Two Valentine's Day Plays

Play 1: For the Love of a Car

Scene 1

Carolyn (Monologue): Through a series of unfortunate events this past weekend, none of which were any fault of my own, I managed to pull the front bumper halfway off Brian's car. After twenty minutes of whimpering and frantic pushing, I managed to get it almost back in place. I finally told Brian what happened (his first question upon seeing his car, "So, how long did you stand here before coming to get me?") but try as we might, the bumper refused to budge the last inch and mold back into the car's original shape.

Scene 2

Carolyn, on phone to Crown Coachworks Bodyshop (Yelp's highest rated bodyshop in West Los Angeles): Hello, I was driving my friend's car this weekend and accidentally pulled the bumper partway off.

CCB Rep: Alright, bring it in.

Carolyn: Any idea how much it'll be to fix..?

CCB Rep: We really would have to take a look.

Scene 3

Text messages.

Brian: It's going to be $780. And it'll take 3 days.

Carolyn: WHAT??? WHY???????? I hope you want fish sticks for dinner because we are never going to a restaurant again.

Brian: Maybe you should text Carlos.

Scene 4

Carolyn (Monologue): Carlos is my extremely tall and attractive mechanic. He once fixed three separate problems in my car in a single week. And for the last issue, he only charged me for the part because he felt so guilty about not catching it at the beginning. I love Carlos.

Text messages.

Carolyn: CARLOS do you fix bumpers?????

Carlos: Sure, bring it in.

Scene 5

Phone call.

Brian: My car will be ready at 7.

Carolyn: Carlos had time today?? How much is it going to cost?

Brian: Sixty dollars.

Carolyn: I love Carlos.

Brian: Me too.

Play 2: You Make My Heart Fly

Scene 1

Sunday, February 13th. Morning. Text message.

Isabel: Dad, don't forget tomorrow is Valentine's day!

Dad: Got it!

Scene 2

Sunday, February 13th. Early afternoon.

Dad: Your daughters keep calling me to remind me that it's Valentine's day.

Mom: Oh, really?

Dad: Yeah. So... do you want... flowers...?

Mom: .....no, it's okay.

Scene 3

Sunday, February 13th. Later afternoon. At the Dollar Store.

Mom, putting items on conveyer belt: This should be it. Do we need detergent?

She turns around to see Dad standing there with two heart shaped helium balloons.

Mom: What are you doing?

Dad: Should I get these for you?

Mom: ....no, it's okay.

Scene 4

Phone conversation.

Isabel: And that's how mom and dad spent Valentine's day.

Unrelated, but I like when people find Lady Gaga attractive.

I am writing this in the hopes that it will keep me from falling into a deep, dark despair. It is Sunday evening. It has been raining for the past three days. I HAVE NO FOOD IN MY HOUSE. It's just all a little too much to handle.

Possibly the only thing keeping me from slitting my wrists out of sheer boredom is the knowledge that in four days, I'LL NEVER BE BORED AGAIN. Or, at the very least, that I will be mildly entertained for the next week and a half. This is my first winter without a school break. Which means while everyone is running around drinking for three weeks, I am going to bed before midnight so that I can drive through the pouring rain to sit in a cubicle for eight hours and then driving home in the pouring rain to rummage through my empty cabinets, debate braving the rain to go to the grocery store, looking for and not finding an umbrella, and then lying in bed listening to music from '90s boy bands until hunger and boredom lull me to sleep. But this will all end on THURSDAY. Also known as CHRISTMAS EVE.

That is the day that MY FAMILY COMES TO LOS ANGELES. I am excited about this for two reasons: 1. We are going to Vegas to spend Christmas, and 2. I relish the challenge of searching my wardrobe for something "mom-approved," aka necklines above the throat (oddly, short hemlines are okay -- my mother once told me I look better in short skirts because they make my legs look longer. Thanks, mom?)

But above all, Thursday marks my last day at work until the new year. That's right, a glorious WEEK AND A HALF off. And during those ten days, amazing things will happen.

Here's a breakdown of the fun:

Friday, 12/24 to Monday, 12/27: we go to Vegas for some bright lights, some gambling, and, if my sister has her way and we sneak away from the family -- some shameless drinking.

Monday, 12/27: we return from Vegas and make our way to our annual Secret Santa with high school friends. Sometimes when I think that I've been friends with some of these people for seven years, I get a headache and have to lie down. Perhaps this year my gift for my Secret Santa will be the gift of youth. I don't know if that falls within the $50 limit though. Maybe I'll just get him/her a keg of beer. Close enough.

