Day 6
Goddamn I am really bad at this keeping track thing. Let me think.
Oh right.
8 AM: My parents wake me up because we have a 9 AM eye appointment and this makes me very angry. I assume I use up about 100 calories thinking vengeful thoughts.
10 AM: While waiting for my turn to be inspected I get a blueberry Jamba Juice. My temper is appeased and I finish the drink, so that's like 0 calories lost and 1000 gained. There is no winning in a diet.
10:30 AM: During my routine inspection my doctor tells me I have too many blood vessels in my eyes, or something like that. This must be where the extra weight is coming from, I think. I forgive myself for the blueberry smoothie.
12:00 PM: We have pho for lunch and my mom tells my dad to leave our bowls alone. Carolyn: 1, Dad: 0. Except I wasn't that hungry so I didn't finish it. Oops. Pho: 1, Carolyn: 0, Dad: 0.
2:00 PM: My parents have to go do some boring grown up thing like handle finances so we can eat or whatever, so they drop me and Iz off at the mall. This is good exercise because Saturday is the only day I don't have yoga and trying on clothes can be really tiring. Especially when you are so sore it takes you like five minutes to pull a shirt over your head and when you come out the dressing room lady keeps giving you dirty looks because she has a five person line and you wish it was standard custom to tip dressing room ladies because you would totally not give her any money, or maybe a gum wrapper because this stupid dressing room doesn't have any trash cans.
4:00 PM: It seems our parents have abandoned us to be mall orphans and I'm really thirsty so we go to the Target food court (hehe) and I buy a mango smoothie on the grounds that is must be less fattening than an Icee, and fruit is healthy. I then have the following conversation with the food court girl --
Me: Hi, how big is your mango smoothie?
FCG: We have one size only.
Me: Okay, what size is it?
FCG: There is only one.
Me: I know there is only -- okay, can I see the cup?
FCG: Cup?
Me: Yeah.
FCG: Yes it comes in a cup.
Me: GODDAMN IT I HATE YOU.
Me, in reality: I-- okay yeah, can I have a mango smoothie?
And then she saunters over to the machine and fills this cup up with mango smoothie and comes back and plops it on the counter without a cap or straw or anything, and it took so much effort on my part not to throw a fit that would have resulted in multiple mango injuries that I figure I burned all the calories in that smoothie anyway. So it doesn't really count.
8:00 PM: My mom makes this super spicy noodle thing for dinner and it's so spicy my mouth goes numb and I can't taste anything, and I'm pretty sure if you can't taste anything you don't gain weight. So it was a pretty good diet day.
Day 7
10:00 AM: Yoga class. I'm so sore I have to rest in between turns of the wheel when I'm driving but for some reason I don't feel any of it when I'm doing yoga. Maybe downward dog is magical? Today there is a new instructor and she has us do this pose that's a downward dog with one leg off to the side and she calls it "dog at tree" and I feel this is not very yogatastic because when I do yoga I like to pretend to be a calm and peaceful person and excrement does not inspire those feelings within me. I am not too pleased with her.
11: 30 AM: At the end of the class the instructor asks me and Iz how old we are and when I reply she indicates that she thought I was a teenager, because she was going to ask us if teens would be interested in a yoga class specifically designed for them. I decide 21 is old enough to be flattered if someone thinks you are younger so I forgive her.
1:00 PM: For lunch Iz and my dad get the same spicy noodle as last night but my mom makes me a separate meal of wontons because she says the noodle was too spicy for me. This means I can taste every delicious morsel of my meal so I assume I gained like thirty pounds from it. My mom is sending me mixed messages.
5:00 PM: For dinner I have some tofu and fish and broth. I know I'm going to be hungry later.
11:00 PM: Jesus I'm hungry. Actually the hunger has come later than I expected so I reward myself with some Special K cereal. All is going well until Iz comes and sits next to me and eats two croissants and then I eat one and we both have some chips and salsa and it's all downhill from there. Have I mentioned I hate my sister?
Day 8
10:00 AM: My alarm rings for yoga. My sleepy mind goes through the pros and cons of waking up.
Pros: I want to do yoga.
Cons: I'd have to get out of bed.
Pros: I could wear my cute new boots.
Cons: No one's going to see them because I'll only wear them to drive. I don't think my yoga instructor would let me wear them during class.
This leads to..
11:30 AM: I get out of bed.
6:00 PM: I go to the library and oh my god the vending machines look really tempting but I am deterred by a bunch of tweens lining up to buy chocolate. Thank you, tweens. You may have created the monstrosity that is Hannah Montana but at least you prevented me from eating 1000 empty calories.
8:00 PM: My mom is the only person I know who can make asparagus appetizing. And it's not even wrapped in bacon. Oh my god bacon would be good right now.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Ask Jamerz.
The other night I was sitting innocently in the den, doing wholesome things like protecting the rainforest and saving puppies from drowning when my sister sends me the following message:
[Iz] (9:43:12 PM) : why do ppl have anal sex?
As in such cases when I'm not sure what to reply, I pass the question off to one of my more eloquent friends.
And just like that? Question answered. This is why I have friends, everyone.
[Iz]
As in such cases when I'm not sure what to reply, I pass the question off to one of my more eloquent friends.
Carolyn (9:43:58 PM) : hey
jam3rz (9:44:04 PM) : howdy do
Carolyn(9:44:06 PM) : iz has a question
jam3rz (9:44:27 PM) : what is it?
Carolyn (9:44:29 PM) : Iz (9:43:12 PM): why do ppl have anal sex?
jam3rz (9:45:08 PM) : so that they can stay pure for christ
And just like that? Question answered. This is why I have friends, everyone.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Home Sweet Home
A collection of gems garnered from living at home:
Mom, coming into my room -- I already know what to expect because earlier Iz mentioned to me that our mom was asking why I was acting "funny" recently-- I'm not: Hi.
Me, sitting on my bed trying to hide my blog homepage so my mom doesn't get curious and, god forbid, READ IT: Oh, hello there.
Mom, flopping onto my bed in a strangely conspiratorial manner: So, what's up?
Me, warily: Nothing. We just went to yoga and had dinner together. What's up with you?
Mom: Oh, nothing... your memory foam mattress is nice, isn't it?
Me, genuinely enthused: Oh my god I love it.
Mom: Yeah, why do they call it memory foam? I slept in your room a couple of times and I was trying to sleep lightly so I wouldn't make an imprint in my shape.
Me, amused and touched, but also worried that she thought I would be spending a significant amount of time sleeping in this bedroom: It's okay, mom, you definitely spend more time here than I do.
Mom, shaking her head rigorously: No, no, no, it's your bed.
Me, figuring this is a conversation that can be saved for a later time, when my memory foam is out of the range of fire: Okay. Sure. What's up?
Mom, looking down: Nothing.. just feel like you've been distant lately.
Me: Really? I'm living here. I'm here every night. We just went to yoga together.
Mom, glaring at my open drawers: WHY ARE YOUR DRAWERS OPEN? Why do you have this habit? Do you want it to look like robbers have been through your room??
Me: Mom, calm down. I was looking for --
Mom: NO MORE OF THIS. From now on every time you leave a drawer open I will fine you ONE DOLLAR.
Me, bursting into laughter: Okay, mom.
Mom, laughing as she leaves the room: I'm serious.
Isabel, wandering in: It's okay, mom had the exact same talk with me. My room got robbed too.
Dad, in the car: Wow, time passes so fast.
Me: Yup.
Dad: Imagine, this time next year, you'll have graduated and be back living at home.
Me, in my head: WTF
Me, out loud: Mm...
Dad: Unless, of course, you get a job in LA.. I mean, it could happen.
Me, immensely relieved: Yeah, you know, if I could get a job anywhere I should probably take it.
Dad: Yeah, hopefully you'll get a job here though.
Me: Uh huh. Or L.A. Probably L.A. That's where I go to school, so it'll probably be easier. For me. To find a job. In L.A.
Dad: Maybe..
Me: Yeah. L.A.
Me: I'm going on a diet.
Dad: You don't need a diet.
Me: I do, it's diet time.
Mom, clapping: Yay! Now you'll be the best! And pretty.
Me: Well, I'm done with dinner.
Mom, coming into my room -- I already know what to expect because earlier Iz mentioned to me that our mom was asking why I was acting "funny" recently-- I'm not: Hi.
Me, sitting on my bed trying to hide my blog homepage so my mom doesn't get curious and, god forbid, READ IT: Oh, hello there.
Mom, flopping onto my bed in a strangely conspiratorial manner: So, what's up?
Me, warily: Nothing. We just went to yoga and had dinner together. What's up with you?
Mom: Oh, nothing... your memory foam mattress is nice, isn't it?
Me, genuinely enthused: Oh my god I love it.
Mom: Yeah, why do they call it memory foam? I slept in your room a couple of times and I was trying to sleep lightly so I wouldn't make an imprint in my shape.
Me, amused and touched, but also worried that she thought I would be spending a significant amount of time sleeping in this bedroom: It's okay, mom, you definitely spend more time here than I do.
Mom, shaking her head rigorously: No, no, no, it's your bed.
Me, figuring this is a conversation that can be saved for a later time, when my memory foam is out of the range of fire: Okay. Sure. What's up?
Mom, looking down: Nothing.. just feel like you've been distant lately.
Me: Really? I'm living here. I'm here every night. We just went to yoga together.
Mom, glaring at my open drawers: WHY ARE YOUR DRAWERS OPEN? Why do you have this habit? Do you want it to look like robbers have been through your room??
Me: Mom, calm down. I was looking for --
Mom: NO MORE OF THIS. From now on every time you leave a drawer open I will fine you ONE DOLLAR.
Me, bursting into laughter: Okay, mom.
Mom, laughing as she leaves the room: I'm serious.
Isabel, wandering in: It's okay, mom had the exact same talk with me. My room got robbed too.
Dad, in the car: Wow, time passes so fast.
Me: Yup.
Dad: Imagine, this time next year, you'll have graduated and be back living at home.
Me, in my head: WTF
Me, out loud: Mm...
Dad: Unless, of course, you get a job in LA.. I mean, it could happen.
Me, immensely relieved: Yeah, you know, if I could get a job anywhere I should probably take it.
Dad: Yeah, hopefully you'll get a job here though.
Me: Uh huh. Or L.A. Probably L.A. That's where I go to school, so it'll probably be easier. For me. To find a job. In L.A.
Dad: Maybe..
Me: Yeah. L.A.
Me: I'm going on a diet.
Dad: You don't need a diet.
Me: I do, it's diet time.
Mom, clapping: Yay! Now you'll be the best! And pretty.
Me: Well, I'm done with dinner.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Carolyn's Diet Days 3, 4, and 5 or, Why I (Still) Suck At Life
Day 3
Yeah I'm a really bad diet-diary keeper and can't remember what I did that day. Odds are it was like all the other days of my summer so here's what I probably did.
11 AM: Wake up to a text from Tando calling me lazy.
12 PM: Lay in bed thinking about how unlazy I am. Get up because I'm hungry.
12:30 PM: Watch The Game and eat the (rice-less) meal my mom has left for me on the kitchen table, usually accompanied by a nagging note because even she can't lecture me while she's at her office (at least not while I'm avoiding her calls! Carolyn: 1, Mom: 0).
4:00 PM: Wonder what's for dinner.
