For Teenie.

I'm taking an honors class right now on "Stress and Coping." I just had the class for the first time today, so I've only learned two things so far:

1. The class is in the exact same classroom as an honors class I had last quarter that I dropped after a week because there were only like twelve people in the class, sitting in a circle around the teacher, and I had already fallen asleep three times in the first hour. I figured it would be all downhill from there. I'm crossing my fingers that this quarter will be better.

2. Compared to what I learned about every single other student in the class during those awkward self-intro speeches, I am really behind on life. Like there was a girl who was interning for the Conan O'Brien show (this coming on the heels of her internship with the Make-A-Wish Foundation), and a guy who spent part of his summer in Haiti volunteering in hospitals. Over half the class had taken either the MCAT, the LSAT or the GRE. A typical 'what I did over summer' speech would go like this: "I spent this summer putting in over 40 hours a week at my internship with a sports agent representing dozens of professional athletes. In my spare time, I studied for the LSAT and did some volunteer legal work on the side. I took the test last week and now I'm working on a few dozen applications for law schools across the country." And then there was me: "This summer I worked until I saved up enough money to go to Hawaii. And then I did and it was awesome."

After that whole thing, the professor went through some of the logistics of the class. It was all very basic, but one question she asked stuck with me. It might just be because it's the topic of a quarter-long assignment and I like to do my worrying in advance, but this is the question: "how do you deal with stress?"

It sounds simple, right? No. Sucker. At least not for me. I thought it was obvious at first. "Oh," I thought to myself, "well, that's easy. When I'm stressed I snack a lot. Ugh weight gain. Maybe I should start going to the gym. But I have no time and I hate being sweaty and moving around. Maybe I should just stop buying snacks." But then I realized that this isn't always necessarily true. Sometimes when I'm stressed I stop eating. Like there would be stretches of time where I'd be too busy to cook or grocery shop and I'd subsist on whatever non-perishables I have left in the back of the pantry. Unfortunately, if you're thinking "oh at least that helps her weight balance back out" this does not seem to be true. Apparently my body is in a kind of lose-lose situation -- or should I say gain-gain?-- where if I don't eat it goes on survival mode and manages to wrangle 300 calories out of a single stalk of celery. And then when I do eat it rejoices by safely tucking all these incoming calories in little pockets of fat known as my appendages.

So my point is I was trying to figure out how I personally cope with stress. And I was drawing a blank until just now, when I was having a conversation with Teenie about how confusing and annoying feelings are, and basically just bitching about life in general to the point where she had to calm me down by quoting Red Hot Chili Peppers and telling me that I'm pretty. I'm not saying I'm superficial, but just fyi: telling me I'm pretty often has a calming effect on me. It's like what a tranquilizer dart does to a charging bear. Song lyrics are optional.

Anyway, we started talking about this ongoing fantasy I have where I uproot my life and move to somewhere exotic and romantic and then do something charmingly destitute like be a waitress in a small cafe by the ocean. And then I realized: this is my coping mechanism. Like when I'm in my beautiful apartment in Westwood, which at the moment might not seem so beautiful because there is nothing in the refrigerator and I have a pile of unfinished assignments and hundreds of pages to read and nothing more exciting than Shakespeare on my horizon, I think "well you know what? in a year I'll have graduated and I can do whatever I want and if what I want to do is buy a one way ticket to France and spend my life savings on a small apartment over a bookshop and work in a bakery selling cupcakes, then what's stopping me?" Or sometimes it's Bath, an apartment over a shoe store, working at the spa; Hong Kong, in a high-rise penthouse, something with banking and investments where I get to wear killer heels and flattering suits. My fantasies about the future aren't always so far-fetched, however. Once in a while I'll be feeling tame and domestic, and it'll be something more along the lines of a Victorian house in San Francisco, where I sell antiques; a cottage in Maine where I lead tour groups through historic landmarks; an apartment overlooking the cityscape in Seattle where I, of course, work in a coffee shop.

That's the thing about being an English major, I think. On one hand, I have little to no prospects. On the other, I could be anywhere, doing anything.

And if nothing else, that makes me appreciate my sunny little apartment with its french doors, soft carpets and familiar, friendly residents for the short time that I have it.