Tuesday, 12/28 to Thursday, 12/30: we bum around Los Angeles and San Diego, showing the parents and family friends (we have an awesome family from Taiwan visiting us) the sights. I haven't decided where to take them during the LA leg of the trip though. I have a feeling my usual haunts of the taco truck and the Dollar Tree are not quite what my parents have in mind.

Friday 12/31 to Saturday, 1/1: WE GO TO BIG BEAR FOR NEW YEAR'S! I'm quite excited about this despite the fact that by overwhelming majority, we are going skiing instead of ziplining. Given the choice, I will almost always prefer zipping at the speed of the light over mountains and trees to falling in my face in the snow. But alas. I only hope I do not get frostbite on my nose. Because then it would fall off, and I wouldn't be able to smell, which means I wouldn't be able to taste. Although, I don't have food in my apartment anyway. Cue an 'Nsync ballad.

It Was Really Just Good Clean Fun

Circle of Life. But Without Any Animals.

Whenever I come home (like I am now for spring break), I usually feel two things:

1. guilt, for all the bad things I do at school that my darling mother has no inkling of, and

2. relief, for not being in high school anymore.

For the first part, it's not that bad. Like I'll be the first to admit that I make some questionable choices but for the most part I'm doing pretty well. Like my sins run more along the lines of ordering delivery five nights out of the week rather than selling myself for cocaine or something. I'm fairly certain that if you put a mountain of cocaine in front of me and then a styrofoam box of Enzo's wings, I'd be all over the latter. Unless I could convert the cocaine into cash with which I can buy wings. But I guess that would make me a drug dealer. And then I'd probably feel pretty guilty.

But my mother has got to be one of the best moms in the world. I mean we squabble now and then and she has this crazy idea that I have too many shoes, but for the most part she is the greatest (example: she was telling me she thinks I may have too many pairs of shoes today as she was buying me two new pairs). And this is an issue because she's always like "think about how much love and care your parents have invested in you, so don't throw yourself away on a boy who won't treat you as well as we do" and I'm like oh shoot. Like, I have enough trouble meeting a guy who doesn't drop a conversation the second he turns on his xbox, but to be actually treated with respect and affection? Let's not get crazy here.

Although I do want to add as a side note that when Mango puts his mind to it, he can be a pretty good best friend. Like, the other day I had an interview in downtown LA, which is a 1.5 hour bus ride from Westwood. It was also during Tuesday of finals week, and I was done on Monday but Mango had two more Thursday and Friday. Our conversation about the interview went something like this:

Me: I have an interview at City Hall on Tuesday.

Mango: That's in downtown? Like near the Staples Center?

Me: Yeah I think so.

Pause here as we both reflect back on the last time we took the bus to Staples Center (to go to the circus) and the show ended at 10 PM and we had to wait for an hour for the next (and last) bus and after strolling past closed stores for half an hour we made our way down two or three very dark city blocks to the bus stop, which turned out to be on a dimly lit corner next to an empty lot. I'm not kidding. Also we were the only two people on the bus until halfway through when a homeless person joined us. I was pretty glad to see Westwood that night.

Mango: I'll go with you.

Me: But you have finals! There's no way you'll be able to study on the bus.

Mango: There's no way I'll be able to study if I'm worried that you'll get raped in your interview clothes.

Me: I'm going in the daytime.

But yeah he ended up coming with me and it was actually pretty fun to hang out on the bus and walk a little around City Hall and to be perfectly honest I probably would've gotten lost if Mango hadn't been there.

So who needs nice boys when you have friends like this?

Anyway, it's not like I hated high school. I mean I didn't really thrive in it like some people do, but it wasn't like I knew any better. The summer before I left for college I was SO SCARED. I was like OMG MY LIFE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN. And I didn't realize that was a good thing. Like, high school me didn't realize that life could be better than having a curfew, six classes a day, a pothead boyfriend and a wardrobe comprising mostly of clothing from Hollister.

But now that I think about it, after (almost) four years of college I sleep before midnight every day, spend as much as or more(!) time on homework than I did in high school, still have an interest in pothead boys, and ... well, no more Hollister clothing. So I guess that's something. What progress I've made.

The Art of Compromise. And Hair.

My idea of a good compromise: When Mango makes dinner and then I say I'll do the dishes but get too caught up in whatever sports game we're watching so he takes them to the sink and when I get up to help he says "sit down, you know you don't have to lift a finger here." (He literally says this, I think it might be part ironic but whatevers)

My idea of a not-so-good compromise: What happened to my hair over winter break.

