunately, this turnip has run dry. I read somewhere that single women in the U.S. on average spend all but like $30 of their total annual income, and judging from the last month, I can believe it. Within a day of depositing my paycheck I had about $30 to last me till the next one. And nary a shoe, purse, or new article of clothing to show for it. This is mainly due to the fact that I'm attempting to be responsible and allocate funds (after paying the staggering monthly bills) for Vegas on the 8th and finishing my latest tattoo on the 1st, but being responsible sure makes for boring weekends.

I saw a fat woman on the corner Saturday with a sign saying "Pregnant...please help." If she was pregnant, then I'm an asshole, because I just looked at her misshapen stomach tire and thought to myself "Liar." And if that was indeed a human baby that made that shape under your t-shirt, madam, then I am sorry I passed you with Erasure blaring out of my open windows. I might just have to start standing on a few corners myself to make ends meet...

a new low

2008-07-18T11:01:00.001-07:00

Last Sunday night on my way back from the beach I was struck down like the heathen that I am with a stealthy and unexpected virus. It began with dizziness and a feeling like I was being pumped with air, much like a bicycle tire. As soon as I got home, I barely stumbled up the stairs without passing out and threw myself on the bed, salty beach clothes and all. I slept uncomfortably from 7:30 till 10:30, when the floodgates opened and the sandwich I had eaten 8 hours earlier demanded its exit, still mostly intact. This carried on for way too many hours into the night, until finally I was able to sleep without being woken up by the spins.

I went to work Monday morning although it took way too much effort to dress myself and put on makeup. After dealing with a huge accounting error that couldn’t have come at a better time, I finally went home at one and called Janessa in order to be coddled like the baby I am. I was starving, but a little unsure of what might be acceptable to my system. So the obvious choice was Sweet Tomatoes. Followed by a dinner of barbecued chicken and corn. All I will say about the outcome of that…I can no longer say I’ve never had an “accident”. I don’t know how I feel about that, it’s embarrassing but strangely refreshing. Anyway, my stomach problems continued through Tuesday so I decided not to release that thunder on the office and stayed home. Tuesday night I finally tried eating again, and praise be to jebus, it stayed in. I was so hungry from my ordeal that I actually dreamt about eating McDonalds. I think that sums up the desperation of my experience.

After not having nourishment for 3 straight days, I can tell you that the body starts to revolt when performing basic functions like walking, standing, and raising one’s arms. But after that experience, I find it quite fitting that rather than easing back into the eating circuit, I launched right in with a Wednesday night feast at La Fondue and Thursday night burgerfest at the Counter. Bring on the weekend!

a picture's worth a thousand words...but I'll write some anyway

2008-07-09T09:58:00.000-07:00

In chronological order…the first set are from Janessa’s “I finally got my license” celebration. Please note the Special Olympics “winner” ribbon Laura provided along with a motivational card outlining her successes.

Afterwards, Brian demonstrated how not to eat chocolate fondue.

Now on to the first birthday of the 2 week birthdayfest. Janessa is wearing a steering wheel cover she got as a present, and eating another gift.

Then came Laura’s birthday Black & Tan party. The black and tan’s varied in contrast from mostly black and light, to black and lighter black, to cloudy brown.

Lizzie’s visit from NY…and a shiny new haircut for baby.

And here are the bulk of the pictures from the 4th of July We Love America patio BBQ and Confetti Free For All

First, the food…

Somewhere at the beginning of the afternoon we decided to see how many cheetos could be fit into a human mouth. First attempt: Janessa with 6, or was it 8?

Second attempt: Carol and Laura, with I think 10 or 12…

Then came Erin and Erica, with I have no idea how many because I was laughing too hard…

And because Brian doesn’t do anything he can’t win at, here is the Brian series with a whopping 30 cheetos in one mouth. It’s a good thing he didn’t need help because none of us knew the Heimlich. Avert your eyes, children!

Random pictures taken between the time I got drunk and the time I sobered up

Some of the food missed our mouths and ended up two stories below in the parking lot. Behold, the fallen/thrown chicken wing, who was later joined with his brothers the hot dog bun, hamburger patties, chips, beer, and god knows what else.

I noticed this later, if you can read the sign above Carol and Dave, you will see that we were grossly violating the rules of the patio. July 5, 2008 headline: “25 twenty-somethings fall to their deaths after disobeying clearly marked balcony safety guidelines”

Dave’s tiny hat under a bigger hat really never got old. It’s too bad the ones we have of the hat on Franklin the Cat weren’t on my camera.

And what party wouldn’t be complete without Janelle and I doing what we do best

What, you might ask, was the cause of Janelle’s intense glee? Why, Neil Diamond, of course!

Here’s Janelle on my birthday imitating Sheba sleeping.

And I couldn’t resist the cuteness…

That was exhausting. Good thing no more pictures should be necessary until Vegas in August.

and now back to our regularly scheduled broadcast

2008-07-08T11:12:00.000-07:00

The four day weekend was lovely. It was just long enough to rejuvenate the mind, body, and spirit, at the same time allowing for intense liver pollution and constant gorging of the stomach. I don't think an hour went by that I didn't have some tasty morsel in my mouth or some libation in hand. And yet, I still managed to get some fitness in as well, which is actually kind of disgusting.

5 Stars go to Erica and Dave (ok let's face it, mostly Erica) for hosting a most fantastic 4th of July party at their swanky abode in Belmont. Three cheers for the aptly named snacks, streamered straws, multi-light American flag, and delicious hamburgers/chicken wings/caramel apple slices. I will admit that after shoveling snacks into my face from 4:30PM to about 6:30, I then devoured the meat selection. The hamburgers were so good that I ate two before I realized what I was doing, and then later spied the flag foil tin that held the remaining patties and grabbed one, cold and naked, and swallowed it down. Janelle and I brought hot dogs, and after Janelle half cooked four of them for the two of us, topped off with another burger, I began to feel the shame. Which of course, didn't stop me from eating the birthday cake Erica surprised me with, which hands down was the best birthday cake ever and totally amazing of her to have done. The downside of a great party like this is the cleanup, which Janessa assured me was going to be quite the undertaking. I promise I didn't participate in the confetti spraying...although I can't say the same for the "let's see how far we can hurtle this food item off the balcony" event. If that's not a sign of a good time, I don't know what is.

We went to Paragon for my birthday celebration, which I must say was kind of a mistake having on Saturday since everyone was totally done in from the day before. But since I am none too pleased about being 29 anyway, the mellowness worked out fine. The last time I was sober for my birthday, I think I was 20. It's all downhill from here...

I somehow volunteered myself for a four hour hike on Sunday, and I can tell you from experience that there are tons of better ways to spend one's birthday. But it was great when it was over and at least we can all say we accomplished something. My thighmeats are still a little sore from all the inactivity at work, but I would do it again. This time I would eat beforehand though, since two celeries and a graham cracker don't quite sustain the body in a 1K elevation climb. Kudos to Laura for being a super little trooper after twisting her ankle, yet refusing to let us fashion a stretcher out of sticks to carry her all the way down. We all made it out alive and although I didn't capture the lizard I had hoped for, it was still a successful trip.

