Birthday Blog

Okay -- I wrote this many many months ago, in anticipation for the one year anniversary of my blog (this was before I abandoned it for half a year.. but any excuse to celebrate!) which explains the fervent devotion in my tone even though this is only my third post in the last six months. It also explains the nicknames, which I don't use anymore (I just got tired of making them up), and the friend I'm talking to, with whom I'm no longer in touch, much less partaking in drunken arguments with. But everyone deserves a birthday, no matter how belated, so --

Happy birthday, blog! I love you. One year ago today we started on this long, windy (as in twisty, not gusty) journey into my self-indulgent pratterings and here we are, 365 days later, going strong.

Oh? What's that, you say? You want to know how much I love you?

Fine, here is a birthday anecdote.

Once upon a time, mere weeks after your creation, I was drunk and having an argument with Tando (also drunk). As often is the case with drunken happenings, I can't quite recall the details. I do know that it was late and we were outside and there was yelling (possibly on my part) and throwing of beer cans that weren't quite empty (also on my part, maybe) and a lot of using swear words because they make me laugh (it's starting to sound like I was the only one having an argument here). In any case, after a lot of me stomping dramatically around in an intimidating fashion and defying Tando to bring up even one example that would support his cause, he cited you. And that totally shut me up. Because I had no idea he knew about your existence, let alone read you.
"W-what?" I stuttered. "You read my blog?"
"Yes?" he replied, looking confused, probably because he suddenly wasn't having to dodge flying aluminum or urging me to be quiet before the police come.
"How do you know about my blog?" I pursued.
"It's on your facebook," he said, confusion not alleviated in the least.
"Well, I didn't think people would actually notice it--"
"Then why would you put it on there in the first place--"

This was not what the argument was about.
"Anyway," he said, trying to steer us back on track, "on your blog you specifically say that --"
I put a hand on his arm and looked at him so seriously he interrupted himself. "What?"
"Did you like it?"
"Yes," he said, exasperated, "but--"

And that's about as much as I remember because I tuned him out after that and started thinking about you, and how great you are because you have always been there for me, through thick and thin and drunken, irrational posts and sober, irrational posts, and just everything. And I love you. Happy birthday, blog.

Non-Suicidey Things.

So last night Stuffin made an observation about how I mentioned suicide in my last three blog posts. And I feel very contrite about this because suicide is no laughing matter, and while I may joke about things like how I might have a drinking problem or at the very least some anger issues, suicide might not be as socially acceptable to write about in so cavalier a manner. Although I would like to point out that if I were really anywhere near killing myself I wouldn't be broadcasting it every other day, so this is really more a cry for help. Speaking of which, I haven't exactly received any concerned phone calls from you guys. It's like you're encouraging my suicidal thoughts. So really I think you're at fault here, not me.

In any case, though, I will try to focus on non-suicidey things. And what is more non-suicidey than life? Even better, new life. That's right, I'm pregnant. No, totally kidding. What I'm actually talking about are the two little additions to my apartment in the form of the Y's pet mice. Unless you are my landlord, in which case I'm talking about ice cream. Boy, I love ice cream. Also, when are you going to fix our kitchen sink?

So the Y got these pet mice because we recently had some mice-drama, which I may have to tell you all about another time because I think there are still legal issues pending over that whole debacle. But the end result is that we have these two mice sitting in a nice little plastic cage in our living room, and they are tiny and adorable and everyone spends hours cooing over them and counting their poops or whatever and IT FREAKS ME THE EFF OUT.

Okay, it's not that bad. I mean I'm pretty fond of creatures, but to be very honest with you I'm kind of more fond of creatures that acknowledge my existence. Like if I had a puppy that ran up to me whenever I came in the front door and fetched me milk tea when I'm studying (it's a super genius puppy) I would name it Archibald Hamilton III and love it. But for things like turtles and mice that are really really small and don't know what a human is, it kinda freaks me out to have them nearby. I don't mind them in the wild. Like when I went to Hawaii and saw fish while I was snorkeling I was like "oh cool fish!" and then I left it in its natural habitat (the Pacific Ocean) and it left me in mine (the cookie shop around the corner from my hotel) and we were all very happy.