Let me start at the beginning. If you've known me for a period of over two weeks you'll probably know that my hair is the bane of my existence. I'll complain about it for a few months, then I'll cut it, then I'll complain about it for a week, then I'll be reasonably satisfied with it for two months, then the process will start all over again.

This is because my hair is the most contrary thing ever. Like if if my hair were a child it'd be the kind of child who would knock all the items off a supermarket shelf and shriek while you frantically try to hide all the broken bottles before security arrives. Or if it were a preteen it'd be the kind who'd dye its hair the opposite of its natural color and get an eyelid piercing and use red paint to cover its walls in bad poetry. If it were an ex-girlfriend it'd be the kind who would steal all your forks.

So you get the point. Basically my hair sucks. And what I did to it over winter break did not help.

We were in Taiwan, a place known to me as home of good, plentiful food, generous uncles and cheap cosmetic procedures. My mom, you might remember, is fairly concerned over my appearance (refer to any post on dieting). I mean, she's not like a pushy crazy mother, like the kind you see on Toddlers and Tiaras. But I think in general she's just kind of girly, which would put her girliness level at wayy above mine, so we have some disagreements.

Like in Taiwan. She really, really, reeeally wanted me to get my hair straightened. Like the way she put it, it was like her main goal in life for the foreseeable future.

I did not want my hair straightened. First of all, remember how my hair sucks? It does not listen to damaging salon straightenings. I had done that to my hair once and three days later it was waving like a beauty contest winner at the town's annual parade. My mom dragged me back to the salon and demanded to know what happened. The lady who did my hair examined my head, prodded a little, and announced, "It's not our fault. That's just the way her hair is."

So I did not see why this time would be any better. My mom, however, had her own opinion. "Technology has improved," she insisted. "It's going to be successful this time."

It was not.

I admit that this was partly my fault. Instead of getting straightened hair that would plaster to my head and make me look like a basset hound, I wanted something kind of not like that at all. I wanted the kind of weird little crimpy hair things that I can't adequately describe but is basically the opposite of a straightening. The overly-diplomatic stylist thought it would be a good idea for my mother and I to not have a smack-down fight in the middle of his salon, so he made the suggestion that he would just straighten the TOP part of my hair, and then if I so desired I could crimp the bottom part to my heart's content.

I feel like visual aids are in order.

Option #1:

Option #2:

And of course, what actually happened:

So now what's happened is that my hair is half really flat and half really sticky-out-in-different-directions and basically wholly awful.

Jet Lag, Customer Service, and A Potential Cry for Help.

To quote Iz, upon arriving at SFO international airport: "oh thank GOD for American men!"

And that about sums up my winter vacation.

Haha no I'm just kidding. Actually a ton of shiz happened that will probably span several posts, many of which probably won't end up being actually written. But just to keep myself accountable:

1. Korea. It's cold.

2. My grandparents' story.

3. The wrong restaurant.

4. Babies: sometimes they're kinda ugly.

5. Stanford. Four years later, nothing has changed.

6. Photoshop photoshoot.

7. Uncle Paddington and his countryside abode.

8. Shopping, shopping, and did I mention shopping? Plus mah hair.

9. My drunken uncles.

10. Chinese-style parking lot money-shoving fight.

There, that makes it seem a lot easier. So I got back yesterday around noon. After lunch I collapsed into my memory foam (the first time I've had a bed to myself in two weeks -- it was heavenly, I don't know how I'll ever stand being married) and knocked out for the rest of the year. I know, I'm a party animal.

Anyway, today I was much better thanks in part to the sixteen total hours of sleep I got the day before and in another part to a McDonald's iced coffee (diet commences when I return to school, I swear). So Iz and I went to the mall because I hadn't recklessly spent American money in a while finished my Secret Santa shopping yet. And that is where Iz Got Hit On By a Slightly Creepy Older Gentleman.

This is how it happened.

Iz and I were at one of those carts that they have in the middle of the mall, those mini-store things. We wanted to buy some of this $50 face-wash system thing but the guy was nowhere to be found. While we were waiting, this one guy from the cell phone stand next to it (like three feet away) came over and joked, "It's all free today!" While we were considering just taking the products and leaving $2 and a note ("we weren't sure how much it cost -- hope this covers it") when he added, "Nah, I think the guy stepped away for a second to use the restroom."

So we waited another few minutes. And then a few minutes more. Pretty soon it was coming up on fifteen minutes (Iz whispered, "This guy is taking a fat poop") when another one of the cell phone guys came over. He started making small talk in that way guys do when they're working up to a way to ask for a girl's number and these situations make me nervous so I wandered off under the guise of looking for a trash can in which to throw this little piece of paper I had on me. I know, I'm a terrible wingwoman/big sister.