I now have exactly one month to prepare my liver for Vegas. My goal is to make at least three stiff drinks a night, so I can ease into the 20 cocktail a day deathfest that Vegas invariably is. I should probably order the transplant now so it's in the mail by the time I get back...

is it too much to ask

2008-06-27T13:03:00.000-07:00

for my Hillshire Farms processed chickenmeats to separate nicely for placement atop the salami on my sandwich? Apparently it is, because trying to separate the "slices" results only in shredding the chicken ball into smaller lumps. This makes it pretty difficult to achieve the elusive goal of the perfect and delicate chicken/salami balance.

Stay tuned for next week's episode of Jennifer Vs. Inanimate Food Items: the Plot Thickens.

If I had a million dollars...

2008-06-25T15:21:00.001-07:00

I'd camouflage those unsightly water meters in front of my house.

I was taking a nice long stroll at lunch time to counteract the intense eating, drinking and week-long gym avoidance that come standard with family/friend birthdayfest 2008, when I confirmed that yes, the Menlo Park/Atherton area IS as pretentious as it looks at first glance. As I walked past the 453rd extravagant palace equipped with matching BMWs in the front driveway, I noticed that not only was each home beautifully and emaculately landscaped, (they weed in their spare time, I'm sure) but many of them had matching "rocks" near the sidewalk. Upon closer inspection, I realized that these rocks had keyholes in the back, and stood on cement pedestals. Heaven forbid Mr. and Mrs. Lane P. Harringsworth the Third have the view outside their receiving room window marred by repulsive water meter boxes! It just isn't proper!

It got me thinking...who sells these artificial water meter rocks? And where can I get one for my third story apartment? Because if ever there was a symbol of wealth to excess, throwing money down the drain on something to fool the average passerby into thinking you don't use water is right up there. And I want that kind of image.

stomach of steel/ is it really June already??

2008-06-03T15:29:00.000-07:00

First and foremost...what the hell is happening to this year? I mean, am I the only one who is worried that somehow my life is passing me by as the months are hurtling past at the speed of light? Sweet baby jesus.

And now I will make with the storytelling.

This morning I finally got to eat that yogurt I brought in to work last week. In passing, I looked at the label which had the "best by" date imprinted on it. May 11. Only a couple weeks past its prime, and I am (as proven countless times) by no means picky. I may or may not have noticed a strange flavor as I was eating it over the course of the next hour and a half, but once it started to become lukewarm it was pretty hard to tell. I have accustomed my stomach over the years to keep foods down that really it shouldn't have ingested in the first place, and I am fairly certain I could eat poison at this point and at most suffer only minor heartburn.

I had a bunch of stuff to do mid-day, and just got back into the office not too long ago. Since I'm spinning tonight, I was planning on eating a semi-healthy lunch of a chicken sandwich. Now I've had this chicken lunch meat in my possession for quite some time. So long, in fact, that I can't even remember exactly when it was purchased. But I've eaten old meat before, and my stomach is strong (see above.) Therefore, I wasn't worried. I strutted confidently into the office kitchen and set about preparing the sandwich. Two pieces of bread extracted from the loaf. Gulden's brown mustard applied liberally to one side and then smashed together to cover both slices. Pepper jack cheese liberated from the paper backings. Safeway deli chicken breast slices placed carefully atop the chee...wait a second. Does chicken normally have slimy tan patches across its surface? I know I'm not the most observant of people, but I really don't remember seeing anything like that ever before. I went to touch the meat, which we all know is the final test in determining its freshness. It was completely slimy, so much so that I had to immediately wash my hands lest I vomit. Apparently, four weeks is too long to keep lunch meat and expect to eat it.

I am now eating a cheese and mustard sandwich. Thank god it's hard to tell the jalapeno pepper flakes from the mold.

bloody scabs: the new fashion "do"

2008-05-19T09:20:00.000-07:00

Last Wednesday, I got home from work, changed out of my work clothes, and set out determinedly on my walk for Sheba's fitness. I didn't realize till halfway into the walk that the shoes I had decided to wear (without socks)were slowly but surely eroding the skin on both of my ankles, as well as the sides of my pinky toes. By the time I got back to my apartment, I was alternating limping/toe stepping like a circus freak and my ankles were openly bleeding. This was bad enough, but since it was so flippin hot last week, I also spent the remainder of the workweek in heels, covering every possible inch of my tender anklemeats with band-aids that refused to stick. This resulted in further gashing the open wounds, and now I look like someone took a butter knife to my heels.

I wish I could wear flip flops to work.

if I could have taken off my skin, I would have

2008-05-16T09:59:00.000-07:00

I do not do well in heat. Much like a tender leafling trying to make my way into the forest, I require water, nourishment, and shade to survive. So when I, as I did yesterday, eat only a tiny bowl of rice noodles all day, drink one glass of water, and spend 3+ hours in my car refusing to turn on the air conditioning amid the hot blaze of the afternoon because it "toughens up the constitution", there are bound to be consequences.

Which came in the form of a nice shiny glaze of perspiration running the entire length of my body, collecting in the folds of my abdomen, back of the thighs, and the area between my breasts. Lovely! Good thing I was wearing a dress so I still clung to a shred of my fading womanliness, rooting around in the weeds outside an industrial building in Mountain View and snapping pictures of a potential sale for my boss.

It was over 90 degrees when I got home. Sweet jesus.

What I wanted to have last night:

What I got instead:

If it's this hot again this weekend, you better believe I'm stripping down to my skivvies and parading arount my apartment with an ice pack around my waist.

the joys of motherhood

2008-05-14T11:43:00.001-07:00

To everyone who didn't think I would make a very good dog owner...well, this weekend's experiences were probably the foundation for that opinion. So far, I would have to say that I have been fairly patient, and certainly diligent in taking Sheba/Shelby out for walks, bathroom breaks, and general accompaniment. She's suffered through sand, hot asphalt, and tasty lunches where she didn't even get a scrap because I didn't want her to be left behind in my activities.

Now that I'm working farther away, I can't come home for lunch like I used to and take her for walks around the neighborhood to relieve herself. So I'm trying to train her to use puppy pads. Janessa claims that Frances took to the pads immediately, since they're treated with some sort of chemical that supposedly makes the dog want to urinate on top of them. However, Sheba clearly prefers to ignore this scent and instead seems to delight in crapping and pissing anywhere she damn well pleases. Generally, she aims for the front door area, but she has been known to go near the bedroom door, next to the couch, and even (I know it's disgusting) in the bed. I tried leaving her in the bathroom a couple weeks ago, covering half the floor with pads and the other half with her bedding and food dishes, but I quickly discovered the folly of that plan when I came home to find her bedding soaked in the upturned water dish, the puppy pads akimbo, and the contents of my medicine cabinets all over the countertop. The Sheba was displeased.

So now I have resorted to covering as large an area as possible with pee pads in front of the door, and this has been working fairly well, since she already aims for that area as a rule. I try to reward her when she goes where she's supposed to, but since it usually happens when I'm away, it's not a very good positive reinforcement.