Day 4
6 AM: Fall asleep after reading Jodi Picoult's new 477 page novel in its entirety. This isn't really diet-related unless you consider how much I read as a child instead of playing kickball, which I'm sure is where all my problems started. Also I was like totally rebellious and rejected all the societal norms and was like "I'll be as fat as I want! Screw you world!" which leaves adult me to clean up the resulting mess while enviously recalling all the carefree ice cream of my youth.
5:45 PM: Vinyasa Yoga! My first time trying it. Basically they heat up the room and then you move non-stop. Best workout ever, you feel really productive because you sweat so much. Also gross. Again because of the sweat.
7:00 PM: I'm so sore I have trouble lifting my arms to shampoo my hair. Life is good.
Day 5
10 AM: I wake up and consider getting out of bed but realize that would require moving and all my muscles are screaming about the impossibility of this task.
12 PM: I make the disheartening discovery that food will not be coming to me, so I drag my battered body off my memory foam and trudge to the kitchen. It helps that The Game is on tv. I love BET. (Iz calls it "bet")
6 PM: Yoga again. I'm so sore my downward dog looks more like an abused puppy. On the bright side, while I'm doing my stretches the instructor introduces herself to me and asks if I'm a dancer. She was probably just looking at my tights-under-shorts look but I take this to be a compliment anyway.
7:30 PM: Oh my god. Soreness compounded.
9:00 PM: On the way home my mom asks me in all seriousness, "Carolyn, are you secretly taking diet pills?"
"No," I say regretfully.
"Good," she says, relieved. "because some of those pills cause depression, you know? It's bad to take too much medicine. Besides, you aren't that fat."
I consider throwing myself out of the moving car.
2:00 AM: I guess this is technically day 6 but I don't feel like another day has come if I haven't slept yet so this goes under day 5. My dad comes home after 7 hours of mahjong (no exaggeration required) and yells at us for having more than one light on ("ELECTRICITY BILL EXPENSIVE") and I secretly think "hey if you stop losing $200 a night maybe we can afford some electricity up in here." I guess this also has nothing to do with dieting unless I can somehow connect it to the fact that I think we are totally being "financially sound" on the wrong things (like electricity and low-fat food) while spending on unnecessary things (gambling problem?). Oh look, I just did.
Oh, I'm bitchy? YOU TRY BEING SORE AND THEN DENYING YOURSELF MCDONALDS ICED COFFEE BECAUSE IT IS OVER 200 CALORIES A SERVING. YEAH I LOOKED IT UP.
Yeah I'm a really bad diet-diary keeper and can't remember what I did that day. Odds are it was like all the other days of my summer so here's what I probably did.
11 AM: Wake up to a text from Tando calling me lazy.
12 PM: Lay in bed thinking about how unlazy I am. Get up because I'm hungry.
12:30 PM: Watch The Game and eat the (rice-less) meal my mom has left for me on the kitchen table, usually accompanied by a nagging note because even she can't lecture me while she's at her office (at least not while I'm avoiding her calls! Carolyn: 1, Mom: 0).
4:00 PM: Wonder what's for dinner.
Day 4
6 AM: Fall asleep after reading Jodi Picoult's new 477 page novel in its entirety. This isn't really diet-related unless you consider how much I read as a child instead of playing kickball, which I'm sure is where all my problems started. Also I was like totally rebellious and rejected all the societal norms and was like "I'll be as fat as I want! Screw you world!" which leaves adult me to clean up the resulting mess while enviously recalling all the carefree ice cream of my youth.
5:45 PM: Vinyasa Yoga! My first time trying it. Basically they heat up the room and then you move non-stop. Best workout ever, you feel really productive because you sweat so much. Also gross. Again because of the sweat.
7:00 PM: I'm so sore I have trouble lifting my arms to shampoo my hair. Life is good.
Day 5
10 AM: I wake up and consider getting out of bed but realize that would require moving and all my muscles are screaming about the impossibility of this task.
12 PM: I make the disheartening discovery that food will not be coming to me, so I drag my battered body off my memory foam and trudge to the kitchen. It helps that The Game is on tv. I love BET. (Iz calls it "bet")
6 PM: Yoga again. I'm so sore my downward dog looks more like an abused puppy. On the bright side, while I'm doing my stretches the instructor introduces herself to me and asks if I'm a dancer. She was probably just looking at my tights-under-shorts look but I take this to be a compliment anyway.
7:30 PM: Oh my god. Soreness compounded.
9:00 PM: On the way home my mom asks me in all seriousness, "Carolyn, are you secretly taking diet pills?"
"No," I say regretfully.
"Good," she says, relieved. "because some of those pills cause depression, you know? It's bad to take too much medicine. Besides, you aren't that fat."
I consider throwing myself out of the moving car.
2:00 AM: I guess this is technically day 6 but I don't feel like another day has come if I haven't slept yet so this goes under day 5. My dad comes home after 7 hours of mahjong (no exaggeration required) and yells at us for having more than one light on ("ELECTRICITY BILL EXPENSIVE") and I secretly think "hey if you stop losing $200 a night maybe we can afford some electricity up in here." I guess this also has nothing to do with dieting unless I can somehow connect it to the fact that I think we are totally being "financially sound" on the wrong things (like electricity and low-fat food) while spending on unnecessary things (gambling problem?). Oh look, I just did.
Oh, I'm bitchy? YOU TRY BEING SORE AND THEN DENYING YOURSELF MCDONALDS ICED COFFEE BECAUSE IT IS OVER 200 CALORIES A SERVING. YEAH I LOOKED IT UP.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Men: They're Either Taking Your Lunch or Boinking Your Best Friend.
So remember how I said I was totally going to lose weight when I came home this summer, under the theory that I will be so bored I'll actually go to the gym?
Well apparently no amount of boredom has that power. Instead what I end up doing is plowing determinedly through my list of "movies I've wanted to seen since forever but never got around to until now" like it was free cheesecake. Wait, so I guess this post has two parts.
Part 1 is about how my dad keeps my diet on track without either of us meaning for it to happen. As far as I know. Dad?
Part 2 is about the movie I saw yesterday and how I might have rage issues.
Just clearing that up for you.
So the other day I went to the dentist and when the appointment was over I was glad because going to the dentist sucks and also because my dad had said that we were going to get pho at Kim Long, which is only the best pho place I've ever been to in my life.
When we got there I ordered the same thing I always order (#3 regular) and my dad ordered a #2 regular, which was odd because he usually orders a large. Oh it became clear real soon though.
"I ordered a regular because I'm taking some of your noodles," he said, sounding very satisfied with himself. "You won't be able to finish anyway."
I haven't had trouble finishing a regular since elementary school, but I was stuck in the trap of being a girl and totally had to pretend like I had a dainty appetite and could survive on bean sprouts and lemon juice. So when our bowls came my dad started shoveling my noodles into his bowl until there were literally no noodles left. "Oops," he said, laughing. "Almost took all of it." He maneuvered a few strands back into my bowl. "There you go," he said cheerfully.
Oh you think I'm exaggerating. I'm so not. There was seriously like 1/5 of the original amount left. And I was starving again an hour later. Except I was at home by then, and I'd almost rather die of starvation than get out of my chair and actually make something, so voila. Daddy: instant diet.
The day before I went to the dentist I watched The Duchess because I love Keira Knightley and have no life. I'm ambivalent about the movie but if I were Lady Georgiana oh my history would have been so different. Well maybe not because I'm all talk, but seriously if I had gone through all that she had to go through, I would've packed my kids off with a good nanny on a long vacation and then shanked my sorry excuse for a husband before setting his wig on fire and locking him in the dungeon. I'm getting mad just thinking about it.
Well apparently no amount of boredom has that power. Instead what I end up doing is plowing determinedly through my list of "movies I've wanted to seen since forever but never got around to until now" like it was free cheesecake. Wait, so I guess this post has two parts.
Part 1 is about how my dad keeps my diet on track without either of us meaning for it to happen. As far as I know. Dad?
Part 2 is about the movie I saw yesterday and how I might have rage issues.
Just clearing that up for you.
So the other day I went to the dentist and when the appointment was over I was glad because going to the dentist sucks and also because my dad had said that we were going to get pho at Kim Long, which is only the best pho place I've ever been to in my life.
When we got there I ordered the same thing I always order (#3 regular) and my dad ordered a #2 regular, which was odd because he usually orders a large. Oh it became clear real soon though.
"I ordered a regular because I'm taking some of your noodles," he said, sounding very satisfied with himself. "You won't be able to finish anyway."
I haven't had trouble finishing a regular since elementary school, but I was stuck in the trap of being a girl and totally had to pretend like I had a dainty appetite and could survive on bean sprouts and lemon juice. So when our bowls came my dad started shoveling my noodles into his bowl until there were literally no noodles left. "Oops," he said, laughing. "Almost took all of it." He maneuvered a few strands back into my bowl. "There you go," he said cheerfully.
Oh you think I'm exaggerating. I'm so not. There was seriously like 1/5 of the original amount left. And I was starving again an hour later. Except I was at home by then, and I'd almost rather die of starvation than get out of my chair and actually make something, so voila. Daddy: instant diet.
The day before I went to the dentist I watched The Duchess because I love Keira Knightley and have no life. I'm ambivalent about the movie but if I were Lady Georgiana oh my history would have been so different. Well maybe not because I'm all talk, but seriously if I had gone through all that she had to go through, I would've packed my kids off with a good nanny on a long vacation and then shanked my sorry excuse for a husband before setting his wig on fire and locking him in the dungeon. I'm getting mad just thinking about it.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Why My Diet is Not Working
Exhibit A
carolyn (10:47:37 PM): have you seen
carolyn (10:47:40 PM): thisiswhyyourefat.com
carolyn (10:48:23 PM): I think I have probelms
carolyn (10:48:30 PM): cus a lot of it just looks yummy to me
jam3rz (10:50:23 PM): dude, i was saying the EXACT SAME THING
carolyn (10:50:26 PM): whew
jam3rz (10:50:30 PM): like just a day or two ago
carolyn (10:50:35 PM): thank goodness
jam3rz (10:50:44 PM): mm...fat bitch sandwich
carolyn (10:47:37 PM): have you seen
carolyn (10:47:40 PM): thisiswhyyourefat.com
carolyn (10:48:23 PM): I think I have probelms
carolyn (10:48:30 PM): cus a lot of it just looks yummy to me
jam3rz (10:50:23 PM): dude, i was saying the EXACT SAME THING
carolyn (10:50:26 PM): whew
jam3rz (10:50:30 PM): like just a day or two ago
carolyn (10:50:35 PM): thank goodness
jam3rz (10:50:44 PM): mm...fat bitch sandwich
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Carolyn's Diet Days 1 and 2, or, Why I Suck At Life
Hello. Yesterday I bought the cutest dress in the world, except for one major flaw: it is sleeveless. This is not a flaw on the part of the dress, just on my body. When I wear it. So I am going on a diet. When I told my family the news, my mom clapped, my dad evinced slight exasperation, and Isabel had already heard the same thing so many times she just said the basic obligatory, "no you don't need to" before turning back to her webcam. I sure love having a 5"3 100 lb. younger sister.
Since I made this decision around dinnertime, "day 1" is really just the six waking hours after dinner, which even I couldn't mess up. So for the next 15 days or so this blog will be turned into a diet diary with a play-by-play of mesneaking food when no one is looking winning the war on weight. Consider it my little way of making you feel superior inspired. You're welcome.
Day 1
7 PM: "NO RICE," I say to my mom. "I'm cutting carbs." It is also around this time that the clapping occurs.
8 PM: I make myself a diet plan, which is a notebook page that I've scribbled helpful hints on, such as "WATER ONLY" and "DO YOGA."