Anyway, when I came back he was asking her what she does, and when she told him she was a comm major at UCSD he looked kind of surprised. Then he told her he had a journalism degree from University of Oklahoma (? some state like that) and that he spent six years working with the Air Force and that this mall job was just temporary while he was adjusting to his recent move to the Bay. Then he asked her for her number.

Oh my god that was the reason I avoid situations like that. It was so awkward while she just stood there going "mmm hmmm rmmm ehhh eeeh" until finally I totally butted in and was like "uhmm well she has a boyfriend" and then the guy just smiled real big and was like "well who said we have to go on a date? can't I just get your number?" And then it was more awkward and no one spoke until I said loudly, "Hmm, I wonder where the toy store is?" which was supposed to be a hint for Iz to be like, "oh, I know!" and lead us away but I don't think she got it because she just kept smiling politely and the guy kept waiting expectantly and I kind of blocked out the rest but I know we eventually left and the guy did not have a number to show for his efforts.

And then after we left Iz and I had the following conversation:

Me: Eek.

Iz: That was weird.

Me: Yeah, he's way too old for you.

Iz: Really? How old do you think he was?
Me: Well he graduated from college, right? And then he worked for the Air Force for six years? And then he moved back here? So he's probably like 30. And you look and act like you're 12.

Iz: He worked for the Air Force for six years?

Me: Uh, yeah. He mentioned that like twice.

Iz: Oh. I wasn't listening.

Me: Oh my god.

Iz: I feel bad. Maybe I should've given him my number.

So if anyone is looking for a pity date..

Anyway, that's that. Tomorrow I'm flying off to Los Angeles (the third plane I'll have been on in as many days) and luckily Maaron is picking me up from the airport so I won't have to drag my four pieces of luggage the mile between the Flyaway stop and my apartment. This marks the first time in four years that I've been picked up from LAX. I need more friends with cars am certainly very independent.

Independence occasionally has a drawback, however. Like tomorrow I am getting back to Los Angeles before any of my roommates or friends and I am slightly worried that a serial killer has been holed up in our empty apartment all break and I'll be the first one to discover him in three weeks and oh god he's going to cut my ears off. I am so serious about this that I am honestly considering asking Maaron to come up and check for monsters when he drops me off. But after that I'll deadbolt the door and I'll be fine, right? Right? Killers can't climb three stories onto a balcony and then break through the glass of double French doors and then track down the only occupant in the apartment in mere seconds by following her singing to the shower, right? RIGHT?

Okay, just making sure. I'm actually thinking it won't be that bad. The first day I moved into my apartment I was also unexpectedly left alone at night and I totally survived it and this was before the internet or cable was hooked up. Still, if you don't hear from me in a few days...

If You've Ever Wanted to Trap a Man's Love Like it Was a Wounded Bird You Should Read This.

I came home this Thanksgiving to three copies of Women's Health magazine on our washing machine in the garage. I'd forgotten that whenever I order make-up from e.l.f. my purple eyeliner and fuchsia nail polish come with a complimentary subscription to this magazine. Usually I don't mind reading about how to "BURN MORE FAT!" or "Eat, Drink & Still Shrink!" while eating cookies in a comfortable chair, but today I came across an article that reminded me of why I don't actually pay for these things.

The first red flag? The article is entitled "Lock Down His Love." I mean, they're not even trying to put up a dignified front anymore (there's also a sub-heading called "How To Make Him Your Boyfriend" -- it was highlighted). But let's look at the content, shall we?

Some interesting quotes from the article:

"According to research, women have a greater chance of landing a boyfriend when they don't have sex on the first date."

Okay I have to admit I'm conflicted on this one. I can't imagine being comfortable enough with a guy I've met only a time or two to sleep with him, but if it's like you've been friends/joking about sexing each other up for months and you finally get him alone I'm not going to judge what happens. Not that.. I would know. Anything about this situation. Let's move on.

"Don't skip yoga or happy hour just because he wants to see you... Not always being available keeps the mystery alive."

If this is true I have totally failed because I am the least mysterious woman alive. I mean, first of all there's this blog, which the last two guys I've dated read regularly enough to make snide comments about it to me (they're not fans of eye-stabbing -- hits too close to home?), and other than that if I want to see a guy and he calls (or texts, I guess I'm easy) my response usually varies between "when will you get here?" to "omg I am more excited about your visit than I have ever been about Santa Claus." So I might have to work on that. Although I don't really see it happening, I am way too lazy to put any effort into attempts at coyness. Also I'm pretty sure my fingers text faster than my brain can think. This would explain a lot.