Sunday morning I was in the middle of a glorious shower, when Hector runs in to let me know that Sheba pooped on her puppy pad. Hurray!

However.

After laying her turd, Sheba then apparently decided to trample it with her back feet. Trample it, and then race back to Hector in the bedroom to lick his face with joy at her accomplishment. Hector immediately suspected she had been up to the devil's business and then noticed the little brown paw prints all over the bedding, floor, and pretty much the entire living room. So I got to not only impromptu wash Sheba's feces-ridden body during MY shower, I spent the next 5 hours laundering everything that had even the remote possibility of coming in contact with her soiled hind feet. That included renting a carpet cleaner and shampooing the entire apartment, even though I am fairly certain I haven't seen the last of the stains I am going to have to industrially vacuum and shampoo out.

If anything solidifies my resolve to avoid having children until absolutely necessary/accidentally, it is the thought of a tiny human 100 times worse than Sheba.

it's jennifer hour! Today's topic: me!

2008-05-07T16:40:00.001-07:00

I finally have female coworkers again, which has been a bit unnerving because for the two years I had gotten used to minimal office gossip and grunts in place of good mornings. I didn't have to worry about asking about the details of vacations, babies, weekends, or the like. Because guys could care less about those things, and unless I had a link to a video clip of Paris Hilton getting banged out by a zonkey, I basically kept to myself.

But after only 4 days in the new office, I have been talked to incessantly, offered to be taken to lunch twice, and I already know the names, ages, and sexes of all the office spawn. It's kinda nice. Today they bought me lunch and we all ate it in the conference room. However, what I thought would be a nice 30-45 minute casual lunch break turned into 3rd degree on the last ten years of my life. Who have I dated, what was my major, how often does my dog use the facilities??? I haven't had to talk that much about myself since I interviewed for the job two years ago, and even then I don't think I revealed as much. We had been eating for an hour when I realized that they were all finished and were staring at me because I still had 3/4 of my massive kung pao chicken combination platter in front of me, since I am a lady and ladies don't talk with food in their mouth. But sweet jesus!

Something I forgot about working with other women: you have to step up your game as far as clothing at the office. I've been getting away with no makeup and pant/sweater combos for a long time now, but no longer. When there are other women to critique your wardrobe choices, you have to be a bit more selective than "whatever doesn't have those nasty shoulder bumps from the hanger". But do I really need an excuse to buy new clothes?

my goodness

2008-05-06T11:35:00.000-07:00

I enjoy moving. I love packing things into ill-fitting boxes. I love lugging said boxes across zip codes. I love filling out change of address forms and then praying to the baby jesus that the post office is able to pull it together just long enough to get the mail to the forwarding address I entered on the standard form they must see a thousand times a day. But most of all, I love unpacking and putting everything I used to have into a space about 1/8 the size of the last space I was in.

I just spent the last month moving our office from San Jose to Menlo Park. To add to the stress of figuring out the difference between VoIP and Nortel phone system packages, new software/hardware, new company logos, stationery, and office supplies, the owners were splitting off to create two new companies so I got to do it all twice. I won't go into the details of my slaving away in an empty office for the last 30 days, but suffice it to say, it was hellish. And now I am in my new "office" (read: crawl space surrounded by 8' high cubicle partitions with a sliver of light seeping through the cracks) desperately trying to sync up all my old contacts and failing. Failing miserably. But at least I have time to write, since the internet is pretty much the only thing working correctly over here.

After years of pining over every vehicle remotely nicer than mine on the road, I finally went out and bought myself my very first self-financed vehicle. It's nothing special, but the fact that it is only 4 years old rather than 11 and doesn't look like it's been used in a monster truck rally is a definite plus for me. And everyone loves a teal car, right? I'm not joking, the color is awful, but it's a Nissan Sentra and with my price range, I was pretty damn lucky to get it. You can't just walk into a car dealership anymore and offer sexual favors for new wheels. But you can get a pretty good deal that way.

The downside I've found to moving offices and buying a car at the same time? Your paycheck gets lost in the postal system while almost your entire savings are blown. Result: Momma needs to start turning tricks to feed the pets.

so that’s what 100 calories looks like

2008-04-15T12:11:00.001-07:00

I'm all for America becoming healthier, cause god knows there are enough panting and overweight children flaunting their bellies in the taco bell line. But at the same time, I think there's a fine line between promoting a healthy attitude towards keeping your body alive and functioning properly, and inspiring teenage girls everywhere to watch their weight obsessively to the point where they won't eat a carbohydrate without running to the bathroom afterwards.

I was at Safeway a couple weeks ago and next to the overwhelming selection of lays, ruffles, doritos, and lard-based fried animal skins, I saw this whole area of 100-calorie sized snacks. Interesting. They were on sale, and since I can't resist a sale and tiny little packaging, I bought the cheez-it party mix snacks and then promptly forgot about them in my cupboard. Until today, when I hungrily ripped the bag open because I've been so flippin busy at work that I haven't had time to eat my proper breakfast of peanut butter toast and yogurt. Now, I knew the portions would be small because the bag is roughly the size of my palm plus the first half of my fingers. But oh the disappointment when i learned what 100 calories would get me. I know I'm a pig but seriously, Sunshine Biscuits, LLC? Seriously? I dont' know what's worse, that it took me about a minute to eat my 100 calorie allotment, or that I could easily polish off all 6 bags that came in the package without a second thought. And do, when I buy the manly sized cheez-it party mix bag in the value section.

Lesson learned: I will no longer be fooled by the cute tiny packages and the lure of eating only enough to sustain my bodily organs. Nothing less than 400 calories at a time is passing through these lips.

if you can't enjoy a midweek drink...

2008-04-10T11:35:00.000-07:00

So far, so good. My week began like this:

and then continued like this:

I really need to get back into the hang of pickling my liver on random weeknights. I used to be so good at it, but apparently it’s a lot like riding a bike.

update

2008-03-27T08:15:00.001-07:00

SHE POOPED!!

it figures...

2008-03-26T09:37:00.000-07:00

For those of you who don't know already, I got my little Sheba last Friday. I spent the entire weekend looking at her, petting her, loading her in and out of the car, showing her off to everyone who would look. And dragging her. Because as I am finding out, Sheba is one stubborn little doggy. I am far from a dog expert, but I have walked my share of animals in my day and she is the first I have experienced who will simply refuse to go any further. In that way, she is like my sister, who I am told would stop in her tracks at any given moment when she'd decided she'd had enough of the forward movement and just stand there defiantly. So...great, i have the canine equivalent of my sister. Other than that and the fact that she hasn't defacated since Saturday, things are going wonderfully. Should I be worried about this? I wonder if this is what my friends and family had in mind when they expressed their concerns at my getting a pet: that relatively soon after, I would be seen forcibly dragging a constipated, shaking terrier across the asphalt at 7AM demanding her to do her business and cursing the gods at the irony of having to train her sister in dog form. Everything's coming up Millhouse!