9 PM: I'm looking up diet tips online and come across this interesting little fact: "the human stomach is only about the size of a fist, so you should only eat a handful of food at each sitting." I tell this to Stuffin, who helpfully points out, "yeah, but your stomach expands, so.."
"I ONLY NEED TO EAT A HANDFUL OF FOOD," I reply. "THAT'S ALL. IT SAYS SO RIGHT HERE."
9:01 PM: Stuffin stops replying to me.
10 PM: OMG I'M SO HUNGRY. Apparently a dinner of bamboo shoots and baby scallops is not super filling. I drink a lot of water and chew some citrus gum to fool my taste buds into thinking it is drinking orange juice.
1 AM: Oh my god I'm starving. I'm going to bed so I don't have to suffer anymore. Maybe I'll die in my sleep.
Day 2
9 AM: Oh gosh, I'm sorry about that moment of weakness last night. I silently thank myself for not dying in my sleep.
10:30 AM: Jesus I'm starving. I try to delay lunch for as long as possible so I won't have to eat multiple times in the afternoon.
11:00 AM: Screw it. Lunch? Bamboo shoots and steamed spinach. So this is what my life is going to be like from now on. I almost lose my appetite. Almost.
1:00 PM: OH MY GOD I'M STARVING.
1:30 PM: I eat a string cheese and briefly consider bulimia. Throwing up without being drunk just seems like such a waste though, so I watch tv instead.
4:00 PM: I WISH THOSE WALNUT BUTTER COOKIES WOULD STOP STARING AT ME.
6:00 PM: Yoga class. Good. I can work off all those cheese calories. We're late to class again so I get a spot in the very back and every time we do downward facing dog I hope nervously that no one is standing on the other side of the glass walls looking at my pre-diet butt.
7:30 PM: We decide to go eat hot pot for dinner.
8:00 PM: It's a buffet. Goddamn it.
10:00 PM: I'll start again tomorrow.
Since I made this decision around dinnertime, "day 1" is really just the six waking hours after dinner, which even I couldn't mess up. So for the next 15 days or so this blog will be turned into a diet diary with a play-by-play of me
Day 1
7 PM: "NO RICE," I say to my mom. "I'm cutting carbs." It is also around this time that the clapping occurs.
8 PM: I make myself a diet plan, which is a notebook page that I've scribbled helpful hints on, such as "WATER ONLY" and "DO YOGA."
9 PM: I'm looking up diet tips online and come across this interesting little fact: "the human stomach is only about the size of a fist, so you should only eat a handful of food at each sitting." I tell this to Stuffin, who helpfully points out, "yeah, but your stomach expands, so.."
"I ONLY NEED TO EAT A HANDFUL OF FOOD," I reply. "THAT'S ALL. IT SAYS SO RIGHT HERE."
9:01 PM: Stuffin stops replying to me.
10 PM: OMG I'M SO HUNGRY. Apparently a dinner of bamboo shoots and baby scallops is not super filling. I drink a lot of water and chew some citrus gum to fool my taste buds into thinking it is drinking orange juice.
1 AM: Oh my god I'm starving. I'm going to bed so I don't have to suffer anymore. Maybe I'll die in my sleep.
Day 2
9 AM: Oh gosh, I'm sorry about that moment of weakness last night. I silently thank myself for not dying in my sleep.
10:30 AM: Jesus I'm starving. I try to delay lunch for as long as possible so I won't have to eat multiple times in the afternoon.
11:00 AM: Screw it. Lunch? Bamboo shoots and steamed spinach. So this is what my life is going to be like from now on. I almost lose my appetite. Almost.
1:00 PM: OH MY GOD I'M STARVING.
1:30 PM: I eat a string cheese and briefly consider bulimia. Throwing up without being drunk just seems like such a waste though, so I watch tv instead.
4:00 PM: I WISH THOSE WALNUT BUTTER COOKIES WOULD STOP STARING AT ME.
6:00 PM: Yoga class. Good. I can work off all those cheese calories. We're late to class again so I get a spot in the very back and every time we do downward facing dog I hope nervously that no one is standing on the other side of the glass walls looking at my pre-diet butt.
7:30 PM: We decide to go eat hot pot for dinner.
8:00 PM: It's a buffet. Goddamn it.
10:00 PM: I'll start again tomorrow.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Yellow is Not Mellow
Does this look like a treehouse to you?
Ho-hum yellow treefort with a non-Ho-hum yellow slide. Oh god just kill me now. Wait, I'll explain.
That's because it's not. But I'm not sure what to call it (..fort?) and it is both made of and in close proximity to trees, so our family has formed a tacit agreement to refer to it as such. I think it would be confusing to outsiders, especially those who are standing in our backyard admiring the landscaping and can clearly see that it is not a treehouse but have to agree with us because we are the hosts and face it, our backyard is big enough to bury a lot of bodies, except that most of the people who have been invited to our home so far are not native English speakers and I think "treehouse" makes as much sense to them as it does to my parents. Which is about as much sense as that run-on sentence just made.
Anyway my point is that my parents have decided to repaint the treehouse/fort (treefort?) because theyare about ten years too late in creating lasting childhood memories want our new backyard to look nice. Then they told my sister she could choose the color, and Iz chose purple because that color is awesome and agreeable with both of us. And then today my dad wanted to go buy paint and on our way I was struck by a sudden realization:
The slide on the treefort is yellow, and if we paint the treefort purple then it will look like...
I called Iz. "We can't paint the treehouse purple--" I began.
"We'll look like Laker fans!" she finished. "I know! We have to choose another color!"
At moments like these I can really look back and reflect proudly upon how well I've brought her up.
Too bad that sense of happiness was quickly dampened when I told my dad that we would have to switch colors.
"To what?" he said skeptically.
"Red?" I suggested hopefully (it'll look cute, okay?! like a fire engine).
He looked disgusted. "How about yellow?"
It was my turn to be disgusted. "The slide is yellow," I pointed out.
"I know," he said happily. "it'll match."
I was not pleased. I do not like different shades of the same color on one thing. Only the fact that my parents were paying for the paint and it was, technically, their treefort, and arguing over the color would be too much an investment for the three weeks out of the year that I'll actually be seeing the thing kept me from protesting. Still, the principle of the matter..
No, forget it. Moving on. My only consolation was that we chose a Disney paint color (so we got "Ho Hum Yellow"), but then the paint guy undid all the good that Disney's naming division created.
My dad was actually pretty well-prepared to buy paint, despite not being really a maintenance kind of guy. He knew the surface being covered (300 square feet), and made sure to tell the paint guy that it was for outdoor use and all that other lame home maintenance stuff that I know nothing about. But then the guy asked us what the paint was for.
"A treehouse," my dad said.
The guy looked at my dad like he was crazy. "A treehouse?" he echoed.
"Yes," my dad said patiently, "a treehouse."
"Like a house.." the guy said, slowly. "in a tree."
"Yes," my dad said, " a treehouse."
The guy made a gesture with his arms that I took to be a tree. "A. House. In. Tree."
Oh my god. At this point I wanted to deck him but he was old and I know sometimes old people freak out at accents and start acting like... this. So I didn't.
"That's a big treehouse," the guy said, still doubtful.
"Yes it is," my dad said. "300 square feet. Can we get the yellow paint?"
After he mixed the paint for us I think he felt bad about doubting our intentions for "Ho Hum Yellow," and also I kept glaring at him, so he started to make small talk. Not that it really helped his case.
"I built a treehouse for my daughter," he said, putting his hand at his waist to show about how big she was. "She was around nine."
My dad smiled. "Oh," he said. My dad is not a real conversational guy.
"I strung lights," the guy continued, making what I guess was a stringing motion. "you know, electricity?"
I opened my mouth to say, "Yes, my dad is familiar with electricity," but the guy continued.
"I had a tree house when I was little, too," he said nostalgically. "It makes you feel like.. you know, a king. King?" He pantomined a crown on his head.
"Jesus," I said, but just at that moment the paint was ready so we could get the heck on out of there.
And, just as a side note I guess, my sister and I totally didn't even help paint the treefort. We were totally willing to, but my dad said it was kinda high up and he and my mom thought it was too dangerous. Yeah I know. Princesses.
Ho-hum yellow treefort with a non-Ho-hum yellow slide. Oh god just kill me now. Wait, I'll explain.That's because it's not. But I'm not sure what to call it (..fort?) and it is both made of and in close proximity to trees, so our family has formed a tacit agreement to refer to it as such. I think it would be confusing to outsiders, especially those who are standing in our backyard admiring the landscaping and can clearly see that it is not a treehouse but have to agree with us because we are the hosts and face it, our backyard is big enough to bury a lot of bodies, except that most of the people who have been invited to our home so far are not native English speakers and I think "treehouse" makes as much sense to them as it does to my parents. Which is about as much sense as that run-on sentence just made.
Anyway my point is that my parents have decided to repaint the treehouse/fort (treefort?) because they
The slide on the treefort is yellow, and if we paint the treefort purple then it will look like...
I called Iz. "We can't paint the treehouse purple--" I began.
"We'll look like Laker fans!" she finished. "I know! We have to choose another color!"
At moments like these I can really look back and reflect proudly upon how well I've brought her up.
Too bad that sense of happiness was quickly dampened when I told my dad that we would have to switch colors.
"To what?" he said skeptically.
"Red?" I suggested hopefully (it'll look cute, okay?! like a fire engine).
He looked disgusted. "How about yellow?"
It was my turn to be disgusted. "The slide is yellow," I pointed out.
"I know," he said happily. "it'll match."
I was not pleased. I do not like different shades of the same color on one thing. Only the fact that my parents were paying for the paint and it was, technically, their treefort, and arguing over the color would be too much an investment for the three weeks out of the year that I'll actually be seeing the thing kept me from protesting. Still, the principle of the matter..
No, forget it. Moving on. My only consolation was that we chose a Disney paint color (so we got "Ho Hum Yellow"), but then the paint guy undid all the good that Disney's naming division created.
My dad was actually pretty well-prepared to buy paint, despite not being really a maintenance kind of guy. He knew the surface being covered (300 square feet), and made sure to tell the paint guy that it was for outdoor use and all that other lame home maintenance stuff that I know nothing about. But then the guy asked us what the paint was for.
"A treehouse," my dad said.
The guy looked at my dad like he was crazy. "A treehouse?" he echoed.
"Yes," my dad said patiently, "a treehouse."
"Like a house.." the guy said, slowly. "in a tree."
"Yes," my dad said, " a treehouse."
The guy made a gesture with his arms that I took to be a tree. "A. House. In. Tree."
Oh my god. At this point I wanted to deck him but he was old and I know sometimes old people freak out at accents and start acting like... this. So I didn't.
"That's a big treehouse," the guy said, still doubtful.
"Yes it is," my dad said. "300 square feet. Can we get the yellow paint?"
After he mixed the paint for us I think he felt bad about doubting our intentions for "Ho Hum Yellow," and also I kept glaring at him, so he started to make small talk. Not that it really helped his case.
"I built a treehouse for my daughter," he said, putting his hand at his waist to show about how big she was. "She was around nine."
My dad smiled. "Oh," he said. My dad is not a real conversational guy.
"I strung lights," the guy continued, making what I guess was a stringing motion. "you know, electricity?"
I opened my mouth to say, "Yes, my dad is familiar with electricity," but the guy continued.