Do Not Entrust Me With Your Children.

Hello, hello. I'm like a neglectful parent to my blog; right when I get it I fawn over it and coo about how adorable it is and update it every day and then I begin to ignore it because it's so needy and needs to be burped all the time but then I start feeling guilty about my terrible attitude and renew my promise to write something every day and then I go to Hawaii on vacation and totally forget I even had a baby and then I come back and child services is knocking on the door and now I'm only limited to thirty minute visitations before my full blogger rights are restored to me. Well that last part isn't completely accurate but I had to work out a way to say that there is only approximately fifty minutes of battery life left on my computer and the charger is way the heck in the living room and I love my blog but frankly there are limits to my dedication.

So.. yeah. I'm back from Hawaii! In fact I'm not even in Fremont Union City anymore, I'm in the City of Angels and happy as a clam. Or more like happy as an otter holding a clam that I'm about to crack open and eat. I'm sorry, it's really, really late.

Anyway, Hawaii was as amazing as you'd expect an island paradise to be and I have a lot to say about it, I think, (well actually I have a terrible memory, which is why I am a little obsessed with making itineraries and scrapbooks and virtual photo albums and -- oh yeah, blog posts) but I'm waiting until all the pictures are uploaded (you know who you are -- and if you don't, you are Teenie, Jamerz and Mango) before I begin on what will be the most epic blog post ever attempted completed in a timely and coherent manner.

So if my life were a tv show and you just missed the last few episodes because you are not a very loyal viewer (honestly, did you even notice that I hadn't updated in a week? I bet no one even sent any search parties out to Hawaii, like I expressly asked you to, did you? And I don't care that I had a post since my return, it could very well have been pre-scheduled and for all you know I'm now lying in a pit of lava in the middle of the Pacific) then the recap at the beginning of the newest episode would go something like this:

1. It was very recently the birthdays of three of my good friends: Teenie, Kenny and Stuffin (collectively known as the September babies). Their birthdays are in three days in a row in the middle of September, and usually at the end of our summer break we throw a huge joint birthday party. The only thing was that this year I had exactly one day between my return from Hawaii and my departure from Northern California. What followed was a very busy pre-party morning full of humorous hijinks and laughable setbacks that would be very entertaining if it had not happened to me, but it did, so we are not going to talk about it.

2. My family and I made the road trip down to Southern California, and I think it really says a lot about the three years I've spent here that when we became stuck for about an hour in blistering hot Los Angeles traffic, all I could think of was how happy I was to be back. Also we borrowed this cargo truck from a family friend to haul the furniture for my new apartment, and I am not kidding when I say cargo truck. We had to go through weigh stations. Yes, it was thrilling, and yes, I did feel like I should be wearing a cap. It also brought me way back to when my family was dirt-poor and my dad would have to make weekly (weekly!) drives up and down the coast of California hauling cargo, and sometimes he'd take me or my sister along and we'd sit on a little stool in the back with the boxes while my dad and another worker sat in the only two seats in the cab. And it was awesome, if a little bumpy.

3. On Tuesday Tando brought over half the stuff he's let me store at his place over summer. He tells me he only brought half of it because "it got too dark and [he] couldn't see anymore." This statement was mildly confusing but I assume he meant he couldn't see between his front door and his car and didn't want to lug a bunch of stuff in the dark. When the Y asks why he didn't bring all my things I tell her what he said, and her take on it is that maybe he's scared of being outside in the dark because the gangsters will get him (Tando does not live in the best part of Los Angeles).

4. On Thursday Tando was supposed to bring the rest of my stuff but he couldn't because the car he was going to use wasn't available.

5. On Friday Tando and his cousin were supposed to hang out with me and the Y (and, I assume, bring the rest of my things) but they cancel. I begin to suspect that Tando's pet bunny has eaten all my clothes and my trash can and my mini-fridge and he is stalling for time before he can work up the courage to tell me this.