I think my peanut butter is turning gray

2008-03-18T11:34:00.000-07:00

This is a little alarming, but not enough so that I have stopped eating it. Question: who brings home a partially used tub of skippy on a 5 hour flight from Maui to San Jose because she can't bear to throw it away so full? Answer: I do. And after only a month, it seems to be turning on me. I noticed the other day as I was artfully slathering it onto my freshly toasted home pride slices that it didn't look as brown as it should, but chalked it up to the lighting in our breakroom. Now, there's no mistaking it. This peanut butter is getting stale. However, I am a pro at ingesting things past their prime. Two week old spaghetti? No problem. Three year old frozen hamburger meat? Down the hatch! Pizza left out on top of a heater for two days? Mm Mm good! My stomach, surprisingly, takes it all like a pro and hardly complains. I can either take this as a testament to how much my body wants me to be a sack of lard, or I can put a positive spin on it and say that my digestive system is much more highly evolved than most. In a hundred years, I may be the mother of the next generation of superbeings capable of feeding on steel and cardboard. You heard it here first.

Shebacakes

2008-03-12T11:54:00.001-07:00

I have been meaning to get a dog for a while now. And by "a while now" I mean since I was old enough to know what a dog was. Over the years I’ve been teased with cockatoos, bunnies, fish, kittens, and a turtle but this shit is for real. I’m a 28 year old woman with no husband and no kids, and it’s time for me to get myself at least a starter dog to fill the emptiness that a severe lack of human contact creates. Enter, Sheba.

Sheba is a toy fox terrier mix who is living in a foster house with 10 other dogs. She’s two and she weighs only 7 pounds. Oh and Sheba is deaf. Deaf! This is the second deaf dog I have been interested in since the beginning of DogQuest 2007-8 so i pretty much feel like it’s a sign from the heavens that Sheba should be mine. I am going to visit her after work today to see if she likes me and I’m seriously contemplating stashing raw meats in my pockets to ensure that she does. But with eleven total dogs in her home, I’m worried that the foster mother isn’t going to give Sheba up so easily. She has already warned me that she’s extremely picky and has a tendency to keep her foster animals permanently. I’m trying not to get my hopes up too much about this, but I find myself quickly reverting to age 6 when I would pray every night that my mother would finally give in and buy me a pony. I feel like I’m being interviewed (which I am, I guess) and this worries me because I typically don’t do well in interviews. Unless the interviewer is male between the ages of 30-50 and I am wearing a particularly revealing top/ no bra. So...fingers crossed on this one.

Side note: they are building a Hooters at the old Spoons by my house. Janessa feels that we are shoe-ins for waitress positions and free implants, but I am a little more skeptical about this. Laura thinks we would make our mom proud to see both her daughters in scrunch socks. And I am a huge fan of nude pantyhose. So, who knows? Hot wings, anyone?

oh gods my backmeats!

2008-02-21T16:27:00.001-08:00

It hurts very much to breathe right now. I blame this on that thing at the gym that I did last night. Oh sure, it looks innocent enough with its steel square supports and its soft cushiony cushion. But then it wreaks havoc with all the muscles in your upper and lower back until you scream in agony and drop the 25 pound circly weight with a loud clang after barely finishing your set of 15. My muscles, oh how they are broken.

home...not sweet home

2008-02-20T12:39:00.001-08:00

If ever there was a moment in my life where I wanted to run away to a faraway island and live the life of a common street hooker on the beach, it was yesterday at around 1:30 PM Hawaiian time as I got my last glimpse of the palm trees outside the airport window of gate 87. I have never known true sadness until that moment. And oh how it pressed on my heart.

Maui was...incredible. We saw a crapload of humpback whales, a sea turtle like ten feet from the beach, some chickens on the side of the road, and a snake crossing (and almost making it) the highway. Sadly, he gave his life so our hideous PT cruiser could continue at 55 mph unobstructed. We won a free whale watching trip at the breakfast orientation our first morning there, and no I didn't get seasick, thank you very much. Not even after I saw the little Japanese girl toss her cookies into an inadequately-sized ziplock sandwich bag unsteadily held by her mother. Really? That's the best you brought in case of vomiting induced by the obviously unsteady seas for one of your ten children? Chances were good that at least ONE of them was gonna hurl, so maybe a larger sized bag might have been in order. Freezer, at the very least. That was gross, but I kept my camera focused on the horizon where whales were breaching right and left. I found it hilarious that our female whale researcher/seasoned whale watch tour guide kept proclaiming in shocked voice how "That's the FIRST time I've ever seen a whale do that!" and "WOW you guys are so lucky, this is aMAZing, whales never blow water out of their spouts like that!!!" She may have fooled some of the other passengers, but I knew better.

So I experienced loads of cool things on this trip and had a whole boatload of firsts: first helicopter ride, first fish taco, first total immersion in la mar (despite horrible death fear of being immediately ingested by a shark of some kind), first whale watch, first sighting of a humpback whale in general, first sneaking in to fancy resort pool (and oh my god was it worth it) and first nude beach sighting. I won't go into the details on THAT. Rest assured, good times were had by all, and I am already planning a return trip.

The bad news? Coming home to an even messier apartment than I left because maintence had decided to finally begin the remodeling of my unit. After 6 months of my living there. While I'm on vacation. Without my permission to enter, and without me moving a single thing that should most likely have been moved. I called the managers office today and found out that there is a stand-in property manager for the next month who knows absolutely nothing of the remodel schedule and is kind of saucy when it comes to trivial questions such as when will my apartment be liveable again. Welcome home!

just another manic wednesday

2008-02-06T12:39:00.000-08:00

I am tired today. And not so good at finding things to entertain myself on the internets, since I have the attention span of a dust mite coupled with the routine of an obsessive compulsive. But I did find an interesting idea on another blog that I just might be bored enough to attempt.

The idea is this: take a picture a day to document your year. I guess that's supposed to start the first of the year, but better late than never. I think it's a neat idea since it would be really cool at the end of the year to see all the stuff you'd done over the last 365 days. And it's not that hard to do: read, I am lazy and anything requiring much more than a click of the camera button once a day is most likely not gonna get done. It still may not get done, but I can imagine going strong for at least a week or two. Then when I have exhausted all the poses of Shelly, Hector, and Janessa, I will decide to end this project the way I've ended all others: abruptly and without remorse.

I got a Betta this weekend. He has been christened Lawrence. I give him a year tops, if he's lucky.

my eyeballs are dying

2008-02-04T09:57:00.001-08:00

I ate a lot yesterday. And drank a little. But what else can you do on Superbowl Sunday when you really could care less about the game? I think I ate my weight in potato skins/meatballs and drank at least a fishbowl of hornsby's. And I fed at least as much as I ate to the three dogs begging at my feet. So everyone won.

I was in bed by ten, but the problem this morning is that my voice now sounds like that of a thirteen year old boy and my eyes are wincing at the flourescent lights in my office. I don't understand it, since I have drunk waaaay more than this on weeknights and have gotten significantly fewer hours of sleep and felt better.

The only solution is to have taco bell and a beer for lunch.