"I had a tree house when I was little, too," he said nostalgically. "It makes you feel like.. you know, a king. King?" He pantomined a crown on his head.
"Jesus," I said, but just at that moment the paint was ready so we could get the heck on out of there.
And, just as a side note I guess, my sister and I totally didn't even help paint the treefort. We were totally willing to, but my dad said it was kinda high up and he and my mom thought it was too dangerous. Yeah I know. Princesses.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Immediately After Writing This Post I Went to Check the Mirror.
So recently I've been thinking about make-up. I don't wear it, at all, and I'm 21 years old, so what's up with that. Actually I think this is because of my mom. When we were little my mom wore you know, the standard amount of make up for a woman of her age, and once in a while when she didn't have lipstick on my sister and I would be like, traumatized, because if you have a mom then you probably know when women who have been wearing lipstick for years suddenly don't they look like leeches have sucked all the blood out of their faces. And when Iz and I would be like, "omg mommy what happened to your mouth" she'd sigh and shake her head and say, "see, girls, this is why you don't wear lipstick."
And apparently I have taken her words to heart because I never wear lipstick and so far my mouth is still an acceptable healthy sort of color. Right? Right??
Also when we were little my mom would try to force a little bit of lipstick on me for when I had piano recitals and I hate 1. the feeling of anything on my skin (this is why I use spray-on sunscreen and hate pants) and 2. piano and 3. recitals, so I probably associate lipstick with all sorts of childhood trauma. Anyway this is just a really long-winded way of explaining why I don't wear make up. Here is a picture I took while scouring the aisles at Target for a base coat (nail polish is NOT make up, despite what the aisle distribution at Target tries to tell you) that gives another reason, much more succinctly.
What the. I don't wanna be a more beautiful version of myself. I want to be an accurate version of myself. Like, it's all well and good when you put on a few layers of foundation and some mascara and eyeliner and whatever else and everyone on the street is like "ooh look at her maybe it's maybelline" but then it's another matter entirely when your boyfriend sees you come out of the shower for the first time and screams "OH MY GOD WHY DID YOU EAT MY GIRLFRIEND."
So this is why I don't wear make up. Iam way too lazy just like the au naturel look. Also I'm lazy, did I mention that? honest. Speaking of which, my mom gave me a girly kit with cool stuff like shampoo but also mascara, and I tried it today and I look exactly the same except five minutes later out the door, so I think I will give it to my sister for her birthday. Shh. Don't tell her.
And apparently I have taken her words to heart because I never wear lipstick and so far my mouth is still an acceptable healthy sort of color. Right? Right??
Also when we were little my mom would try to force a little bit of lipstick on me for when I had piano recitals and I hate 1. the feeling of anything on my skin (this is why I use spray-on sunscreen and hate pants) and 2. piano and 3. recitals, so I probably associate lipstick with all sorts of childhood trauma. Anyway this is just a really long-winded way of explaining why I don't wear make up. Here is a picture I took while scouring the aisles at Target for a base coat (nail polish is NOT make up, despite what the aisle distribution at Target tries to tell you) that gives another reason, much more succinctly.
What the. I don't wanna be a more beautiful version of myself. I want to be an accurate version of myself. Like, it's all well and good when you put on a few layers of foundation and some mascara and eyeliner and whatever else and everyone on the street is like "ooh look at her maybe it's maybelline" but then it's another matter entirely when your boyfriend sees you come out of the shower for the first time and screams "OH MY GOD WHY DID YOU EAT MY GIRLFRIEND."So this is why I don't wear make up. I
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Welcome to the The List.
My dentist is on the list.
To explain, I'll have to go back to last night. Well I don't have to, but I am a talkative momo and this is my blog so suck it. Wait, sorry. I'm just a little annoyed right now. Let me explain how this is my dentist's fault.
Last night I was online, talking to people, singing along to Pandora and chewing tropical flavored gum; you know, a regular night at home, when suddenly, this happened:
Me: OUCH
Tando: what happened?
Me: I BIT MYSELF
Tando: .. how
Me: I was too enthused in my gum chewing
Me: OW
Me: damnit
Me: I did it again
Tando: ...
Tando: put some ice on it
And that was when I got this idea:
Me: omg
Me: I'm going to eat chocolate
Tando: what
Tando: no
Tando: ice
Me: the chocolate's in the fridge. compromise.
And if you know me at all what happened next shouldn't surprise you:
Tando: how's your chocolate
Me: I got pie instead
Tando: ...
Me: it's strawberry pie
So that was why my mouth was still raw and hurt-y this morning when I headed to the dentist for our bi-annual teeth cleaning. It started out innocuously enough. The dentist complimented my teeth and the lead apron he gave me to wear for the x-ray was pink, and I thought we were cool. But then. Then he took out the cleaning needle (this is a real dentistry instrument, right? my parents aren't sending me to some back alley practice?) and, under the guise of checking for cavities, jabbed me in the sore side of my cheek. Twice. The needle was still in my mouth so I couldn't really shriek, but I gave him a dirty look that very clearly said, "watch it, bucko, or that big plastic tooth model on the counter is going to suffer a very nasty accident." And my silent communication must be pretty effective because he finished up relatively quickly and jab-free-ly, and lavished praise upon my cavity-free condition, so I didn't cause a scene. But he's on the list now. And he better watch out.
Imagine what it would've been like he'd told me I did have cavities.
To explain, I'll have to go back to last night. Well I don't have to, but I am a talkative momo and this is my blog so suck it. Wait, sorry. I'm just a little annoyed right now. Let me explain how this is my dentist's fault.
Last night I was online, talking to people, singing along to Pandora and chewing tropical flavored gum; you know, a regular night at home, when suddenly, this happened:
Me: OUCH
Tando: what happened?
Me: I BIT MYSELF
Tando: .. how
Me: I was too enthused in my gum chewing
Me: OW
Me: damnit
Me: I did it again
Tando: ...
Tando: put some ice on it
And that was when I got this idea:
Me: omg
Me: I'm going to eat chocolate
Tando: what
Tando: no
Tando: ice
Me: the chocolate's in the fridge. compromise.
And if you know me at all what happened next shouldn't surprise you:
Tando: how's your chocolate
Me: I got pie instead
Tando: ...
Me: it's strawberry pie
So that was why my mouth was still raw and hurt-y this morning when I headed to the dentist for our bi-annual teeth cleaning. It started out innocuously enough. The dentist complimented my teeth and the lead apron he gave me to wear for the x-ray was pink, and I thought we were cool. But then. Then he took out the cleaning needle (this is a real dentistry instrument, right? my parents aren't sending me to some back alley practice?) and, under the guise of checking for cavities, jabbed me in the sore side of my cheek. Twice. The needle was still in my mouth so I couldn't really shriek, but I gave him a dirty look that very clearly said, "watch it, bucko, or that big plastic tooth model on the counter is going to suffer a very nasty accident." And my silent communication must be pretty effective because he finished up relatively quickly and jab-free-ly, and lavished praise upon my cavity-free condition, so I didn't cause a scene. But he's on the list now. And he better watch out.
Imagine what it would've been like he'd told me I did have cavities.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
What Work Ethic?
Hello. I was home all alone today, because even Iz has a part time job right now. It's actually a pretty sweet deal: she tests hardware products at the company where our dad works for 8 hours a day and gets paid $12/hour. I had the same job for a few summers in high school; it's as boring as it sounds but the pay is relatively decent. And plus our dad buys lunch.
So even though I worked all summer I haven't saved up much, thanks to rent and food (my aversion to cooking is really very financially crippling) and little side trips to Vegas. For a while I considered asking my dad if he could get me a few hours in the lab alongside my sister, but two things changed my mind.
The first was my mom telling me that she thinks the lab manager would have to cut another temp's hours in order to create the extra position for me. I may be poor but I am not poor enough to have to snipe jobs away from other, potentially poorer workers. I have more integrity than that. Plus it would be easier to just steal from orphans.
The second was that, if you recall, I was kind of hungover the day I got home, which would explain why I slept for like seven hours from mid-afternoon to early evening. By the time I dragged myself out of bed to go rummage in the fridge (I'm a lovely, attractive human being, I know), my mom had already been wondering what was wrong with me for a good half hour.
"You're so tired," she said, hovering over me while I searched for juice (in vain, apparently no one in my family believes in beverages because I always come home to a fridge full of water and despair). "Working full time in LA must have exhausted you. You can rest for the next three weeks. No need to work anymore."
Her tone brooked no argument and I was hardly in the condition for a show down.
"Sure," I said, giving up both my desire to quench my thirst and any dreams of augmenting my now-nonexistent income. "Can we get juice?"
Which is why I felt very unproductive a few hours ago lying on my yoga mat while the instructor crooned, "Now just relax.. let go of all the stress of the day.. all the busyness of the world... our worlds are so hectic, just take this time for yourself.." And then I felt kind of like an imposter, because while all the other people around me were trying to loosen up after a day at the office and emptying their minds and letting in light and energy and compassion or whatever, I was actually kind of annoyed because honestly? Yoga was the most stress I was going through that day. Not that it was actually stressful, but it's hard to do anything with less stress when what you've done all day is alternately eat candy, watch tv and marvel at the wonders of memory foam. And then the instructor said something about taking a walk down your throat until you reach a private beach (seriously) and it was so disturbing that I blocked out her voice entirely and started thinking about school and and then I got kind of stressed out. And my back hurt. So I think yoga was bad for me.
In conclusion, I need a job, my house needs juice, and my yoga instructor needs some better 'relaxing' imagery.
So even though I worked all summer I haven't saved up much, thanks to rent and food (my aversion to cooking is really very financially crippling) and little side trips to Vegas. For a while I considered asking my dad if he could get me a few hours in the lab alongside my sister, but two things changed my mind.
The first was my mom telling me that she thinks the lab manager would have to cut another temp's hours in order to create the extra position for me. I may be poor but I am not poor enough to have to snipe jobs away from other, potentially poorer workers. I have more integrity than that. Plus it would be easier to just steal from orphans.
The second was that, if you recall, I was kind of hungover the day I got home, which would explain why I slept for like seven hours from mid-afternoon to early evening. By the time I dragged myself out of bed to go rummage in the fridge (I'm a lovely, attractive human being, I know), my mom had already been wondering what was wrong with me for a good half hour.
"You're so tired," she said, hovering over me while I searched for juice (in vain, apparently no one in my family believes in beverages because I always come home to a fridge full of water and despair). "Working full time in LA must have exhausted you. You can rest for the next three weeks. No need to work anymore."
Her tone brooked no argument and I was hardly in the condition for a show down.
"Sure," I said, giving up both my desire to quench my thirst and any dreams of augmenting my now-nonexistent income. "Can we get juice?"
Which is why I felt very unproductive a few hours ago lying on my yoga mat while the instructor crooned, "Now just relax.. let go of all the stress of the day.. all the busyness of the world... our worlds are so hectic, just take this time for yourself.." And then I felt kind of like an imposter, because while all the other people around me were trying to loosen up after a day at the office and emptying their minds and letting in light and energy and compassion or whatever, I was actually kind of annoyed because honestly? Yoga was the most stress I was going through that day. Not that it was actually stressful, but it's hard to do anything with less stress when what you've done all day is alternately eat candy, watch tv and marvel at the wonders of memory foam. And then the instructor said something about taking a walk down your throat until you reach a private beach (seriously) and it was so disturbing that I blocked out her voice entirely and started thinking about school and and then I got kind of stressed out. And my back hurt. So I think yoga was bad for me.