6. Tando calls and explains the reason he had to cancel was because he needed to wait for the electricity guy to come and turn his power back on. I recall that Tando had his power shut off ages ago for forgetting to pay the bill. "They turned it off again?!" I ask increduously.
"No," he said, "they never turned it back on."
"How long have you been living without electricity?!"
"Like a week. I thought you knew this."
"No, you didn't mention it again."
"Well, why did you think I couldn't bring all your stuff last time? I couldn't see where everything was in my apartment after the sun went down!"

I am slightly ashamed to say that at this point I burst out laughing, which Tando did not appreciate. I tried to lighten the mood by saying, "oh... the Y thought you were just scared of gangsters." For some reason this did not help either. But luckily everything worked out because today the guy finally came and turned his power back on and I got all my stuff back and now I have my scarves and shoes and belts and Tando has electricity. And my battery has two minutes left on it.

Good night, see you again soon. Really. Well, maybe.

Chinese Love

So in the three weeks I spent at home I started watching this Taiwanese drama with my mom. I really got inadvertently sucked into it. I would be sitting in my kitchen, on my computer and snacking or something, and something loud and humorous would happen on the television screen, and I'll look over and watch for a few minutes and if there's one part (perhaps the crux of the scene?) that I don't understand, I ask one short innocent question and my mom will answer, and then elaborate upon her answer until I know basically the entire background of the character in question as well as an in-depth analysis of her immediate family members and a short synopsis of their adventures so far and basically I would receive so much information that I figured I might as well just watch the damn show since I've already invested so much time and listening power into it. Kinda like you just did with this sentence.

And I've got to say this particular show is funny and interesting enough for me to withstand the one slightly uncomfortable scene where a 20-something guy is basically telling his girlfriend of five years that he's been really very patient and come on, can I just get some? (Side note: a guy who's willing to stick around for half a decade without ever seeing his girlfriend naked even once? Where's true love like this for me? Although come to think of it, I don't think a boyfriend going five years without even seeming to want to get it on would make me particularly happy)

The funny thing about this drama is that I totally see where my mom gets some of her mannerisms from. And it's a little country (yes CHINA, it is a country) known as Taiwan.

There's this one scene where a mother is berating her high school age daughter about receiving an anonymous love letter in the mail. "Who is this from? It better not be from a boy! I told you, NO BOYFRIENDS BEFORE COLLEGE."

It was basically verbatim any lecture I received all throughout my high school career. I mean minus the love letter part. Because I guess I was less pimp than a girl wearing a knee length skirt and sporting a bowl cut. God that's depressing. Where was I?

Oh right. But despite all the intricacies and deeply embedded warnings in the typical Taiwanese attitude toward love, there exists a concurrent idealism that the silly not-so-pretty girl will end up with a tall handsome gorgeous boy who worships the ground she walks on and finds her idiosyncrasies adorable instead of maddening. Or sometimes both. And I guess that's why girls with upbringings like mine continue to at least half-heartedly believe that the perfect guy will sweep us off our feet while telling the boys in front of us, "you want me to do what?! god no, do you know what my mother would say if she found out?"

My Hope is That While I'm on Vacation the Aliens Will Reveal Themselves.

Hello friends. So I'm going to Hawaii tomorrow. Iz and I already went earlier this year with my parents, and it was so fun we decided to do it again, only this time without our parents. Taking their place will be Teenie and Jamerz, and it's pretty much going to be epic. So you might not hear from me for a while.

We're going to Oahu, which is the home-island of my good friend Laycon. Oh, you will hear much more about Laycon in the coming year. He is quirky in ways that make me look like ... someone really normal. But he is awesome and I love him. Anyway, earlier in the summer Mango and I were discussing the trip (he'll be going too, but on a separate flight and slightly different days, and he's staying with Laycon instead of a hotel like the rest of us -- outcast), and we were getting really enthusiastic about it and started googling tourist attractions and sending them to Laycon as ideas for where he could take us.

Side note: Laycon is from Hawaii and has lived there all his life, but ever since I met him he has made a very clear distinction between what he is (a Cantonese person living in Hawaii) and what a native Hawaiian person is (a native Hawaiian person living in Hawaii). Also when we ask him what it's like living in Hawaii, he says "hot." And when we ask what he does when he's at home he says "play a lot of Pokemon."