But hey, how about those Giants?

that's what happened baby

2008-02-01T12:51:00.000-08:00

I can't remember if one of my New Years resolutions was to quit drinking, but I have a sneaking suspicion I have failed it. It begins innocently enough, with some sparkling apple cider to clear the head, and ends with attempting to drunkenly text message whilst speeding down the highway in the wrong direction after 8 martinis and a shot of Jaeger. Not that this has happened yet, but really it's only a matter of time.

I went out dancing last night for the first time in a while with just the ladies. I forgot how much better it is sometimes to have not a single cock in attendance. Not that we were misbehaving or otherwise acting up, it's just nice to know that no one is going to fight and everyone is going to have a good time because we're all on the same page. And then you get to return to the penis you know and love and everything is right with the world. Or something like that. A good time was had by all. Until I woke up this morning after about 4 hours of sleep and a glorious hangover. But that's what Fridays are for.

In a side note, Hector bought tickets to the Editors next Friday, and I must say that after hurriedly downloading every song of theirs I could get my hands on, I am going to enjoy this concert. They sound like Interpol/Joy Division and also of course, different. I've liked every song I've heard so far. And then the next day we get to see Murray from Flight of the Conchords at the Improv. I am going to be wet pretty much the entire weekend, is what I'm saying.

This weekend is SuperBowlExtravaganza and promises to be fun for all. With ping pong, homemade t-shirts, chili dogs and potato skins, how can you go wrong? Go Giants!

live for nothing or die for SOMETHING

2008-01-25T14:07:00.000-08:00

Twenty years after the last film in the series, John Rambo has retreated to Northern Thailand, where he's running a longboat on the Salween river. On the nearby Thai-Burma border, the world's longest-running civil war, the Burmese-Karen conflict, rages into its 60th year. But Rambo, who lives a solitary, simple life in the jungle fishing and catching poisonous snakes to sell, has long given up fighting, even as medics, mercenaries, rebels and peace workers pass by on their way to the war-torn region.

That all changes when a group of human rights missionaries search out the "American river guide" John Rambo. When Sarah and Michael Bennett approach him, they explain that since last year's trek to the refugee camps, the Burmese military has laid landmines along the road, making it too dangerous for overland travel. They ask Rambo to guide them up the Salween and drop them off, so they can deliver medical supplies and food to the Karen tribe. After initially refusing to cross into Burma, Rambo takes them, dropping off Sarah, Michael Bennett, and the aid workers...

Less than two weeks later, pastor Arthur Marsh finds Rambo and tells him the aid workers did not return and the embassies have not helped locate them. He tells Rambo he's mortgaged his home and raised money from the congregation to hire mercenaries to get the missionaries, whi are being held captive by the Burmese army. Although the United States military trained him to be a lethal super soldier in Vietnam, decades later Rambo's reluctance for violence and conflict are palpable, his scars faded, yet visible. However, the lone warrior knows what he must do...

Rambo not indispensable!

Even old and plastic surgerized, Rambo still kicks ass. I only wish that at retirement age I could be so lucky as to be running around Burma garroting and knifing at will. Maybe if I had a Rascal...

I’ve been a bad wrinkles

2008-01-22T12:08:00.000-08:00

and have neglected to post for quite some time. It's not that nothing has been happening, just that I'm lazy and busy at work. I have a lot of pictures to upload and when I do, well let's just say that another photoblog will be under my belt. I think you should be most excited about the White Trash party...because I am.

So please understand that momma's been busy, it's not that she doesn't love you. But you do kinda disappoint.

Happy Holidays!

2007-12-20T15:36:00.000-08:00

Today was a good day. Busy busy busy till office lunch at AP Stumps at 11:45 where we were served by the most exquisitely flamboyant of homos (think, flock of seagulls hair and excessive oohing and ahhing over my gold plated dove necklace). The bossies ordered us three bottles of wine, resulting in a glorious tipsy glow for all, and the filet medallions were magnificent. Then they told us we didn't have to come in tomorrow and gave me a huge cash bonus. Yeah...I'll take that.

Now I could put this in my savings or spend like my life depends on it over the next two weeks.

Anyway, I wont' have internet access for the next couple weeks while I'm out of the office, so I hope everyone has a lovely holiday season. I plan on peppering mine with alternating bouts of blackout drunkenness and sleep.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

coral lipstick. check. wife beater. check. now where the hell are my press-on nails???

2007-12-19T12:43:00.000-08:00

Putting together a costume to dress like a trashy crackwhore from the trailers is a lot harder than it sounds. Looking through my closet, I was surprised to discover that I actually had NOTHING that would suffice to wear. That is equal parts upsetting/relieving. I now have to buy things, and buying things is hard work.

I went to Longs last night and was very displeased to discover that gone are the days where Lee proudly displayed their mulitpacks of press on nails in every hue under the sun. I went hoping for gold and was lucky to find one almost hidden pack of maroon. This will not do. Yeah, I could just buy and paint the french manicure ones they have on display by the hundreds, but now it has become a private battle to find the last standing pack of gold or otherwise offensive press on nails at a retail store. Watch out, Rite Aid, I'm coming for you tonight.

a bit touched

2007-12-13T15:32:00.000-08:00

I woke up at 6:30 this morning from a dream where a man was slowly and quite painfully slicing off the tips of each and every one of my fingers. I was sitting at the kitchen table and I have no idea why he was doing it, but I watched as the knife cut through each one like a stick of butter. I instinctively curled my hands up into a ball when I woke up and I felt that weird dream-pain where you know it probably wouldn't really feel anything like it does but it's uncomfortable just the same. Then I started thinking about how there's no way the knife would have gone through my fingers like that since they aren't made of dough and have bones that would most likely stop the blade. So it was an unrealistic, but still alarming dream. It's at times like that I wish I didn't sleep alone most nights. Piglet is no protection from torture-minded intruders who want to sever my fingertips.

Work has been incredibly busy this week. But it did make me happy for a moment today to be able to control who in the company's association would be lucky enough to get a Holiday Greeting card this year. I enjoy pretending that the happiness of small office/warehouse/R&D tenants rests in my hands and mine alone. Congratulations, Silicon Optex, you made the cut! Yes, of course you may kiss my hand. Just be careful of the finger stumps.

last great american whale

2007-12-04T16:33:00.001-08:00

So I just finished reading this book called The Average American Male. And I know, I am not male. But when I was at the library, I was intrigued enough to put it in my stack, and it was red, so you know, at least it will match my apartment for as long as I forget to take it back.

And let me just say... lame. I don't mean lame as in I take offense at its in your face macho attitude. I get that. I mean lame as in this book is way more of what the average american male wishes he was rather than the sad truth of what he is. Which makes it even sadder. The entire book consisted of the main characters stupid relationship with this twit of a girlfriend whose sole plan in life is to get married and get fat. Throughout this relationship he is miserable, until he meets a younger hotter girl he begins to have amazing sex with but ultimately and inescapably turns into the same kind of girl he broke up with before. I don't know if that is supposed to be a commentary on the fate of all society, but again, lame. The main character in the book is supposed to be the average male: horny, carefree, and stuck because all women want to tie him down. The first two, ok. I agree that most guys are like that. But to make all the female characters in the book hell bent on securing themselves a male to provide for them and take them off the market...I mean come on. I just don't think that works today. All the women I know are independent and do pretty damn well without a man to make them housewives. If anything, the women I know are more afraid of marriage than the men, and would much rather be free to do whatever they want than have to report to a complaining guy at home. I think this book could just as easily be called the average american female by changing all cocks to vaginas, all whiny girlfriends to crying whiny boyfriends, and we'd have the same damn story.