So in the interest of journalism, I decided to form a guy panel to survey the accuracy of these statements. My panel consisted of Mango and Jamerz, not just because they were my only close guy friends online (apparently some people spend the Thanksgiving holiday with family and not their computers? Who knew?) but because they are sophisticated men whose opinions are always honest and eloquent. As you will soon see. As an afterthought I added Iz to the panel as a voice for the girls, not because her answers are usually insightful but because I figured that could count as my contribution to family time.

So here are my very scientific results, complete with their own subheadings:

Being a Ho: Does it Pay Off?

Me: Would you be less likely to date a girl if she slept with you on the first date?

Mango: Maybe.

Mango: Is she good?

Me: At sex?!

Mango: Never mind. Next question.

Me: Come on, I need your honest answer. This is a scientific survey.

Mango: I'd say no. I wouldn't be less likely to date her.

Me: You wouldn't think she's a ho?

Mango: Well I wouldn't sleep with her unless she was super amazing and perfect with me so I guess if that were the case I would date her.

Isn't he sweet and even more naively romantic than me? He's single, ladies. And makes a delicious salami-and-corn pasta. He really likes watching Spongebob though, so I hope you'd rather spend a Saturday evening in a pineapple under the sea than at a club or something.

Me: [same question]

Jamerz: Tough question... so I barely know the girl?

Me: Let's assume she's hot though.

Jamerz: Of course. <-- I enjoyed this response of his.

Jamerz: I'd definitely have concerns.

Me: About her ho-ibility?

Jamerz: Yeah.

Me: So if a girl sleeps with you on the first date, you'd be less likely to make her your girlfriend, is that fair to say?

Jamerz: I think that's fair.

Ho-ibility.

Me: Would you sleep with a guy on the first date?

Iz: If it's not my first time.

Iz: And if I'm just looking for fun.

I've taught her well.

Mystery: Necessary, or a Waste of Time and Disguises in the Form of Fake Mustaches?

Me: Do you prefer it when women are mysterious?

Mango: I guess in a way. If they're all boring and stuff it's not as fun, right. But not too mysterious.

Me: Like they don't always meet you when you call.

Mango: If I planned something really spontaneous I'd be sad if she said she was busy. If it always happened I'd be like oh she's too busy or something. But it might stir up interest in the beginning.

How did we ever start dating then? I lived across the hall. I don't think you can get much more accessible than that.

Me: [same question]

Jamerz: If I'm looking at her as a potential girlfriend, I'd like some degree of openness. I think I'd like someone I can communicate frankly with.

Thank god guys like this exist because I have a suspicion that sometimes I'm as frank as a hot dog. Oh my god I'm so sorry. That was the lamest joke ever. I don't think it can even be classified as a joke. Let's just pretend like it never happened.

Me: Do you ever pretend to be mysterious with a guy?

Iz: Depends on how much I like him and how solid my original plans are.

By "how solid my original plans are" she means "how many cupcakes will be at the party I was planning on going to versus how many cupcakes he is likely to be bringing on the date." Hint to potential suitors: less than a Baker's Dozen? You're out of luck.

Maybe He's Just Not That Into You or Maybe You Shouldn't Have Used that Mustache After All: Top Three Reasons He Hasn't Asked You Out Yet (Carolyn's Guy Panel Edition)

Mango: 1. If she's actually a boy.

At this point I had to intervene and explain to him that this is referring to a girl he is already dating so if he wouldn't date her as a him then it's not applicable. Unless he'd date him and just not ask him to be his girlfriend.

Mango: Oh.

Me: Start over.

Mango: 1. If they were fake. Like with over-make up. Like it covers their arms.

Sometimes I don't even try to understand him.

Mango: 2. If they were anorexic.

Random. But in retrospect it makes sense, as I clearly don't have this problem. I have like the opposite problem. What's the word for when you're the opposite of anorexic? Oh shit. It's obesity. Let's ignore this part too.

Mango: 3. If they're a boy.

Me: Okay, I just explained this to you.

Mango: Oh, right.

Mango: 3. If we didn't have anything in common.

Me: That's a pretty good--

Mango: Or if they go to USC.

Then he started explaining to me (in detail) what happened in the UCLA-USC game today.

Jamerz: 1. We don't share similar values (i.e. family, career.).

Jamerz: 2. We don't have similar tastes in what we think is fun/funny.

Jamerz: 3. We don't have similar opinions about what a balanced relationship consists of, like what we expect from each other.