So anyway we were noticing that there was this really long lag time between when we would send Laycon a suggestion and when he would provide feedback. I mean, Hawaii's far, but not too far for the internet.

Me: Laycon, are we overwhelming you? You're okay with taking us around, right?
Laycon: Yeah, yeah. Totally okay.
Me: Okay, cus you seem hesitant..
Laycon: I'm not, I'm just trying to google all these places.

So this trip should prove to be very interesting and adventurous, and if you don't hear from me in a week please search all the hidden caves and waterfalls on Oahu.

Speaking of potential death, I was researching Hawaii because I am not ready to die want to help Laycon out with the whole tour guide thing, and I stumbled across this interesting tidbit:

There's supposedly this Hawaiian goddess Pele whose wrath you incur if you take a piece of Hawaiian rock or whatever from a certain national park home with you. Like you take the rock home and things just start going all sorts of wrong for you until you send it back to its native soil. So I guess this is just a word of warning for my fellow travelers. Because if you upset me I will totally sneak a rock into your backpack and when all the light bulbs in your homes become nesting places for mosquitos you will be sorry for whatever you did to anger me. So yeah. Maybe I do want the aisle seat on the plane. And the first plate of shrimp at the shrimp shack. And shotgun on our two hour car ride. How thoughtful of you all.

So since this is going to be an extra long post (to make up for what might potentially be a week of silence, the longest I've been away from my blog since we first began this beautiful relationship, tear), we might as well switch topics so I can ask: who's reading this? Because I know once in a while a friend will tweet or comment or IM me and allude to something I wrote here, but my blogtracker thing has kinda high numbers, like more than the people I know are reading this. So unless they are clicking onto it from like a dozen different computers? Also the tracker is totally telling me that people from New Zealand and the United Kingdom are coming onto here, and also "other," which I guess means aliens read this?, and that would be cool if it were true but I'm also suspicious that my blogtracker is playing a practical joke on me. Like it's thinking "oh this poor girl, no one reads her nonsense, let me just pad her statistics a little" and now I'm like oh cool, people read my words except it's just pity points, really.

Also once Iz told me she liked to read my blog to find out what I'm up to, and I'm like "you live with me" and she's like "yeah, but you don't tell me everything" and I'm like "but I want people to read my blog because it's charming and quirky, much like its blogger, not because they are nosy and want to know what kind of drama is going down in my life" and Iz shrugged and was all, "well too bad, that's not why they're reading it" and I was like "goddamnit." So you can see why I got all excited when I thought people from other countries were reading this. Because they probably don't know me, and so I must be kind of interesting or else why bother, right? Not that I'm not glad my friends read this. Especially when I get in one of my futile moods and I'm like "I'm never writing again" and then someone tells me I made them laugh and I'm like "awesome, I take that not writing thing back."

Anyway, that is my beginning-of-school-year wish, to know if people I don't actually know in real life are reading this. I think it would be awesome and totally not creepy, because even if you were a creeper you don't know where I live so you can't kidnap my sister, and if you really read this blog you wouldn't want to anyway. So we all win. I'm not sure where I'm really going with this.

Oh, right. Hawaii. Peace out, suckas. Pele and I will be thinking of you.

Reason #2384971 Not to Have Children.

So I hung out with kids today, which is nice, and also marks the first time I set foot into my treefort. And if I learned anything from this experience, it is that maybe the FCC or whoever controls radio censorship might possibly have a point. This is inspired by a game that the kids we hung out with (Joshua, age 13, and Jevons, age 9) like to play -- whenever the next song comes on the radio, they race to see who can name the title first. And you have not felt a chill down your spine until you're frantically trying to change the radio station when you hear the first strains of a particular song but you know you're too late when you hear a tiny fifth grader pipe up from the backseat: "BIRTHDAY SEX!"

So yeah. Let's crack down on that censorship. Because the next time I hang out with these lovelies I could do without hearing a prepubescent rendition of "Lovegame" ("I wanna take a ride on your disco stick"-- NO YOU DON'T JEVONS. YOU'RE JUST A CHILD).