But now the little unaware-I-exist animals have entered my apartment and I'm nervous. After all the Y went through I definitely did not have the heart to tell her she can't keep her critters here (although I did draw the line at the bedroom; I don't want to wake up and find the mice staring at me in a curious but cruelly careless manner--that's how mice stare, fyi) but I have a few reservations.

First, critters smell. Even puppies smell, which sucks. The only puppy I've ever met that smelled good was this little five month old one that had never been outside his owner's mansion and who had puppy cologne in the bathroom. But all other animals have a smell that I'm not really excited to have wafting through my living room. I'm hoping that the mice are small enough and that the Y loves cleaning cages enough that this won't really be an issue.

The main problem I think is the scratching. I CAN'T TAKE THE SCRATCHING. I'm sitting in the living room as I type this and the cage is on the end table behind me and every so often there will be a loud persistent scratching sound and I think "oh god I hope the mouse doesn't scratch its way out and end up in my hair" and it went on for so long that I turned around to say "stop it" but then I noticed the sound wasn't even from the mouse scratching, it was from it drinking from that little ball tube water drinky thing that little animals have. And so I felt really really guilty about telling it to stop drinking because I don't want it to be dehydrated, but another part of me felt like "oh my god it's going to make that sound every time it gets water?" and then I get a headache and need to rehydrate myself. With vodka.

Good Luck to Those Who Plan on Reading This in its Entirety.

So I know I've been saying this a lot lately, which at some point might get worrisome, but please don't expect anything I write in this post to make sense. If you have to blame my incoherence on something, try this: I've just sung along to "Breathe" by Taylor Swift like thirty times on repeat (which has driven all my friends out of my immediate vicinity) but it's weird because I'm not really like empathizing with her lyrics or anything. I mean, it's a sad break-up song but I haven't gone through a terrible break-up in... a long time. Which I think might be it. I'm not saying I want some guy to waltz into my life and stomp on my heart until he makes heart-wine, but to be totally honest, I'm kind of bored out of my mind.

And when I get bored terrible things happen. There are really only two outcomes. One is that things continue this way until I throw a huge tantrum and freak everybody the eff out and people start putting me on suicide watch because I'm dressing in all black and muttering ominously about "fate's cruel games" and brandishing the knife a little too enthusiastically when I'm cooking. Okay, that might be kind of an exaggeration. I don't really like wearing black. Nor do I cook, for that matter. Anyway the more probable result is that I do something kinda big and drastic in the hopes that it will change my life, which it usually does not.

Example A would be my tattoos. So yeah, I have these tattoos. They're actually really tiny for the dual reasons that I'm poor and also that I freaked out when the tattoo artist was like "okay I can extend it but then it'll go across your ribs and that will hurt more" and I was like "whoa there buddy, I'm already letting you jackhammer your needle into my skin, let's not get carried away onto the bones" and he was like "you're the one who wanted them bigger" and I was like "that's what she said" and then it was awkward because I had to take my shirt off and lie in this strange position for thirty minutes while he inked me. Also, I bled. I had no idea blood was involved. Luckily that kind of stuff doesn't freak me out. Like, I'm cavalier about it to the point where I'm like "hmm I want to watch a movie this weekend. I should go donate some blood so I can get free movie tickets" and then I attempt to do that and fill out all the paperwork ("are you a male who went to Eastern Europe and had homosexual relations between the years of 1975 and 1985?") and then the doctor pricks my finger and tells me I don't have enough iron to qualify for life-saving because my body is retarded and then I have to pay for my movie ticket so no one wins. Except the movie theater I guess.

Anyway, I have tattoos because I was bored and I was turning 20 and I was like "jesus christ I'm going to be twenty years old and I haven't done anything with my life (this was before I went on my adventurous little trek through Europe)" and I figured I should do something like go to South America and hike through the rainforest but humidity makes my hair all frizzy so instead I took the bus to Venice beach and paid some guy to permanently alter my body. So that's one example.

The aforementioned Europe trip was another. I was in my second year in college and I was like "oh god I'm so bored with my life" so I signed up to go study abroad but I had to apply like a few months before the program began and in the interim I got bored again and that is why I ended up planning myself a three week trip through some of Europe's must-see cities.

And the time before that I cut off all my hair so that it was the shortest it'd been in at least ten years.