In conclusion, I need a job, my house needs juice, and my yoga instructor needs some better 'relaxing' imagery.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Now This is Love. I Think. Well At Least I Know I Want an Infinity Pool When I Grow Up.
So if the topic of early 2000s tv shows has ever come up in conversation between you and I, you may already know this: I'm like obsessed with The O.C. Yeah, I know. But the thing about it is it's a really strangely specific obsession. Let me take you through the history of this love affair.
I didn't watch The O.C. when it was on tv. I was in middle school for the most of it and I was totally anti-pop culture back then. Like, I made it a point to avoid popular things because I was cool like that. Actually I think I was a way cooler person back then. Because now I am blogging about a tv show that ended three years ago. Where was I?
Right. So how do I say this... the show has been over since 2006, there were 4 seasons and (only) 92 episodes, and yet I haven't finished the series yet. I started watching in 2006.
Yeah..
So the weird thing about my long-term relationship with The O.C. is that I totally love it but I don't go near it unless I am going through traumatic life-changing experiences. Time for a timeline? Why yes, yes it is.
Timeline of Carolyn's Longest Relationship To Date
End of 2006/beginning of 2007: My love affair with The O.C. begins. I had started college and was dealing with all of the unfamiliarity (what is frat row and why does it always smell like pee?), on top of which I had just broken up with my high school boyfriend (what do you mean you joined a frat? also, what is it with you guys and pee?) I get through maybe the first or second season before I find out that college is fun and also, finals? Yeah, does not leave a lot of time for plowing through a teenage drama.
End of 2007/beginning of 2008: It's winter break and all my friends are out of town for a week, so I rekindle my friendship with Ryan, Seth, Summer and Marissa. Then my real friends come back and I leave those four somewhere near the end of Season 2.
Summer 2008: This on/off relationship is definitely on. I'm in England (Cambridge, to be specific) for a 5 week study abroad program, and apparently it rains a lot here. In between classes I introduce my floormate to the wonders of Orange County and we begin from the beginning. We get the furthest yet -- to the middle of the third season. Yeah, did I mention it rains a lot?
Summer 2009: Ah, present day. I have a lot of off time because my job hates me and tries to cut my shifts so I don't get paid the astronomical amount of $9.75 an hour. I gravitate back to my old habit, spurred on by the dread inherent in the knowledge that in a few short days I will be back in my hometown, living under my parents' roof and all my fun will be limited to what is technically thought of as "legal." Yet at this juncture I'm feeling a strange reluctance, and I realize that my slow progression through this show could be attributed to the fact that I'm completely in denial that this show has ever ended.
?: I finish all 92 episodes of The O.C. and realize that I have nothing to live for any longer. No, I don't have issues. I guess the point of this entire post is just that, uhm, well... okay yeah I was just procrastinating. I only have four episodes left, I have to do something to delay time.
I didn't watch The O.C. when it was on tv. I was in middle school for the most of it and I was totally anti-pop culture back then. Like, I made it a point to avoid popular things because I was cool like that. Actually I think I was a way cooler person back then. Because now I am blogging about a tv show that ended three years ago. Where was I?
Right. So how do I say this... the show has been over since 2006, there were 4 seasons and (only) 92 episodes, and yet I haven't finished the series yet. I started watching in 2006.
Yeah..
So the weird thing about my long-term relationship with The O.C. is that I totally love it but I don't go near it unless I am going through traumatic life-changing experiences. Time for a timeline? Why yes, yes it is.
Timeline of Carolyn's Longest Relationship To Date
End of 2006/beginning of 2007: My love affair with The O.C. begins. I had started college and was dealing with all of the unfamiliarity (what is frat row and why does it always smell like pee?), on top of which I had just broken up with my high school boyfriend (what do you mean you joined a frat? also, what is it with you guys and pee?) I get through maybe the first or second season before I find out that college is fun and also, finals? Yeah, does not leave a lot of time for plowing through a teenage drama.
End of 2007/beginning of 2008: It's winter break and all my friends are out of town for a week, so I rekindle my friendship with Ryan, Seth, Summer and Marissa. Then my real friends come back and I leave those four somewhere near the end of Season 2.
Summer 2008: This on/off relationship is definitely on. I'm in England (Cambridge, to be specific) for a 5 week study abroad program, and apparently it rains a lot here. In between classes I introduce my floormate to the wonders of Orange County and we begin from the beginning. We get the furthest yet -- to the middle of the third season. Yeah, did I mention it rains a lot?
Summer 2009: Ah, present day. I have a lot of off time because my job hates me and tries to cut my shifts so I don't get paid the astronomical amount of $9.75 an hour. I gravitate back to my old habit, spurred on by the dread inherent in the knowledge that in a few short days I will be back in my hometown, living under my parents' roof and all my fun will be limited to what is technically thought of as "legal." Yet at this juncture I'm feeling a strange reluctance, and I realize that my slow progression through this show could be attributed to the fact that I'm completely in denial that this show has ever ended.
?: I finish all 92 episodes of The O.C. and realize that I have nothing to live for any longer. No, I don't have issues. I guess the point of this entire post is just that, uhm, well... okay yeah I was just procrastinating. I only have four episodes left, I have to do something to delay time.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Why I'm Not a Phone Person. Or a Listening Person. Just Read This.
If you ever feel like you are talking to me but I am not really listening to you, don't be offended; it is because I use up my entire year's worth of listening ability in three weeks at home.
Let me explain. If you've ever met my sister, you might think she is the reason. But my mom is exactly the same. Having them around is like having two machine guns constantly going off except that instead of shooting bullets they are using words. Sometimes I'm not sure which one is worse. Kidding, I love my family. I might love them more if I invested in some ear plugs though.
No, I'm sorry. I know I got half this trait. I'm like a balance of my parents. Sometimes I won't tell you anything and sometimes you can't get me to shut up. Anyway, when my dad calls me our conversations last for four minutes max, unless he happens to get a business call on the other line and I have to wait for like minutes before either he comes back and says "hey, I have to take this, everything's okay with you? Okaygreatbye" or I get bored and hang up. When my mom calls, I have to clear my schedule for the next thirty minutes. At least. This is why I tend not to pick up her calls when I'm at work, in class, about to be in class, or studying. Or watching a tv show. Or movie. Or talking to my friends. Mostly I just call her when I'm walking somewhere or if I get left home alone. It's a pretty good system and usually works, unless my mom goes into Helicopter Mode and (as when I didn't pick up in Vegas) freaks out if I ignore a call. This often leads to text messages like this one from Iz while I was still in Vegas:
Hi moms worried call her back
Yeah, I didn't. Mostly because I read it at like 1 in the morning and was out of my mind drunk and I was like "wtf is this" and then fell asleep.
Or this one a few days later when I was taking a nap and ignored another call:
Mom asked me if anything is wrong with you and I said no.. And then she's like if somethings wrong you have to tell me >:O hmm?? And I was like there's nothing I dunno!! And she sighed a big one
And then later that night my mom reinforced the message with a text of her own:
Hi, baby, i wish you are doing good, if you got any problem, must let me know, ok? Love you!
And of course the whole "love you" thing stabbed me in the heart like a stake of guilt, so when I replied I was very, very assuring and only slightly annoyed as evidenced by my heavy use of exclamation marks, though I did soften it with a smiley:
Hi mommy, I'm fine!! Stop worrying! Just my last few days here so I'm seeing all my friends before I leave :) ok? See you soon!!
But I mean it was effective, because I got this in reply, and no phone calls for a good 12 hours or so:
Ok, that's good. Yeah, i think i worry too much. That's mom! :)
I guess it's kind of cute. And it's not like I totally ignore the calls on purpose, sometimes I just don't have the energy for the time and active listening this kind of phone call neccesitates. I hate talking on the phone but I guess my mom and sister don't have that problem.
But I totally went off course. My whole point is that as much listening as I need to do with them while I'm at school, it's a thousand times worse at home. Because there's two of them. And I think sometimes they team up on me.
For example, when I got off the airplane, Iz talked for like two hours straight. I'm serious, we went to get a late lunch and I'd already finished my pho (no easy feat, I was hungover and hadn't had a real meal in like 48 hours) and she still had a full bowl because she was way too busy chattering to eat. One of the things she told me about was how my mom had left watermelon slices in the sink overnight the other day by accident, and the next morning there were ants. Don't ask me the point of telling me that, the content of all our conversations are similar to this. But my point is my mom just came over (like literally five minutes ago) to tell me the exact same story. I'd given up trying to be polite about five years ago and whenever the beginning of a story sounds vaguely familiar, I try to quickly interject with "oh yeah, mom/Iz (depending on who's talking) told me already, haha!" This hardly ever works though, for example, this time my mom was like "oh, Iz told you? hahahah!" and then proceeded to retell the story in her own way, which was basically not very different from Iz's way. There are only so many ways to tell a story about watermelon slices in the sink.
And sometimes it's worse. Iz also told me a little 'story' about Poops' Chinese name and how hilarious it was that he wasn't sure what exactly it was and my mom spent like thirty minutes puzzling over it. Then when I got home, our mom attempted to tell me the same story, and Iz was there too, and I was like "oh yeah, Iz told me already, haha!" except before my mom could even have a chance to consider not telling the story, Iz said "ooh but I don't think I told it right! tell it again!" And of course the story was exactly the same.
Do you SEE what I have to deal with?? So yeah, if you're talking and I'm not listening, blame my family. Just don't try to talk to them about it. You'll never get off the phone.
Let me explain. If you've ever met my sister, you might think she is the reason. But my mom is exactly the same. Having them around is like having two machine guns constantly going off except that instead of shooting bullets they are using words. Sometimes I'm not sure which one is worse. Kidding, I love my family. I might love them more if I invested in some ear plugs though.
No, I'm sorry. I know I got half this trait. I'm like a balance of my parents. Sometimes I won't tell you anything and sometimes you can't get me to shut up. Anyway, when my dad calls me our conversations last for four minutes max, unless he happens to get a business call on the other line and I have to wait for like minutes before either he comes back and says "hey, I have to take this, everything's okay with you? Okaygreatbye" or I get bored and hang up. When my mom calls, I have to clear my schedule for the next thirty minutes. At least. This is why I tend not to pick up her calls when I'm at work, in class, about to be in class, or studying. Or watching a tv show. Or movie. Or talking to my friends. Mostly I just call her when I'm walking somewhere or if I get left home alone. It's a pretty good system and usually works, unless my mom goes into Helicopter Mode and (as when I didn't pick up in Vegas) freaks out if I ignore a call. This often leads to text messages like this one from Iz while I was still in Vegas:
Hi moms worried call her back
Yeah, I didn't. Mostly because I read it at like 1 in the morning and was out of my mind drunk and I was like "wtf is this" and then fell asleep.
Or this one a few days later when I was taking a nap and ignored another call:
Mom asked me if anything is wrong with you and I said no.. And then she's like if somethings wrong you have to tell me >:O hmm?? And I was like there's nothing I dunno!! And she sighed a big one
And then later that night my mom reinforced the message with a text of her own:
Hi, baby, i wish you are doing good, if you got any problem, must let me know, ok? Love you!
And of course the whole "love you" thing stabbed me in the heart like a stake of guilt, so when I replied I was very, very assuring and only slightly annoyed as evidenced by my heavy use of exclamation marks, though I did soften it with a smiley:
Hi mommy, I'm fine!! Stop worrying! Just my last few days here so I'm seeing all my friends before I leave :) ok? See you soon!!