This is slightly related to what happened the other day, when I had dinner with my mom alone because Iz was too lazy (and hungover-- she's a wild animal) to go to the evening yoga class with us. This ended well for nobody, because Iz had to eat cold noodles for dinner and my mom focused all her interrogation skills on me. She asked me about my love life! This is a big no-no for me. It is only okay if you are a very close friend or maybe my boyfriend.

Anyway she started asking about past boyfriends or whatnot, and after I'd revealed a minimal yet satisfying amount of information (the only way to reveal information to parents) she came to the worried conclusion that "maybe you've set your standards too high?" Now, first of all, this is not true, as most of you probably know. Really, I have like two requirements for boys: 1) I like you, and 2) I'm attracted to you. This actually kinda helps a lot because within those two things there are a lot of inherent requirements, like showering regularly or not being a sex offender or having a sense of humor -- hm. Well I'm pretty sure I have the average level of standards. But the ironic thing about my mom saying that is any semblance of standards I have in regards to men is totally from her. I mean I have spent years with "if a guy doesn't put food on your plate before he gets food for himself, that's not love" and "date around as much as you can when you're young -- or you'll end up like me" getting pounded into my head, so is it any wonder I have intimacy issues?

So this is kinda related to my child buddies because I've known them their whole lives, back when they were a family of five (they have another brother, who was sick today and couldn't hang out), before their dad up and left their mom. And today I'm thinking, how can you leave behind three gorgeous children like this? So maybe there's a 3) don't have children with me and then leave us YOU ENORMOUS DOUCHEBAG.

Sorry. Unresolved anger on behalf of struggling single mothers and also of myself, because if men like that didn't exist I wouldn't have had to listen to this kind of disheartening, repetitive lecturing for the past ten years. So think about what you've done, men. Yeah. Ten years.

Wuh PAH. Brain Ninja Style.

The other day Iz and I were chilling in the den when she suddenly bursts into laughter and forwards me the following:

Instant Messaging conversation between Iz and Poops (who, for the record, are currently 500 miles apart)

Poops: So can I dota?
Poops: Wait
Poops: Why Am I asking permission
Poops: Psh
Poops: But seriously babe
Poops: Are you fine with it?

And that was when I decided a post about whipped boyfriends was in order. Oh, and just before we start, Iz would like to insert a little disclaimer:

Iz: he's not whipped :(
Iz: he whips himself :(
Me: he bought you an iphone
Iz: it was out of love though

And with that cleared up, I present..

Carolyn's Hall of Whipped Boyfriends, none of whom actually belong to her because she is apparently not as baller as these whip-wielding girlfriends out there

It turns out that when I decided to ask for people's most whipped moments, I opened a can of little whipped worms because boy are there a lot of whipped boys in my immediate circle of friends. Some stories are kind of sad and complex, like Jamerz', and some are really short and funny, like Tando's, and then there are just a million in between, because my guy friends have no backbone. Just kidding, guys! Your ladies are lucky to have you.

#1. Jamerz' Story

jam3rz (10:25:19 PM): for whatever reason, [his ex best friend slash girlfriend] had a strong dislike for [teenie]

jam3rz (10:25:37 PM): and she thought that because i was her best friend

jam3rz (10:25:45 PM): it reflected poorly on her that i was friends with teenie

jam3rz (10:25:53 PM): something about how how her best friend shouldn't be friends with her enemy

jam3rz (10:26:10 PM): how i should be on her side of the dispute

jam3rz (10:26:11 PM): so she told me that she wasn't okay with me being friends with teenie

jam3rz (10:26:41 PM): at first, i was like "that's ridiculous, i'll be friends with who i want"

jam3rz (10:26:59 PM): but over time, she subtly convinced me that she was right

jam3rz (10:27:02 PM): brain-ninja style

jam3rz (10:27:23 PM): and so, one day i was talking to teenie, and i friend-broke-up with her

jam3rz (10:27:40 PM): i dont remember what i said or how i justified it

jam3rz (10:27:42 PM): but in the days following that event, i felt terrible about it

jam3rz (10:28:05 PM): my soul was unsettled by my actions

jam3rz (10:28:14 PM): so, naturally, i called up [a good hs friend]

jam3rz (10:28:28 PM): went over to his house, and drank alcohol for the first time in my life

jam3rz (10:28:35 PM): and drunk dialed teenie and apologized

me (10:28:38 PM): that's so sweet!!

jam3rz (10:28:42 PM): HAHA

jam3rz (10:28:48 PM): not the reaction i was expecting

#2. Tando's Story

Some girl I liked offered me a ride home once so I accepted. After she dropped me off, I began the long trek back to my work at 1 am to pick up my car. Does that count?