Can you tell who is the easier interview subject here? Anyway their answers are kind of encouraging and contradicts that whole theory that girls are more mature than guys because if you had asked me the same question my answers may or may not have been along the lines of:

Carolyn: 1. He uses messenger bags.

Carolyn: 2. He doesn't think Call of Duty is fun.

Carolyn: 3. He often subtly hints that I need to stop drinking.

Maybe it's just me.

Last Bonus Question as a Reward for You Reading All the Way Down Here

Me: What would you do if you were about to propose to the girl you're dating but then you found out she was a guy?

Mango: Wow. I probably wouldn't propose.

Me: Would you break up with them?

Mango: I'd go to counseling and figure it out with them. Why didn't they tell me?
Me: They were afraid you would leave them.

Mango: Yeah, counseling.

Me: Alone or with them?

Mango: With them.

Aw that's kind of sweet and definitely surprising because Mango isn't exactly liberal so this just proves that the power of love can overcome anything, even Republican values. This must be some kind of journalistic breakthrough. Pulitzer?

Me: [same question]

Jamerz: Whaaaaa

Jamerz: I would be devastated.

Jamerz: That's not something I would be okay with.

Me: HAHAHA

Me: Oh my god I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh. I didn't read the devastated part.

Jamerz: [silence]

Me: So you'd just never see them again?

Jamerz: Probably. That is just too important to withhold.

Fair enough. I am of the opinion that love transcends gender but to be fair I've never fallen in love with a girl masquerading as a boy who's been lying to me the entire time I've known her and who knows how I'd react if I did. Pretty sure eye-stabbing would be involved, it's another thing that transcends gender.

Me: What would you do if the guy you wanted to marry proposed but turned out to be a girl?

Iz: I'd be like "..."

Iz: Then I would rethink things a bit. Although he did lie to me.

Me: But he was perfect in every other way.

Iz: Hm, then I'd have to think about it. Now let me write my essay. We'll discuss your sexuality later.

Oh god I've taught her to be witty. Kind of. But I do like how her initial reaction would be speechlessness -- she must really be surprised then.

Wow longest (and most imformative? yes) blog entry ever. I'm pretty sure I spent more time and effort on it than I did on the three essays I have due within the next week. You're welcome.

If I Had a Tag About My Temper It Would Definitely Be the Highest on that List on the Left There.

I'm at home! I realize I am not always completely enthusiastic about this (I guess I bitched about being home a lot over summer because the day before I left I was telling Tando about how excited I was to go home, and he was like, "really?"), but this time I'm only home for like four days, which is the perfect amount, apparently. It's just enough time to eat a lot of food that is not scrambled eggs with spam and enjoy the little luxuries of life like a car and memory foam and two-ply tissues.

Today when my mom was driving with me and my sister she told us about this Taiwanese talk show she was watching, in which they had celebrity husband/wife pairs on the show. There was this one middle-aged couple where the lady was a movie star a generation ago and has since stop working and the husband was Korean (I'm not sure if that was his profession -- this is just the description I was given). One of the younger guests on the show was telling the lady about how he admired her because he watched her shows while he was growing up. Apparently this incensed the husband because he felt the other guy was implying that his wife was old and he was afraid that this would hurt her feelings. So he confronted the guy and was like "please don't speak to my wife that way" and everyone on set kinda froze and was like "uhmm" and it was super awkward and the other guy kept apologizing because that wasn't his intention.

Anyway the whole point of that was how different Iz and my reactions were compared to our mom's. Iz and I were like "omg how awkward and embarrassing!" and my mom was like "really? I think it's kind of sweet how he stands up for his wife like that.." and then our conversation became a little awkward.

So maybe it's a generational difference, because my mom is still awed by men who publicly show affection for their wives, whereas Iz and I are thinking that we'd want guys who can conduct themselves in society (and on talk shows) without creating awkward silences. Like, yes it's nice when a guy is willing to hold your hand when you're out in public or even (gasp) say "I love you" within earshot of others, but it's also awesome when they can control their tempers and not freak everyone out when you go on Maury because you're pretty sure he's the father but it wouldn't hurt to make sure and also you've always wanted to meet Maury Povich.

Aggressive guys make me skittish. This is a carryover from having grown up with the Angry Asian Dad -- you know, when everything's dandy when they're happy because they buy you presents but when they're mad you better run for cover because they'll start throwing TV remotes? But apparently I've learned to live with skittishness because most of my past relationships have been characterized by really passionate arguments, and if you've ever tried to carry out a one-sided passionate argument you know that it's pretty futile. It's hard to feel satisfied when you're the only one throwing dinnerware. I mean I guess I could try for something low-key and peaceful but I think I'm too young for that and at this point in my life my temper is kinda so bad that I need someone who's equally hot-headed or else all the suppression will cause my head to explode. Actually I think I'm perpetuating this incorrect view of myself because honestly I'm not that volatile and I don't know why every blog post ends with me talking about damaging property.