Moral: grow a pair, average american male. Your women have outgrown you and you haven't even realized it yet.

and now I’ve seen everything

2007-11-30T14:09:00.001-08:00

Really, Togos? Really, you're gonna have a full bar in the back?

I went today for lunch on the recommendation of the guys at work and walked in the back way, only to find myself in a seedy darkened bar getting leered at by 6 or 7 barflies who didn't seem put off by my two sizes too big pants and last night's makeup. Classy. For a split second I was panicked and contemplated running out the door the way I came in but then I remembered that I am a seasoned pro and have been in one or two bars in my day. I walked around the bar and into the light of day where my Mexican friends were bustling about behind the togos counter, ready to prepare me my delicous sandwich any way I wanted it.

Ah yes, now we're cooking with gas.

uberbored

2007-11-27T12:02:00.000-08:00

When you begin checking out the gossip blogs because all your daily staple websites have been looked at by 9AM, you know the situation is serious.

Data I have collected this morning:

Number of slices, scrapes, and or deformities on hands alone: 6
Number of cuticles torn on hinge putting away fresh paper from office depot an hour ago: 1
Number of christmas gifts/paint CDs I have ordered for boss today: 2
Times I have gone to the bathroom to escape work: 2
Times I have refreshed yahoo mail to see if online order had come in to print: 5
Towels I forgot for spinning tonight: 1
Number of emails I am avoiding dealing with: 56
Lines I have chatted with Laura on gmail: 351
Packages that have come in via Fedex, UPS, and Office Depot: 6
Checks I have written on company account: 1
Times I wished I was still in bed: somewhere around 1,000.

picture blog number 2,096

2007-11-26T15:56:00.001-08:00

Because I know how much everyone enjoys photos that they aren’t in and/or know none of the people involved, here is another photoblog of a memorable occasion according to me. Dave was kind enough to host a Thanksgiving party at his new place this Saturday, and if the level of drunkenness of all attendees was any indication, it was a roaring success.

The pretty babies

Right before we began to feast.

Dave making a moving toast.

This is what I consumed.

Followed by this:

The wine cozy I made to disguise the fact that the bottle I brought was $8.

Which also worked to disguise the fact that Janelle was only $8.

Me and the baby.

Plus one.

Janessa says, “Turkey makes me tingly!”

Why Dave had these napkins is beyond me. But they did demonstrate our undying love of this country in a convenient 5x5” form.

Oskar and Charlee are thankful for each other.

As the wine flowed freely, the flash began to go off every 5 seconds.

One of the rare occasions Janessa allowed herself to be photographed in Brian’s vicinity.

We spent so long trying to get the perfect picture with the port that we actually wore the battery out taking the following pictures, thus making it impossible to document the actual photo-worthy events of the rest of the evening, such as when Dave met the neighbors.

And no night would be complete without one of these.

let’s eat till our hearts explode!

2007-11-21T09:53:00.000-08:00

There is one thing I pride myself on doing well. Well, two things. Three if you count that thing with the hula hoop and ping pong balls. But for the purposes of this blog, the thing I pride myself in above all others is my ability to pack in the vittles. And I mean pack. I can outeat a 400 pound man who was just told they restocked the cocktail shrimp at the buffet. When eating, I have the capability to completely disregard the multiple warning signs my brain sends my stomach receptors, flimsily trying to tell me to stop, please, for the love of God, stop before something gives. I'll go to the emergency room just to prove a point.

For this reason, the coming holiday season is going to kick some serious ass.

I already have two desserts in my refrigerator.

beowulf: superlame

2007-11-16T12:36:00.000-08:00

I was just reading about the new beowulf movie and the only thing that keeps coming to mind is: "REALLY??" Seriously, Robert Zemeckis? I mean, Back to the Future is great and all, but you should have learned from that stupid Polar Express and hung up your cinematic hat. It's kind of sad that so much money was spent on the process of animating the actors to look believable when they are so (mostly) realistic looking without having hundreds of sensors pasted on their bodies to computer generate movie characters. I will, of course, never see this movie because the ten dollars for that will be better spent on booze or crickets for Shelly, but I am going to go ahead and give it two thumbs down anyway, just for pissing me off in the entertainment section of the San Jose Mercury News this morning. Shame on you if you choose to see it this weekend over the Bee Movie.

fancypants nights, shelly dreams

2007-11-09T10:04:00.000-08:00

Two things to mention straight off the bat: the first: I have taken to drinking red wine with my dinner as of late, the second: Netflix is changing my life.

Last night I invited Laura to dine with me at chez unfinished apartment and, unable to resist the promise of nachos, she graciously accepted my invitation. Because I was expecting guests, I pulled out all the stops and not only purchased a fine Mexican blend of grated cheese, but also chopped olives, Rosarita refried beans, garlic lovers salsa, and chicken filets for our daily meat intake. I chopped the chicken into tiny chip-sized pieces and fried them up in butter (side note: chopping chicken up into too tiny portions makes them a little tough. I don't recommend it) and arranged the chips in a pleasing manner with liberal handfuls of cheese on top. They were glorious. But I feel the meal was really pulled together with the red wine we sipped in between shoveling chips into our greedy faces. You would think wine and nachos might not be a good combination, but you would be wrong.

The movie selection for the night was called Opal Dream and although I thought it was a foreign film from my foggy memory of putting into my netflix queue, I was happy to discover that I didn't have to read at all while watching, because the movie was set in Australia. It was strange, to say the least, and not a movie I would ordinarily have enjoyed but the wine helped more than a little. It was about a girl with imaginary friends who gets sick when she "loses" them and then her brother pays for their funeral with a huge opal he finds in his dad's claim. There was some other stuff, but that's the gist of it. Laura and I were shaky on the enjoyment level until we decided it was dessert time and then proceeded to split FOUR small dessert cakes because picking just one each was too difficult. The mocha triangle cake was best, followed by the chocolate mousse cake round, followed (distantly) by the black forest cake, and then the apricot tart came in at a sorrowful last place because it was almost impossible to chew/cut. But I am glad we successfully completed the dessert challenge, because I feel we are the better for it.