But I mean it was effective, because I got this in reply, and no phone calls for a good 12 hours or so:
Ok, that's good. Yeah, i think i worry too much. That's mom! :)
I guess it's kind of cute. And it's not like I totally ignore the calls on purpose, sometimes I just don't have the energy for the time and active listening this kind of phone call neccesitates. I hate talking on the phone but I guess my mom and sister don't have that problem.
But I totally went off course. My whole point is that as much listening as I need to do with them while I'm at school, it's a thousand times worse at home. Because there's two of them. And I think sometimes they team up on me.
For example, when I got off the airplane, Iz talked for like two hours straight. I'm serious, we went to get a late lunch and I'd already finished my pho (no easy feat, I was hungover and hadn't had a real meal in like 48 hours) and she still had a full bowl because she was way too busy chattering to eat. One of the things she told me about was how my mom had left watermelon slices in the sink overnight the other day by accident, and the next morning there were ants. Don't ask me the point of telling me that, the content of all our conversations are similar to this. But my point is my mom just came over (like literally five minutes ago) to tell me the exact same story. I'd given up trying to be polite about five years ago and whenever the beginning of a story sounds vaguely familiar, I try to quickly interject with "oh yeah, mom/Iz (depending on who's talking) told me already, haha!" This hardly ever works though, for example, this time my mom was like "oh, Iz told you? hahahah!" and then proceeded to retell the story in her own way, which was basically not very different from Iz's way. There are only so many ways to tell a story about watermelon slices in the sink.
And sometimes it's worse. Iz also told me a little 'story' about Poops' Chinese name and how hilarious it was that he wasn't sure what exactly it was and my mom spent like thirty minutes puzzling over it. Then when I got home, our mom attempted to tell me the same story, and Iz was there too, and I was like "oh yeah, Iz told me already, haha!" except before my mom could even have a chance to consider not telling the story, Iz said "ooh but I don't think I told it right! tell it again!" And of course the story was exactly the same.
Do you SEE what I have to deal with?? So yeah, if you're talking and I'm not listening, blame my family. Just don't try to talk to them about it. You'll never get off the phone.
Friday, August 14, 2009
One Liquid Diet to Another
So in the last two weeks in LA I've managed to save a lot of grocery money with one simple but brilliant solution: don't eat. Yeah, I know, I don't know why I never thought of it before. Well, I do know why, it's because my body has a weird little thing where it wants food all the time. But I've found a way around that: drink a lot of alcohol.
It goes like this.
Day 1: Drink a lot. Be too drunk to eat.
Day 2: Be too hungover to eat anything.
Repeat.
It works pretty well and it's gratifying not only because you save so much money but also because you get to be drunk a lot. The downside is that you also have to be hungover a lot.
Which brings me to a question. What is a hangover anyway? Recently I've had the sneaking suspicion that I get them but I can't really tell. My only symptoms are that everything feels really vague and funny and I keep wanting to dance. It's a lot like being drunk, actually. Drunk and on crack. Also, I always wake up really early the next day and my brain is all energetic but my body is like "nah I'm just gonna sit here and chill" which is also explains the whole not-eating thing even though I'm usually starving the next day.
Now, just to prove I'm not a total alcoholic, I'm going to switch topics. I'm at home now. Which means I spend most of my spare time sleeping (I have a memory foam mattress topper and it is my best friend here) or listening to my sister talk (not recommended for readers at home) or wondering if I went back in time because my parents are treating me like I'm seven, and I'm 21, right? Right?!
Anyway I have three weeks at home this summer and absolutely no plans so I'm going to go on a liquid diet. No, not that kind, the other kind. Something with juice I think. I researched it a while ago but apparently alcohol does not enhance the memory. Basically you drink a lot of this special cleansing juice for three days to a week and then you come out the other side like fifty pounds thinner and with all the toxins flushed out of you. I expect greater results because if I get all the alcohol-related toxins flushed out of me I would lose more than fifty pounds. Just kidding. Not really. Maybe?
Anyway my motivation for this cleanse has everything to do with my winter trip. This Christmas break my family is going to Taiwan to visit relatives and here would be a great time to reflect upon what happened the last time we did this:
Uncle, who has always been known as the 'chubby one' ever since he was little; in fact, when we were small my mom would refer to him as 'chubby uncle' to distinguish him from our five other uncles, upon coming into the room and seeing me for the first time in like five years: Oh my god! How did you get so fat?!
Me: WTF
That's pretty much an accurate recounting, except instead of saying "WTF" I just cried a lot and he felt bad and tried to apologize but I still haven't forgiven him and if I don't lose thirty pounds before December I'm totally not going to see him. I mean when you are a teenage girl (I was like 17 then.. this was very damaging to my psyche and if I have ever done anything to offend you you can blame my uncle for messing me up when I was trying to develop mentally and socially) and your fat uncle calls you fat then well that is enough to put a person off a semi-tropical island forever.
Jesus, what is this post about? If you didn't understand any of this don't blame me, I don't either. Blame it on the vestiges of this morning's hangover, or the really fuzzy 4 hours of travel, or listening to my sister talk for two hours over lunch, or drifting in and out of sleep between like 3 and 9 PM, or just the shock of living somewhere where I get told to turn my music down.
I need a drink.
It goes like this.
Day 1: Drink a lot. Be too drunk to eat.
Day 2: Be too hungover to eat anything.
Repeat.
It works pretty well and it's gratifying not only because you save so much money but also because you get to be drunk a lot. The downside is that you also have to be hungover a lot.
Which brings me to a question. What is a hangover anyway? Recently I've had the sneaking suspicion that I get them but I can't really tell. My only symptoms are that everything feels really vague and funny and I keep wanting to dance. It's a lot like being drunk, actually. Drunk and on crack. Also, I always wake up really early the next day and my brain is all energetic but my body is like "nah I'm just gonna sit here and chill" which is also explains the whole not-eating thing even though I'm usually starving the next day.
Now, just to prove I'm not a total alcoholic, I'm going to switch topics. I'm at home now. Which means I spend most of my spare time sleeping (I have a memory foam mattress topper and it is my best friend here) or listening to my sister talk (not recommended for readers at home) or wondering if I went back in time because my parents are treating me like I'm seven, and I'm 21, right? Right?!
Anyway I have three weeks at home this summer and absolutely no plans so I'm going to go on a liquid diet. No, not that kind, the other kind. Something with juice I think. I researched it a while ago but apparently alcohol does not enhance the memory. Basically you drink a lot of this special cleansing juice for three days to a week and then you come out the other side like fifty pounds thinner and with all the toxins flushed out of you. I expect greater results because if I get all the alcohol-related toxins flushed out of me I would lose more than fifty pounds. Just kidding. Not really. Maybe?
Anyway my motivation for this cleanse has everything to do with my winter trip. This Christmas break my family is going to Taiwan to visit relatives and here would be a great time to reflect upon what happened the last time we did this:
Uncle, who has always been known as the 'chubby one' ever since he was little; in fact, when we were small my mom would refer to him as 'chubby uncle' to distinguish him from our five other uncles, upon coming into the room and seeing me for the first time in like five years: Oh my god! How did you get so fat?!
Me: WTF
That's pretty much an accurate recounting, except instead of saying "WTF" I just cried a lot and he felt bad and tried to apologize but I still haven't forgiven him and if I don't lose thirty pounds before December I'm totally not going to see him. I mean when you are a teenage girl (I was like 17 then.. this was very damaging to my psyche and if I have ever done anything to offend you you can blame my uncle for messing me up when I was trying to develop mentally and socially) and your fat uncle calls you fat then well that is enough to put a person off a semi-tropical island forever.
Jesus, what is this post about? If you didn't understand any of this don't blame me, I don't either. Blame it on the vestiges of this morning's hangover, or the really fuzzy 4 hours of travel, or listening to my sister talk for two hours over lunch, or drifting in and out of sleep between like 3 and 9 PM, or just the shock of living somewhere where I get told to turn my music down.
I need a drink.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
When You Gave Birth to Your Baby Did You Know You Were Also Signing Away Your Sanity?
So uh, what's up with parents? Recently my sister ("Iz" -- what I used to call her when we were little and I had to yell her name so much I shortened it to just one syllable) had her boyfriend ("Poops" -- seriously, that's her affectionate nickname for him. I couldn't make this stuff up; the first time I heard it in public I just wanted to flee to where no one knew we were even remotely related) visit our family home and meet the parents for the first time.
Now, this is a significant moment in our family history because neither of us had ever introduced a boyfriend to our parents before. This isn't to say we haven't had any that they knew about (although we had many more they didn't know about), it was just the first time one of us voluntarily brought a boy home in this context.
Quick side trip down memory lane: when through a lot of high school drama my parents discovered the existence and identity of my then-boyfriend, they more or less tactfully suggested to me that he might be on drugs because they thought his eyes seemed constantly glazed over. Of course, they were right, but I couldn't tell them that. So, in a nutshell, that is the story of how I had to spend the latter half of of my high school career airing my clothes out so they wouldn't smell like weed.
Anyway, when Iz brought Poops home I expected my parents to be overjoyed that they were at last meeting at least one of their daughters' boyfriends. Not only that, but he was nice, went to a good school, and treated my sister as well as a college boy can treat his girlfriend. So imagine my surprise when I get a tearful text from my sister mere days before Poops' trip, telling me how our mom was not only unenthusiastic about the impending visit but was in fact beginning to complain that he would be staying in one of our bedrooms.
When I confronted my mom about this, she told me she had absolutely no curiosity regarding Poops, and that it was "too soon" for Iz to be serious enough about a guy to bring him home. When I told her she should be glad Iz was willing to share this part of her life with her family (as opposed to sneaking around town with druggies -- this part I didn't say out loud though, besides, that's all in the past, and I'm totally mature now, and drinking until I black out is totally different from thinking "quality time" with my boyfriend is lighting his bong for him when he smokes out), she tried turning the tables and asked when I was going to be introducing a boyfriend to the family. I hung up before the words "on my wedding day" could escape, and texted Iz to wish her luck.
Throughout the week of her boyfriend's visit I got occasional angry rant-texts from my sister, like this one:
Mom is ridiculous!!! I'm in my room showing [poops] my yearbooks and the door is wide open, mom walks by and asks why we are in a stuffy little room and not outside and I say cuz my yearbooks are too heavy to carry all the way into the living room so there's no point, a few min later she literally yells at me to come out and I'm like... okay... and after two seconds she yells again and is furious soooo annoying I don't understand her... are we really gonna be doing stuff while she's there...with the door wide open uhhh I'm 20 I think I can be in a room alone with a guy with my own judgement
or this one:
So [poops] threw away a bag of fruit his mom gave him cuz he said it rotted and mom fished it out of the trash can and told me [he] wastes food minus one point... kinda jokingly... psh! haha mom wishes you were home to babysit us
For the record I just want to say my mom is not usually insane, which is what makes her behavior all the more irrational.
Anyway the reason I even thought of all this was because I was talking to my friend Stuffin today, and the subject came up about his girlfriend's super protective parents and grandma, and this was our conversation:
Stuffin: she told her mom that I got her the [Tiffany's] bracelet
Stuffin: she didn't seem to care
Stuffin: hopefully they're warming up to me
Stuffin: I think her grandma did
Stuffin: but then she found out I don't speak Canto
Stuffin: now I think she hates me again
Me: HAHA
So really, what is it with parents? This is just one reason I never want to be one: I like my sanity intact, please. Also I don't think I could be off alcohol for nine months. But mostly the sanity thing.