Oh Tando. Yes.

#3. Jchaq's Story
In high school my good friend Jchaq was dating a girl and head over heels for her. She once made one of those girl-comments, joking about how the front passenger seat in his car was "hers." Apparently he took it completely to heart, because from that day on no one else was allowed in shotgun. It got to the point where, if we had to take a group excursion, it took some convincing for him to concede that his car could take four passengers, not just three. The first time we actually found out about his special rule was when one of our friends, who had a broken arm, was getting into the front seat so she wouldn't have to be jostled with the rest of us in the back.

"Uhm," Jchaq had said. "you can't sit there. It's reserved."

"What?" someone said. "For your imaginary friend?"

It got so ridiculous that the teasing he suffered eventually made its rounds back to his girlfriend, who was appalled and incensed that he had taken her seriously and in doing so inadvertently created the general impression that she was insane. Talk about a whipped intention gone horribly wrong.

So originally I was going to include an Excel chart in this post listing ridiculously extravagant gifts purchased in the name of love, but I think I'll make that a part two. Meaning I still need to get off my lazy butt (or on it, as the case may be) and finish that thing so you may or may not see it in the future.

What Do I Want to Be When I Grow Up? An L.A. Resident.

My parents have the disconcerting habit of casually inserting into conversations their belief that I will be moving back home post-graduation. Let me say right up front that this sounds like the biggest nightmare possible, comparable only to me getting offered a job in NYC, flying over and renting an apartment only to be fired in the first week, evicted because I can't pay rent and then forced to sublet a box from a hobo in Central Park. And the box is made of poop.

I'm not saying I have a bad home life. I have a great home life, as long as I'm not actually home. When I'm at school I adore my family. They are awesome! Amazing! Hilarious, charming and stylish! But when I land at the Oakland airport.. oh god.

And the funny thing is, I can't for the life of me understand why my parents want me back here so desperately. The whole time I'm home, my mom sighs and clucks about my messy room, my reckless driving, sleeping late, going out, clothing, nail polish, shopping -- basically my entire life. Even how much I read. And the way she goes on about these things, you'd think they are the single most upsetting thing in her entire life.

Just the other day she spent a good five minutes muttering about how I haven't gone through my clothes yet (my mom is the opposite of a pack rat, she likes us to periodically go through our things and donate all the clothes we no longer wear). I didn't say anything, initally because I figured there was only so much she could bemoan about the topic, and then just because I was getting increasingly curious as to how much longer she could keep it up. It went something like this, one liners spaced apart by heavy sighs:

"Carolyn, I noticed you haven't cleaned your room yet."
"You've been home two weeks."
"The next donation pick up is on the 11th."
"When are you finally planning to get around to this?"
"What is it you do at home all day anyway?"
"There must be plenty of time for you to get this done."

At this point I figured she was finished, what more could you say about this?

"Your room is so messy."
(In my defense, and I say this without any bias whatsoever, my room is NEAT. It's barely my room any more. There's the bed, with the comforter and shams that my mom picked out while I was at school. There's a desk that my mom decorated, on top of which is a white board, some hair products my mom bought me, and my sister's Hello Kitty lamp that I guess my mom thought fit the room. There's a little cabinet my mom bought. There's a dresser with a bear doily on it that my mom picked out. The only things that are really mine are a suitcase and maybe three smallish boxes that I had to bring back from school. I hope this is boring and repetitive and driving you crazy because WELCOME TO MY LIFE.)
"Even your sister's room is cleaner."
"And she has been here longer."
"You really need to get started on that."

By now I was so thoroughly annoyed that I almost did go "clean" my room except for the few factors that stopped me:

1. I was so sore from three days of intense yoga that I could barely pour myself juice, much less start rifling through and unfolding/refolding a closetful of clothes.