In other news, I may be going to Disneyland for Thanksgiving. Not having to cook + the happiest place on earth = how can you go wrong??

baby’s first rolling pin

2007-11-05T10:11:00.000-08:00

28 years have passed and I have thus far had no need to purchase a cylinder of wood with which to roll things flat. I guess I never made a homemade pizza, tortilla, or crust up to this point. But last night, I entered a new era of my life, and luckily, my local Safeway was able to help me out in that regard. Granted, I had to pretend to evaluate my rolling pin options for far too long in order to wait for the guy talking to his 6 month old shopping cart baby as if she was ten to move out of the f-ing way, but in the end I snatched up the all wood Good Cook rolling pin and pranced out of the baking aisle, high on success. Janessa was making me a roast for dinner and I was to provide the pear tart. I had made the tart once before at Laura's, and it was so delicious and not too difficult for a baking novice like myself, so I figured why not? Cut to two hours later with me cursing at the kitchenaid which had managed to lump my pastry ball into and between the crevices of the spatula stirring thing, flour all over my face and standing in my underpants in the kitchen. Not pretty, but the tart got made. And it was glorious.

piglet viewing in 5...4...3...2...NOW

2007-11-02T12:50:00.000-07:00

This week has been weird. This is the second day that has dragged mercilessly, and yet the week as a whole seemed to have flown by. I am trying my hardest to wait till 1 to go to the gym so that when I come back I only have an hour left before I can justify fleeing from work. And then it's piglet time! Laura and I are going hiking after work at Rancho San Antonio and although I have absolutely no reason to expect for there to be piglets, I have been buoyed throughout the day by the thought of their little pink hides waiting for me at the farm. And if there aren't any, I'm making bacon for dinner.

This is the first weekend that I have absolutely nothing planned. It's nice, but also kind of sad. I am going to need to find something to occupy large chunks of my time with, and fast.

what the hell

2007-10-31T08:45:00.001-07:00

I just tried to upload my pictures on my memory stick from Maria's wedding. For some reason, they copied from my computer as two files each, one truncated one and one that looks kind of like it's supposed to be a jpg but isn't. If this is the way they are on my computer at home, I am going to be very pissed. Because those bitches are erased from my camera already. Oh I am angry.

In other news, I was in my robe when we had that earthquake yesterday. It made me think about what I would do if the apartments came crashing down and I was all alone, pretty much naked when it happened. Boy would that have been embarrassing.

I'm going to see Tiger Army tonight! Yippee!

like a chicken with its head cut off

2007-10-26T10:09:00.000-07:00

I thought once I finished school I would have all this extra time to relax and cultivate my budding potbelly, but it turns out that my dreams of lounging on my couch and sipping wine coolers will have to wait. This past week has flown by, and I think I have spent a total of 5 or 6 hours a day at home, and those reserved just for sleeping. Maria is getting married tomorrow, and in addition to the general prep I needed to do for being a bridesmaid, I also am still scrambling to get a costume together for the reception. For like the past three years, I have been trying to coerce/persuade someone else to go with me as this:

But, to no avail. This year, Janessa FINALLY agreed to do it and with my new skills in design, I promised to make the dresses myself (only less innocent, more uberslut). About two months ago, I bought matching pink and blue wigs. And then did nothing else until this week. Unfortunately, Sunday, Janessa tried on her wig. After ten minutes of squealing, tugging, yanking, and crying, we discovered that her massive head will not accomodate a wig, even with the adorable wig cap to encase the hair and ease wig application. Fuck. As you can tell by the picture, the cornerstone of these costumes is the hair. I figured I would proceed as planned and start making the dresses, and worry about shoving Janessa's head into some hair when the time came. My friend Autumn had helped me make the pattern for the dress the week before, so I didn't think I would have all that much left to do, but when I made the sample I discovered that it was ten inches too big around the empire line. Woops.

Long story short, I got a call from Janessa the next day that boiled down to "can't find a wig to fit my head, going as a bat". I made the executive decision to bravely continue my quest to be a twin star (read: had already spent WAY too much money/time on this concept) and finally finished my dress to fit me Wednesday night. I bought the shoes last night and still need to sew on some buttons, but otherwise we are good to go. The only problem is I don't know if I want to be just one of the little twin stars. I photoshopped Janessa's head onto a picture of the other twin star and wrote R.I.P under it so maybe people will get it, but I am beginning to have doubts. I have butterfly wings as a backup, but I have been that damn butterfly like three years now.

So I have two choices. I can be the pseudo-innocent pink little twin star in a homemade dress, wings and beige flats. Or, I could be a semi-slutty blue butterfly in rhinestones, huge false eyelashes, and stilettos. Irony, or true to form? Only time will tell.

good news, bad news, rain, and a dead squirrel

2007-10-17T11:38:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, to my shock and happiness, I learned that the Psychology teacher I took my challenge test with last week found the mercy in her heart to let me pass with a C, thus allowing me to skip out on that final gen ed requirement and also save about $1,600. This made me giddy with excitement, not only because I know for certain that I did not deserve that C, but because this means I will for once and for all be done with that school, and finally get my little degree thingie that shows I busted my ass raw for the last year and a half. Hooray.

(I am understating the excitement I felt when I learned I wouldn't have to deal with getting refund general ed units anymore at this school. I mean I was really pleased).

To counteract this happy news, because god knows I need the balance in my life, I have spent the last three days exchanging phone calls with the post office about the fact that they have decided to ignore my mail forwarding and just return everything to the senders. If you have never had to deal with the local post office before, then you are lucky, because these bastards just couldn't care less about whether you are receiving your credit card offers in a timely manner. The other day I talked to a woman who basically told me that while she would TAKE a message, she probably wouldn't deliver it. Snatch. And then I got an angry call this morning from a guy who was mad that I called the 1-800 number to complain that they weren't fixing things at the local office. I hope he got in trouble. After all the back and forth, the long and short of it is that I am SOL and if I really want this resolved, I need to get a copy of the front of the returned mail so they can see who signed for it and where. The only nice thing about all this is that I have an excuse for why I haven't paid my medical bill from July yet.

More good news: it's getting easier to sweat through a full hour of spinning without feeling like I'm going to vomit up my lunch. Last night Laura and I managed not to break our butts, and although I had a coughing fit after it was all over and my face looked like a tomato, another week is behind us. As a special treat, Janessa cooked up a delicious feast of TWO kinds of enchiladas, tacos, refried beans, and spanish rice. I made a spritzle and managed to get fairly tossed after two glasses of it. So much for the workout.

can I apply for handicapped parking?

2007-10-15T15:23:00.001-07:00

A couple months back when I was moving, I smashed my thumb really nicely in the hinge of the front door of my apartment. It bled. I cried silently. It stopped bleeding, and I forgot about it.

For some reason, that nail has decided to become deformed. I just noticed it last week: a thin nail shell has started growing over the original nail bed. This is troubling. I looked up the meaning of this online and to my dismay discovered that this new pathetic nail is my damaged nail's attempt to cover itself, and that it most likely is going to fall off altogether. Eee! I panic easily, and this time was no exception. Luckily, my uncle claims to have had this happen to him several times and he said to just file away the new weakly nail covering and keep trimming it until it grows out. Of course, nails grow excrutiatingly slowly and I have intense OCD and can't stop picking at it. I have tried covering it with a bandaid to avoid the problem but I can feel its desire to be picked through the flexible latex rubber layer and it's only a matter of time before I cave and rip it off to begin furiously peeling and scraping. I don't know if it's all the filing, but the real nail underneath has started to become misshapen. Dear lord save me from myself.

mistakes were made

2007-10-10T12:06:00.001-07:00

I took the Psychology challenge test last night. After frantically attempting to learn Psych on the internet for three hours. While coughing up my lungs. On my teacher's computer. During a lame-o "deep" psychological intro film. In a darkened classroom. I'll be brief.