Okay this is like the lamest blog post ever but I'm writing it on Iz's computer because mine won't connect to the internet at home so I have to plug it in in the study and it's too cold to be anywhere but under covers and she's laying next to me waiting to reclaim her laptop and speeding up the process by occasionally rubbing her leg against mine and IT'S FREAKING ME OUT. GOODBYE.

What I'm Grateful for This Year.

1. Predictable Thanksgiving blog posts.

2. Tuesday nights.

3. Sparkly eye make up that makes me look like a fairy on crack.

4. A "feminist" sister who manages to turn all her school papers into dissertations on Perez Hilton.

5. Parents who still think of us as princesses.

6. Boys who don't get angry.

7. Fuzzy pink boots and metallic wristlets.

8. Having the ability to help the sweetest, cutest children in the world (or at the very least in Watts).

9. Only having to go through two quarters of the 33% fee increase before graduation (this one is also on my parents' list).

10. Pineapple guava juice and pineapple mango body butter.

11. Strange (and sometimes stupid) music.

12. Your face.

Happy holidays, fools. Be safe, drink a lot, and stay off the road.

Stop Asking What I'm Going to Do After Graduation, Please.

When I was in England last summer, I spent the first few weeks so homesick it was practically a physical illness. The strange thing was, I loved England. I still think about it all the time, even though it's been over a year since I came back. When I was with my friends out shopping and converting to pounds or eating pastries or strolling through the English greenery I was having an amazing time. I can still picture the funny little flowers that grew outside my dorm, and I can practically count the (four flights of) stairs from my room to the shower in the basement.

But still, I would get so homesick missing my family and friends and the California warmth that I would go three days without sleeping, because I was staying up all night to talk to them.

And the hardest part was that no one really seemed to get it. Everyone else in the program was having an amazing time getting wasted and hooking up with the English TAs or at least clubbing every other night. My family and friends went on with their daily routines and marveled at how lucky I was to be experiencing something so amazing. They sent me postcards and letters and I wrote back telling them about how wonderful my professor's accent was, or how I went to see the cafe where J.K. Rowling began Harry Potter. Even Mango was busy taking classes back at UCLA. He told me how strange it felt for him to be on campus without having me around, but always had to break off our conversation to go to class or dinner or bed. The only person who really seemed to if not empathize then at least sympathize with me was Stuffin. He'd stay up with me when I couldn't fall asleep and tease me about all the good food I couldn't get across the pond. And to just have one person understand made a lot of difference.

The reason I'm thinking of all this is because I don't get homesick at school anymore. I definitely think about home (especially of all the food there, I'm starving) but I don't yearn to go back. In fact, often when I do visit northern California I wish wholeheartedly (and guiltily) that I were back in L.A. The shift is strange but I suppose inevitable; after four years most of my life has been built up here. And I'm lucky in that it's not a lonely life.

Take tonight, for example. I get home around midnight and my apartment is empty. And I realized that I don't mind. I have Mango to walk me home when it's dark and check my empty room for monsters before he leaves; in the mornings I have Jenn to chat with while we eat brunch. At some point tomorrow the Y will stumble in all raspy voiced from having just woken up, and then over the weekend I get to hang out with my Watts kids at a museum before catching up with my roommates at night.

And then I wonder how I'm considering leaving all this behind.

I don't have a post-graduation plan. I do, however, have a backup graduation plan (in case I don't magically get offered the job of my dreams right after receiving my diploma)(hm, I guess that's my post-graduation plan). I figure that to avoid moving back home (for my own sanity -- I'll explain next time) I could always flee the state. I love my parents, it's no reflection on them. It's all me, and I have this strange desire for change and excitement when England has already proved that I should really only be taking such things in small doses. A part of me wants to just move to a brand new city and start all over and maybe end up having the kind of life I was meant to have, but the (small, but) rational part of me is saying: whoa, hold on there, cowgirl.

Say I move to Seattle or Connecticut or Washington D.C. Okay, what then? I won't know a single person there. I won't have a job. I won't know what neighborhood to live in, where to find decent Chinese food, or which bus line to take. I'll end up huddled up in front of my computer all day, bemoaning the time difference between me and California and wondering what all my friends are up to back home. And I might, god forbid, be lonely.