Now, this is a significant moment in our family history because neither of us had ever introduced a boyfriend to our parents before. This isn't to say we haven't had any that they knew about (although we had many more they didn't know about), it was just the first time one of us voluntarily brought a boy home in this context.
Quick side trip down memory lane: when through a lot of high school drama my parents discovered the existence and identity of my then-boyfriend, they more or less tactfully suggested to me that he might be on drugs because they thought his eyes seemed constantly glazed over. Of course, they were right, but I couldn't tell them that. So, in a nutshell, that is the story of how I had to spend the latter half of of my high school career airing my clothes out so they wouldn't smell like weed.
Anyway, when Iz brought Poops home I expected my parents to be overjoyed that they were at last meeting at least one of their daughters' boyfriends. Not only that, but he was nice, went to a good school, and treated my sister as well as a college boy can treat his girlfriend. So imagine my surprise when I get a tearful text from my sister mere days before Poops' trip, telling me how our mom was not only unenthusiastic about the impending visit but was in fact beginning to complain that he would be staying in one of our bedrooms.
When I confronted my mom about this, she told me she had absolutely no curiosity regarding Poops, and that it was "too soon" for Iz to be serious enough about a guy to bring him home. When I told her she should be glad Iz was willing to share this part of her life with her family (as opposed to sneaking around town with druggies -- this part I didn't say out loud though, besides, that's all in the past, and I'm totally mature now, and drinking until I black out is totally different from thinking "quality time" with my boyfriend is lighting his bong for him when he smokes out), she tried turning the tables and asked when I was going to be introducing a boyfriend to the family. I hung up before the words "on my wedding day" could escape, and texted Iz to wish her luck.
Throughout the week of her boyfriend's visit I got occasional angry rant-texts from my sister, like this one:
Mom is ridiculous!!! I'm in my room showing [poops] my yearbooks and the door is wide open, mom walks by and asks why we are in a stuffy little room and not outside and I say cuz my yearbooks are too heavy to carry all the way into the living room so there's no point, a few min later she literally yells at me to come out and I'm like... okay... and after two seconds she yells again and is furious soooo annoying I don't understand her... are we really gonna be doing stuff while she's there...with the door wide open uhhh I'm 20 I think I can be in a room alone with a guy with my own judgement
or this one:
So [poops] threw away a bag of fruit his mom gave him cuz he said it rotted and mom fished it out of the trash can and told me [he] wastes food minus one point... kinda jokingly... psh! haha mom wishes you were home to babysit us
For the record I just want to say my mom is not usually insane, which is what makes her behavior all the more irrational.
Anyway the reason I even thought of all this was because I was talking to my friend Stuffin today, and the subject came up about his girlfriend's super protective parents and grandma, and this was our conversation:
Stuffin: she told her mom that I got her the [Tiffany's] bracelet
Stuffin: she didn't seem to care
Stuffin: hopefully they're warming up to me
Stuffin: I think her grandma did
Stuffin: but then she found out I don't speak Canto
Stuffin: now I think she hates me again
Me: HAHA
So really, what is it with parents? This is just one reason I never want to be one: I like my sanity intact, please. Also I don't think I could be off alcohol for nine months. But mostly the sanity thing.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Here, Feel Better About Yourself.
So if you like embarrassing stories that aren't outrageous enough to be memorable or even particularly interesting but will still make you feel better about your own life, then you've come to the right place.
I had the hardest time dragging myself out of bed this morning because my schedule had been thrown off by all my hedonistic out-of-town partying, and some guys were over at the apartment last night playing video games on one tv while watching some show on the other (yeah, there are three tvs in the living room in this apartment) and the noise filtered in to my room and I was already restless anyway so basically what I'm trying to say is that it was 7:45 before I knew it, and I hadn't even changed yet and I had to be at work in 15 minutes and I knew it took me like 12 minutes to walk there so I was like OMG WHAT DO I DO.
It didn't help that all my clothes are currently split up between a duffle bag, a suitcase, two garbage bags (they're CLEAN AND CHEAP alright don't judge me), and Fremont, so I really had very limited options. In my rush I settled for my old faithful backup, this dark purple form fitting suit-dress that I got at H&M earlier this year, which usually makes me look put-together and draws the attention away from my sleep-deprived eyes and my sleep-smooshed hair (I should just stop sleeping altogether), and rushed off to work.
So guess what. IT FAILED ME. Yeah, I know! I was outraged too. Later that day, thankfully only two hours before it was time to go home, I was in the bathroom looking at my hair and silently telling it how much I hated it when I automatically did a slow turn/full body check and realized that MY DRESS WAS RIPPED. Yeah, RIPPED. Like in the back, from the bottom hem, which hit just above the knee, to probably like halfway to my waist.
My god, from that moment on it was a tricky game to escape anyone from (further) noticing my wardrobe malfunction. First I had to slide very casually out of the bathroom and then casually walk backwards toward the hallway, where no one ever is, and once I got out there I had to casually sprint to the other door which was only like two feet from my desk. One of my coworkers was sitting at the desk right inside the door, but luckily he apparently is used to me inexplicably darting around the office because he didn't even turn around when I got back.
When I sat down in the chair (which actually belonged to another coworker who was in a meeting -- I have no permanent desk so I'm like a workstation squattor) I decided that I wasn't going to get up again for the rest of the day. And then, because I didn't want everyone to think that I was completely lazy, I reluctantly decided to share my misfortune with my nearest coworker, the one at the desk.
"Hey," I said. "I ripped my dress."
He gave me a sidelong look and laughed a little. "Oh," he said. "yeah."
HE KNEW? And didn't tell me? Well all I can say is that he better start watching his back.
The rest of the day went mostly like that. When the coworker whose desk I had commandeered came back, I had to hop chairs and from then on I was kind of just a chair-bound nomad who had to try and look busy so no one would ask me to do something that involved standing. When it was time to go home I had to ask my boss to drive her car around to the office door to pick me up.
And of course the icing on the cake came while I was waiting for her (my back casually but firmly pressed against the side of the building, of course), and this girl walked by me and complimented me on my dress. I almost cried. How could it betray me like this? I don't know when I'll ever trust again.
I had the hardest time dragging myself out of bed this morning because my schedule had been thrown off by all my hedonistic out-of-town partying, and some guys were over at the apartment last night playing video games on one tv while watching some show on the other (yeah, there are three tvs in the living room in this apartment) and the noise filtered in to my room and I was already restless anyway so basically what I'm trying to say is that it was 7:45 before I knew it, and I hadn't even changed yet and I had to be at work in 15 minutes and I knew it took me like 12 minutes to walk there so I was like OMG WHAT DO I DO.
It didn't help that all my clothes are currently split up between a duffle bag, a suitcase, two garbage bags (they're CLEAN AND CHEAP alright don't judge me), and Fremont, so I really had very limited options. In my rush I settled for my old faithful backup, this dark purple form fitting suit-dress that I got at H&M earlier this year, which usually makes me look put-together and draws the attention away from my sleep-deprived eyes and my sleep-smooshed hair (I should just stop sleeping altogether), and rushed off to work.
So guess what. IT FAILED ME. Yeah, I know! I was outraged too. Later that day, thankfully only two hours before it was time to go home, I was in the bathroom looking at my hair and silently telling it how much I hated it when I automatically did a slow turn/full body check and realized that MY DRESS WAS RIPPED. Yeah, RIPPED. Like in the back, from the bottom hem, which hit just above the knee, to probably like halfway to my waist.
My god, from that moment on it was a tricky game to escape anyone from (further) noticing my wardrobe malfunction. First I had to slide very casually out of the bathroom and then casually walk backwards toward the hallway, where no one ever is, and once I got out there I had to casually sprint to the other door which was only like two feet from my desk. One of my coworkers was sitting at the desk right inside the door, but luckily he apparently is used to me inexplicably darting around the office because he didn't even turn around when I got back.
When I sat down in the chair (which actually belonged to another coworker who was in a meeting -- I have no permanent desk so I'm like a workstation squattor) I decided that I wasn't going to get up again for the rest of the day. And then, because I didn't want everyone to think that I was completely lazy, I reluctantly decided to share my misfortune with my nearest coworker, the one at the desk.
"Hey," I said. "I ripped my dress."
He gave me a sidelong look and laughed a little. "Oh," he said. "yeah."
HE KNEW? And didn't tell me? Well all I can say is that he better start watching his back.
The rest of the day went mostly like that. When the coworker whose desk I had commandeered came back, I had to hop chairs and from then on I was kind of just a chair-bound nomad who had to try and look busy so no one would ask me to do something that involved standing. When it was time to go home I had to ask my boss to drive her car around to the office door to pick me up.
And of course the icing on the cake came while I was waiting for her (my back casually but firmly pressed against the side of the building, of course), and this girl walked by me and complimented me on my dress. I almost cried. How could it betray me like this? I don't know when I'll ever trust again.
Monday, August 10, 2009
10 Things I Learned in Vegas (Mostly About the Properties of Rum)
1. Rum will fuck you up. Bad. Seriously, you will be drunk for seven hours and then black out for like a day and a half and wake up back in your own room feeling weak and having trouble typing when you try to update your blog.
2. This is not necessarily a bad thing. After all, you had a great time in Vegas. If only you could remember it. Did you even go? Whatever. Someone had a great time. It was probably you.
3. When you go to a Vons in Vegas on an alcohol-buying expedition (because waiting for a cocktail waitress to bring you one vodka tonic at a time is too time consuming, even if it is free) and type in your rewards number and the check-out guy asks how you pronounce your last name and you say "Wang," he'll snicker but you can't do anything about it because he's probably part of the Vegas mob, like those guys who beat up that cute guy in the movie 21.
4. In the rare moments that you are sober you and all the friends you are with will think that there needs to be some excuse to drink excessively, so you will all drive around in the 100 degree Vegas heat looking for a sports store to buy ping pong balls for beer pong, and after two hours you'll finally find a Wal-Mart and get them, and then you'll go back to the hotel room and start taking straight shots of rum and suddenly no one can find the ping pong balls, much less have enough coordination to rearrange any furniture.
5. And you will all be so messed up you forget the ping pong balls in the hotel room the next day, and on the ride home you'll wonder if you're in a stoner movie.
6. If you work in an office that also happens to contract out a nice older gentleman who doesn't mind hanging out with a bunch of drunk kids, then you will get to hang out in his Four Seasons hotel suite, which is apparently at the top of the Mandalay Bay hotel, and you will be so impressed by the view that you start drinking until you can't see it anymore.
7. Also Four Seasons hotel suites have a total of three (count 'em, three!) sinks, and if you fill these along with the ice bucket full of ice, then you will have enough cold space to store a bottle of rum and 32 cans of beer.
8. And between the four of you, you will finish 21 cans of beer in an hour and a half, although that's not really a fair way to break it down because you only had four, and one guy had like fifteen, but that might not really be his fault because according to sources the next day you kept opening beer bottles because you liked the sound when it popped, and you'd drink like two sips and pass them to him.
9. Apparently public drunkeness is not a crime in Nevada. And neither is walking around with uncovered alcohol. And this is good because you've found out that when you're drunk you totally don't need food and can get by on one real meal and roughly 300 shots of rum. It's practically like you made money by going to Vegas.
10. You love Vegas.
2. This is not necessarily a bad thing. After all, you had a great time in Vegas. If only you could remember it. Did you even go? Whatever. Someone had a great time. It was probably you.