I totally failed.

While the teacher was skimming my test after I was done, I heard comments like "oh dear" and "hmmm" and "did you make this up?" and even, to my deep shame, a few chuckles. It's always nice to hear that someone thinks you're creative. But when this adjective is accompanied by a somewhat patronizing back pat, when you have just spent an hour and a half attempting to sound convincingly intelligent, it is a bit crushing to the ego. Which, from my cramming yesterday, I learned lies in the subconscious. But I scored 80% or above on all of the chapter quizzes on allpsych.com! And I managed to learn 8 chapters of material in a few hours!! Does this count for nothing? Apparently, since I did not know that Carl Jung came up with the theory of meaningful coincidence when a patient was describing a dream about a scarab and a beetle flew into the room. I expected some general multiple choice, maybe a couple short paragraph answers. But what I got was 20 open-ended questions on really specific theories or events in the history of Psychology. So yeah, I made things up. Cross my fingers that my "creativity" got me a C or better.

i’m sickly

2007-10-09T10:45:00.000-07:00

and at work. Poor me. I don't know who got me sick and I don't want to point any fingers, but all I will say is that Janessa is at least a day ahead in this sickness than I am. So. There's that.

I hope everyone had a wonderful Columbus Day. I know I did. I coughed and snotted my way across town as I ran the errands I should have run this weekend but didn't because I spent hours in traffic in SF trying to look at the blue angels thousands of feet above me in between eucalyptus leaves. But I did get to see and touch a ferret.

Now I need to study for a Psychology challenge test so I can get $2,000 back from school. I've never taken psych but considering the quality of general ed at Brooks, I'm pretty sure I can pass it with my limited knowledge of Pavlov and the superego and the kama sutra. There's gotta be a site on the internet that will teach me everything I need to know by tomorrow night. Right? Sure.

I have a headache THIS big...

2007-10-02T09:27:00.001-07:00

I've had a low-level headache for about a week now. I think it's because of the increased workouts and decreased sleep, but I haven't really field tested this theory. I only know the two year-expired advil in the office isn't doing a thing to take it away, so I might have to switch to alternate methods before the day is out. Do you think I would look as stupid as this woman vigorously rubbing a stick of menthol on my head? I just need to find my white eyeshadow to highlight my delicious brow bones.

longest photoblog EVER

2007-09-28T08:28:00.000-07:00

I know you have all been on the edge of your seats waiting for this, so without further ado, I present you: Vegas 2007. I deleted the incriminating photos. And there were many.

DAY ONE

Janelle and I kickstarting the party at Norman Mineta Airport. Yes, we are drunk. And yes, my toothpaste and jam were taken from me at the baggage check.

Taken from the balcony of the first room we had at the majestic Imperial Palace. There were bloodstains on the pavement 9 floors down, and macaws on everything from the bedspread to the wall trim. Thankfully, not 5 minutes into check-in, our toilet overflowed and we were sent to the much plushier 7th floor.

Is the fuzziness of this picture due to the fact that we were taking it with drunken, unsteady hands? Could be. I don’t remember taking it but it was at the Outback for our first Vegas meal. By the end of dinner I was drinking Long Island Iced Teas. This was a mistake.

As was this. Janelle started ransacking the unwanted potato skins on my plate and this illustrates the regret she felt after her barbaric acts.

I don’t remember why Janelle was posing like this, but the main point is I caught it on camera.

At Casino Royale after dinner. Drinks flowed freely, as you can tell.

The biting trend continued all weekend. I love this picture because it looks like we are all in a different place as far as levels of drunkenness.

Dogs bite.

I can’t not laugh every time I see Maria in this picture.

And the biting continues…

I think this was the picture that spawned Brian and I to notice how calm Janelle looks in every shot, despite the mayhem that goes on in the rest of the frame. I don’t know why this is, since Andy was feeding Tokyo drinks like they were going out of style.

But then I saw this in my camera and that theory goes to shit.

I like Janessa’s candid happiness/drunkenness.

Huggies for all!

Me and baby.

Babies!

Josh was attacked at some point in the night.

and it goes on like this…

Don’t remember taking this!

I like this picture of Janess and Laura because you can tell either a) they’re having fun or b) they’re tossed. Or a combo of both.

Back to more Josh love.

Ryan and Josh enjoying the evening.

Maria getting in on the action.

Me and baby.

Brian is the drunken cherry on top.

I don’t understand the correlation between alcoholic beverages consumed and inability to keep mouth closed, but I like it.

Little known fact: Josh’s face tastes like chocolate.

Somehow, amid all the chaos, Carol and Laura managed to win some money.

Somehow we managed to stumble to Tao (which after searching Google I discovered/remembered was at the Venetian) after Casino Royale. Here’s what we had to talk to in order to rest our weary feet.

This isn’t what it looks like. Ok, so maybe it is.

Me and Janelle at Tao.

Asked some guy to take these.

Was probably a mistake.

DAY TWO

We foolishly decided to try the famed Imperial Palace buffet the next morning. Here’s Janessa hiding from the camera.

And here’s Brian not hiding. He is expressing what we all felt in our stomachs moments after finishing lunch.

I decided I was going to try to capture Janelle with a mouthful of something to document every meal. That ambitious goal was abandoned immediately after this picture.

Extreme tiger pics! He lives at the Mirage.

Janessa was able to showcase her love for Lenny Briscoe forever in digital perfection.

In Maria’s room before the bachelorette party.

I was late to board the biting train.

Me and Allison.

Brian and Dave met us at the Geisha bar to show off what they had done during boy’s day off. We’re so proud.

Now we see where Maria gets her cuteness. How many mothers and aunts can really party with the best of them?

Right before we left the Double Down.

How we got to sit at Pure. Whoring ourselves for seating is what we do best!

DAY THREE

Janelle says, “Hurray for Day Three and no pregnancies!”

Shortly before being shooed away from the front gates of the restaurant where Janelle was playing in the decoration bucket.

We spent an hour at least looking at ourselves in the mirror over Brian and Janessa’s bed. Here’s a mess-up.

and another mistake…

and finally we got a picture where none of us was all fuzzy due to overexposure. If you didn’t realize how vain we all were, well, here’s your proof.

Janessa and Brian about to get dirrrrty in the luv tub.

Here we are later that night at the Shadow Bar. We sat for an hour staring at women behind an illuminated wall. Who knew nipples could get so hard?

Still at the Shadow Bar. We went to Pure later, but going with a guy sucks out all the free sitting.

DAY FOUR – AKA I WANT TO GO HOME

And now as a special surprise, this is what I was treated to on the second day of our trip when I went into the bathroom to release the buffet. I laughed so hard I almost had an accident.

Janelle and I used to hide Ciana at the old apartment. It was always a highly anticipated event, but after kind of getting tired of it as we often do after months of doing a thing, I forgot all about her. Until Vegas. What a trip it was.

THE END

wait for it....

2007-09-26T15:58:00.001-07:00

Large picture blog post coming tomorrow. Try to hold back the excitement.