2. I did not want to positively reinforce my mom's behavior.

And this isn't even the worst of it. If we go out of the house, my mom freaks out. First of all just telling her we are going out (this goes double for the nighttime) instigates a flood of questions about who what where until when why how OH MY GOD. I'm 21 years old. I cannot imagine living under this kind of scrutiny in the future, I can barely stand it now. So no. If nothing else this summer has completely convinced me that there is a reason I have been saving money all my life and that reason is to avoid an early death by suicide because I swear I can fashion a noose out of that bear doily.

Here Comes the Bride. Why is She Holding Chopsticks?

I'm soooo excited for my friends to have weddings. I know, I'm a loser. But wouldn't it be awesome? Excuse my enthusiasm, but when I was younger and rebellious I hated all girly things, and this included weddings. Thirteen year old me would be all, "(eye roll) whatever, a wedding is just an archaic ceremony binding a woman to a lifetime of overwork and misery" before going back to wearing boy pants and reading stories about woman warriors. Did I mention my mom used to think I was going to be a lesbian? True story.

Anyway, somewhere along the line I underwent a 180 degree transformation and now 21 year old me does all the things 13 year old me never did: wear dresses, use pink nail polish, have boyfriends and a mother who doesn't question my sexual orientation, etc. I'm not saying life is better now (read: boys suck, I wish my mom's suspicions had been right, just kidding not really I don't even know anymore) but I think this totally explains my delayed and thus built up excitement for weddings.

A few years ago I went to the wedding of a family friend's daughter, and it was gorgeous. The ceremony was held on the cliffs overlooking Half Moon Bay, and the family had rented out the banquet hall of the Ritz Carlton for the reception, and it was just so beautiful that I almost cried even though the groom was a West Point graduate and all his groomsmen wore uniforms and it was kind of funny with the rifle twirling and all that.

The wedding was amazing, but it was also kind of terrible, because they are pretty wealthy, obviously, and I'm like, what are the odds that all the other weddings I go to will be this extravagant? What are the odds that my wedding, if I have one, will be this beautiful? And then I kind of curse them for setting the bar so high. So now I'm going to have to have my wedding on the top of the Eiffel Tower or something so that on my wedding day I won't look around and sigh and say, "Well I guess it's nice but I went to this one wedding like ten years ago and it was way better," thus causing my wedding planner to stab herself with the cake cutter and then everyone's going to be all concerned about sending her to the hospital and no one's going to notice my expensive dress. I can tell it's going to be a headache already.

But anyway I can't imagine what it would be like to get married, even though when she was my age my mom had already met and started dating my dad. In fact, they were probably like over a year into their relationship. And that freaks me the eff out because 1) omg I can't imagine being married, and 2) the Eiffel Tower is probably already booked through the next 25 years. And I guess there's a 3) I don't want to marry someone like my dad.

Not to say he sucks, I mean he's pretty cool as far as dads go. I mean he's okay. Whatever, this isn't about him. Well, maybe a little. Take yesterday for example. My mom comes home from work. She works the same hours as my dad, and she usually brings lunch from home whereas my dad goes out to eat every day (another unnecessary expense). But when she gets back she makes an entire dinner from scratch. I'm talking like three dishes and soup and everything. This is why I need a diet, by the way. And then after dinner's over she does all the dishes. And my dad comes home, sits down, eats, watches tv, and then smokes a cigarette in the backyard. And I'm like oh hell no. Because if this is my married life, I will be insane within the month. Insane like there will be chopsticks through someone's eyeballs.

Wow. How did this post go from me loving weddings to wanting to stab out my imaginary future husband's eyes? I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm so excited for my friends to get married because weddings are awesome and as a guest I get to have all the perks of a wedding without any of the drawbacks.

Observe:
If this is a really good friend's wedding, proceed to A. Otherwise, proceed to A' (yes that's an A prime).

A: I get to walk down the aisle anyway, as a bridesmaid or maid-of-honor or usherette or something.

A': I get to sit.

B: I get cake.

C: When I go home, I don't have to deal with a husband.

See? So everyone reading this, please get married as soon as possible and invite me to your wedding. But don't steal the Eiffel Tower idea, that's mine. And I have chopsticks.