I'm a pretty independent person (Jesus, how did that happen? I have no idea either), but at times like this it would be really handy to have a boyfriend. I'm still young enough to think that there would be nothing more romantic than moving to a strange city with the love of my life and setting up a little loft somewhere filled with post-its and secondhand furniture and colorful bedsheets. We'd slowly but surely accumulate a circle of quirky but loveable friends. We'd have a bar we go to every Thursday night and a cafe we go to on Sunday mornings.

The thing about this fantasy is that it thrives on youth. What happens in ten years, or twenty years? Will we still be living off caffeine and poetry, or making plans to backpack through Australia? I have no idea what I want that far into the future, but I don't think it's that. I suppose the thing would be to find a boy who could make the transition with you from pseudo-starving artist to respectable suburbanite.

And that's no easy feat. But until then I still have ten months left on the lease to a Westwood apartment and (hopefully) enough savings to keep me afloat and out of Union City for a few months after graduation. And who knows? Maybe even enough to make that move.

The First Step is Admitting You Have a Problem.

Ughhh I am PMSing so badly. I'm sorry, I know that's way too much information for the internets but honestly if you're even slightly grossed out about that you're going to have to leave now because it's only going to get worse.

So because my body is a piece of crap or something I didn't get my period for like the entire summer and I just got back on birth control which I guess triggers the hormones or whatever shiz like that because now I have it and IT'S KILLING ME. I never used to really PMS but I am seriously throwing bitch fits left and right this time. I'm hoping this is just my body easing back into this whole painful godforsaken process and it won't happen next month because honestly I'm not going to have any friends left if this keeps up.

So if I have emotionally mugged you recently I'm very apologetic and I swear I'm not insane and if you stick around just a little longer I'll probably stop calling you names or making snide remarks about your shoes.

Like, I think it's gotten to the point where people fear me. That's right, little ol' me. Tando, who lives in a neighborhood frequented by gangsters, I'm pretty sure, is scared of me. And my cousin, who's this awesome 26 year old tough guy, recently told my mom that he's scared of me because I'm intimidating. And just last week Laycon had a dream where I was mad at him and he was so scared that when he woke up he texted me to make sure I wasn't really going to chase him down with an axe (I wasn't, it was a chainsaw). And I think Mango is starting to tremble whenever I stomp my left foot (I don't stomp the right one anymore, it's like permanently injured from wayyy back two years ago when Mango and I were arguing in the stairwell -- this was our hobby back when we were dating -- and I was very angry and STOMP! and "OUCH" and we had to cease the argument to tend to my injury).

But I don't know why they're scared of me, it's not like I'm stomping on their feet. Boys.

Happy Birthday, Iz.

Five reasons I'm moderately glad not to be an only child:

5. I have a travel buddy. One of my first memories of Iz and I in Taiwan (3rd and 4th grades, respectively) is when we first got to the airport. Now, I hope the fact that we'd just been on a plane for 12 straight hours excuses this, but while our mom was waiting in line for customs Iz and I sat on the floor and sang the "who wears short shorts?" song for like thirty minutes non-stop. (Answer: "I WEAR SHORT SHORTS).

4. I have someone to spit on. One of Iz's favorite childhood memories (I'm sure) is from when we were little, like in elementary school, and she was bothering me while I was reading (this is how most our childhood memories start out). She kept talking and talking and moving closer and closer as she did so that eventually and inevitably my face was speckled with her spit. This did not please tweenage-Carolyn, so very naturally I reacted by holding her down and spitting on her face. Justice was served.

3. I'm relatively normal, as children go. My mom stayed home with us up until about when Iz started kindergarten. Let me just say, Iz was the clingiest baby ever. And only to my mom. Like to the point where she would cry if my mom left her alone with my dad. It was sad, and also made people suspect my dad was a baby-abuser. Anyway, when my mom started work we'd be at home with a babysitter or whatever from when school let out to when she got home after work. Iz would go lie on my parents' bed and bury her face in my mom's pajamas and sob until my mom got home. Sometimes she would switch things up by calling my mom's office (I'm pretty sure that's the first phone number she ever memorized) and sob into the phone until my mom was forced to hang up because her boss was looking at her like she'd just murdered a puppy over the telephone line.

2. I'm a comparably good spellur speller. We were playing the Naked Game a year or so ago and Iz wrote "surades." The person who got the word paused the game ("what's ... sur.. ah.. days?") so that she could explain to us that she meant "charades."

And..

1.
Two words: penis hat.


Happy birthday, Iz.

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.

Carolyn's Diet Days 6, 7 and 8, or, Oh Shoot I'm Still on a Diet?!

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.