all grown up and responsible-like

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

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

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

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!

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

buns of steel

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

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.