3. When you go to a Vons in Vegas on an alcohol-buying expedition (because waiting for a cocktail waitress to bring you one vodka tonic at a time is too time consuming, even if it is free) and type in your rewards number and the check-out guy asks how you pronounce your last name and you say "Wang," he'll snicker but you can't do anything about it because he's probably part of the Vegas mob, like those guys who beat up that cute guy in the movie 21.
4. In the rare moments that you are sober you and all the friends you are with will think that there needs to be some excuse to drink excessively, so you will all drive around in the 100 degree Vegas heat looking for a sports store to buy ping pong balls for beer pong, and after two hours you'll finally find a Wal-Mart and get them, and then you'll go back to the hotel room and start taking straight shots of rum and suddenly no one can find the ping pong balls, much less have enough coordination to rearrange any furniture.
5. And you will all be so messed up you forget the ping pong balls in the hotel room the next day, and on the ride home you'll wonder if you're in a stoner movie.
6. If you work in an office that also happens to contract out a nice older gentleman who doesn't mind hanging out with a bunch of drunk kids, then you will get to hang out in his Four Seasons hotel suite, which is apparently at the top of the Mandalay Bay hotel, and you will be so impressed by the view that you start drinking until you can't see it anymore.
7. Also Four Seasons hotel suites have a total of three (count 'em, three!) sinks, and if you fill these along with the ice bucket full of ice, then you will have enough cold space to store a bottle of rum and 32 cans of beer.
8. And between the four of you, you will finish 21 cans of beer in an hour and a half, although that's not really a fair way to break it down because you only had four, and one guy had like fifteen, but that might not really be his fault because according to sources the next day you kept opening beer bottles because you liked the sound when it popped, and you'd drink like two sips and pass them to him.
9. Apparently public drunkeness is not a crime in Nevada. And neither is walking around with uncovered alcohol. And this is good because you've found out that when you're drunk you totally don't need food and can get by on one real meal and roughly 300 shots of rum. It's practically like you made money by going to Vegas.
10. You love Vegas.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Hmph.
Hi. Apparently no one wanted to compliment me on my flyers so I am boycotting this blog until Monday. Also that's when I get back from Vegas.
Bye.
Haters.
Bye.
Haters.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Who Needs Photoshop When You've Got Clipart?
So as you all must know, I am an extremely diligent worker at my prestigious summer job working with the University Apartments North office. Today I was honored with the task of creating an exciting new flyer informing the residents of an apartment building that their roof was about to undergo construction and that they should avoid the area until construction is complete.
This was the first draft.
Click to enlarge. And you better enlarge, I didn't waste all this time making it so that you could just glance over it and not read all the fine print.
Then I thought I would go with something more relatable to college students.
This is the second draft.
The text box is supposed to say "And donkeys and elephants will dislike you."
The animal clipart came up under my search for "party," so I really had no choice but to include it. With this draft the worry was that people might get confused and go to the roof in anticipation for a party rather than avoid it under penalty of potential injury. Also around this time I ran out of ideas so in my third draft I relied heavily on clipart.
And then I made the mistake of showing my bosses my masterpieces. Oh sure, they were all admiration and appreciative laughter, but when it came time to make a thousand copies to be distributed throughout the building, things suddenly weren't so funny anymore.
Oh they were nice enough, complimenting me on "thinking outside the box," and gently suggesting that my way with words (and clipart) might just be "too abstract for all the international students," but what it really all meant was just that MY FLYERS WERE REJECTED.
So this is what all my drafts led up to:
And then I was like, well someone has to appreciate all my hard work. So here it is. Let the compliments roll in, people. I'M WAITING.
This was the first draft.
Click to enlarge. And you better enlarge, I didn't waste all this time making it so that you could just glance over it and not read all the fine print. Then I thought I would go with something more relatable to college students.
This is the second draft.
The text box is supposed to say "And donkeys and elephants will dislike you."The animal clipart came up under my search for "party," so I really had no choice but to include it. With this draft the worry was that people might get confused and go to the roof in anticipation for a party rather than avoid it under penalty of potential injury. Also around this time I ran out of ideas so in my third draft I relied heavily on clipart.
And then I made the mistake of showing my bosses my masterpieces. Oh sure, they were all admiration and appreciative laughter, but when it came time to make a thousand copies to be distributed throughout the building, things suddenly weren't so funny anymore.Oh they were nice enough, complimenting me on "thinking outside the box," and gently suggesting that my way with words (and clipart) might just be "too abstract for all the international students," but what it really all meant was just that MY FLYERS WERE REJECTED.
So this is what all my drafts led up to:
And then I was like, well someone has to appreciate all my hard work. So here it is. Let the compliments roll in, people. I'M WAITING.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
A Lesson in Culture
So let me say right off the bat that the encouraging part of all this is that we ventured out on a burning hot afternoon in Southern California to make the journey to the museum in the first place.
Now that I've gotten that out the way, please don't judge us too harshly for this:
Me with a large thingie that I don't know anything about because I was too busy posing like it to read the description. I think it's Polynesian. Or something.
Or this:
Mango with a slightly less large thingie because he was too afraid to take a picture with the big one. Like he literally said, "Noo what if someone's hiding in it?" And it took some browbeating to get him in position. And then afterward he gave this huge all-body shudder and scampered out of there.
In a weak attempt at redemption I would like to introduce Exhibits A and B:
Exhibit A. Me trying to look thoughtful at the courtyard fountain. Convincing, no?
Exhibit B. I don't know why Mango's thoughtful pose has to be this full body production. He insisted.
Right. In closing, I would just like to apologize to every history professor or social studies teachers I've had. Sorry. Really.
Now that I've gotten that out the way, please don't judge us too harshly for this:
Me with a large thingie that I don't know anything about because I was too busy posing like it to read the description. I think it's Polynesian. Or something.
Or this:
Mango with a slightly less large thingie because he was too afraid to take a picture with the big one. Like he literally said, "Noo what if someone's hiding in it?" And it took some browbeating to get him in position. And then afterward he gave this huge all-body shudder and scampered out of there.
In a weak attempt at redemption I would like to introduce Exhibits A and B:
Exhibit A. Me trying to look thoughtful at the courtyard fountain. Convincing, no?
Exhibit B. I don't know why Mango's thoughtful pose has to be this full body production. He insisted.
Right. In closing, I would just like to apologize to every history professor or social studies teachers I've had. Sorry. Really.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Presenting: My Talents as a Life Coach.
Mango has gone off to Oregon and Canada and other northern places and it is very sad. I knew it would be sad, which is why I decided to be awesome and proactive and formulate a plan of attack on these unfortunate circumstances. These are the steps I took in the order I took them:
Step 1. Mope around while contemplating my hungry and lonely fate upon Mango's departure. Suggest to Mango that he should stay.
Step 2. Reluctantly reassure Mango that he should go and that I would try to eat dinner every day, or at least heat up my leftovers from lunch, or at least have lunch.
Step 3. Frantically make as many plans as possible because honestly, if I am here by myself who will I sacrifice to the murderer while I make my escape?
Step 4. Have a dinner/sleepover with Meema. Just kidding about the murderer, Meema.
Step 5. Watch The Diving Bell and the Butterfly and Across the Universe.
Step 6. Sleep soundly knowing thatanother potential victim a good friend is sleeping in the same apartment.
The plan went as well as could be expected. I have created a table of what worked and what didn't as a useful reference to anyone looking to adapt the plan for their personal use.
What Successfully Cheered Me Up
1. Meema's roommate is this little white girl who spends all day playing games like Counterstrike online, and while I was there I was lucky enough to witness her yelling at the screen about flashbombs and moving in on the enemy. It was awesome, after the initial startlement when I first heard her shriek, "I'M BLINDED. I'M BLINDED. COVER ME."
2. When Meema and I went to get donuts after dinner the man in front of us in line was buying in bulk and left us $3 to use as a thank you for waiting. This paid for my pink Homer donut.
3. The male lead in Across the Universe is really good looking in that artistic, brooding, way-too-good-for-Evan-Rachel-Wood way. This made the movie enjoyable. Also the music was good.
4. Meema has like 30 colors of nail polish and enough patience to do my nails for me. This has the dual effect of making her a good friend and my nails beautiful.
What Failed at Cheering Me Up
1. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly? Not a feel-good movie. Who would've thought that a movie about a once-successful editor who had a stroke at age 42 and became locked-in, able to use only his remaining functional body part (left eyelid) to dictate a book through blinks and then dying days after it's published could be depressing? Now you know. You're welcome.
2. I was really enjoying Across the Universe up until the part where they got into that psychedelic bus and then I felt like I was tripping out on acid for the rest of the movie. I guess that was the effect the moviemakers wanted, and also it was like 2 AM so my brain was too tired to combat their manipulations. Plus I don't like Evan Rachel Wood because I do not find her attractive and she stole Marilyn Manson from Dita Von Teese which is probably actually doing Dita Von Teese a favor but still it's the principle of the matter. This made the movie not enjoyable.
I hope the results of my painstaking research will be of help to you in the future. If you would like to thank me please come guard my apartment against murderers.
Step 1. Mope around while contemplating my hungry and lonely fate upon Mango's departure. Suggest to Mango that he should stay.
Step 2. Reluctantly reassure Mango that he should go and that I would try to eat dinner every day, or at least heat up my leftovers from lunch, or at least have lunch.
Step 3. Frantically make as many plans as possible because honestly, if I am here by myself who will I sacrifice to the murderer while I make my escape?
Step 4. Have a dinner/sleepover with Meema. Just kidding about the murderer, Meema.
Step 5. Watch The Diving Bell and the Butterfly and Across the Universe.
Step 6. Sleep soundly knowing that
The plan went as well as could be expected. I have created a table of what worked and what didn't as a useful reference to anyone looking to adapt the plan for their personal use.
What Successfully Cheered Me Up
1. Meema's roommate is this little white girl who spends all day playing games like Counterstrike online, and while I was there I was lucky enough to witness her yelling at the screen about flashbombs and moving in on the enemy. It was awesome, after the initial startlement when I first heard her shriek, "I'M BLINDED. I'M BLINDED. COVER ME."
2. When Meema and I went to get donuts after dinner the man in front of us in line was buying in bulk and left us $3 to use as a thank you for waiting. This paid for my pink Homer donut.
3. The male lead in Across the Universe is really good looking in that artistic, brooding, way-too-good-for-Evan-Rachel-Wood way. This made the movie enjoyable. Also the music was good.
4. Meema has like 30 colors of nail polish and enough patience to do my nails for me. This has the dual effect of making her a good friend and my nails beautiful.
What Failed at Cheering Me Up
1. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly? Not a feel-good movie. Who would've thought that a movie about a once-successful editor who had a stroke at age 42 and became locked-in, able to use only his remaining functional body part (left eyelid) to dictate a book through blinks and then dying days after it's published could be depressing? Now you know. You're welcome.
2. I was really enjoying Across the Universe up until the part where they got into that psychedelic bus and then I felt like I was tripping out on acid for the rest of the movie. I guess that was the effect the moviemakers wanted, and also it was like 2 AM so my brain was too tired to combat their manipulations. Plus I don't like Evan Rachel Wood because I do not find her attractive and she stole Marilyn Manson from Dita Von Teese which is probably actually doing Dita Von Teese a favor but still it's the principle of the matter. This made the movie not enjoyable.
I hope the results of my painstaking research will be of help to you in the future. If you would like to thank me please come guard my apartment against murderers.
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