And then I did a few things in between those things that are not really suitable to be made common knowledge but the point is all these temporary distractions are all good and well and sometimes even permanent but they don't actually change my life. Which is why I'm bored again, and trying to think of ways to distract myself. My default when I'm not feeling creative is usually just cutting my hair even shorter, but for some reason I've been getting a lot of compliments on my hair lately. This is puzzling to me because whenever I look in the mirror my immediate reaction is something like "oh my god why does my head look like a beach ball?" but who am I to argue with the public's opinion? Okay, so it's like three people but you know what, I am considerate of everyone's feelings. So instead of cutting it I'm thinking of dyeing it purple.

Or going to Vegas. That would be really awesome because I just watched The Hangover and now I really want to go back. This is weird, because I don't want to experience any of the things the guys in the movie did, but I really just enjoy visiting a city where "wasted" is an acceptable condition to be in while strolling through public. Actually, it might still be frowned upon (I remember stumbling with my friend through a shopping area of a hotel and passing by these little kids on vacation with their family and loudly whispering "we are setting a terrible example. KIDS DON'T BE LIKE US") but as far as I know I wasn't arrested so it's still better than most other cities.

Okay so it's one in the morning and I just wrote like thirty paragraphs about how freaking bored I am of my life so if anyone should be put on suicide watch it's probably you, since you got all the way down here. So I will do you a favor and end this by saying: black is not a good color on you.

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.

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.

Ask Jamerz.

The other night I was sitting innocently in the den, doing wholesome things like protecting the rainforest and saving puppies from drowning when my sister sends me the following message:

[Iz] (9:43:12 PM): why do ppl have anal sex?

As in such cases when I'm not sure what to reply, I pass the question off to one of my more eloquent friends.

Carolyn (9:43:58 PM): hey

jam3rz (9:44:04 PM): howdy do

Carolyn(9:44:06 PM): iz has a question

jam3rz (9:44:27 PM): what is it?

Carolyn (9:44:29 PM): Iz (9:43:12 PM): why do ppl have anal sex?

jam3rz (9:45:08 PM): so that they can stay pure for christ

And just like that? Question answered. This is why I have friends, everyone.

Home Sweet Home

A collection of gems garnered from living at home:

Mom, coming into my room -- I already know what to expect because earlier Iz mentioned to me that our mom was asking why I was acting "funny" recently-- I'm not: Hi.
Me, sitting on my bed trying to hide my blog homepage so my mom doesn't get curious and, god forbid, READ IT: Oh, hello there.
Mom, flopping onto my bed in a strangely conspiratorial manner: So, what's up?
Me, warily: Nothing. We just went to yoga and had dinner together. What's up with you?
Mom: Oh, nothing... your memory foam mattress is nice, isn't it?
Me, genuinely enthused: Oh my god I love it.
Mom: Yeah, why do they call it memory foam? I slept in your room a couple of times and I was trying to sleep lightly so I wouldn't make an imprint in my shape.
Me, amused and touched, but also worried that she thought I would be spending a significant amount of time sleeping in this bedroom: It's okay, mom, you definitely spend more time here than I do.
Mom, shaking her head rigorously: No, no, no, it's your bed.
Me, figuring this is a conversation that can be saved for a later time, when my memory foam is out of the range of fire: Okay. Sure. What's up?
Mom, looking down: Nothing.. just feel like you've been distant lately.
Me: Really? I'm living here. I'm here every night. We just went to yoga together.


Mom, glaring at my open drawers: WHY ARE YOUR DRAWERS OPEN? Why do you have this habit? Do you want it to look like robbers have been through your room??
Me: Mom, calm down. I was looking for --
Mom: NO MORE OF THIS. From now on every time you leave a drawer open I will fine you ONE DOLLAR.
Me, bursting into laughter: Okay, mom.
Mom, laughing as she leaves the room: I'm serious.
Isabel, wandering in: It's okay, mom had the exact same talk with me. My room got robbed too.

Dad, in the car: Wow, time passes so fast.
Me: Yup.
Dad: Imagine, this time next year, you'll have graduated and be back living at home.
Me, in my head: WTF
Me, out loud: Mm...
Dad: Unless, of course, you get a job in LA.. I mean, it could happen.
Me, immensely relieved: Yeah, you know, if I could get a job anywhere I should probably take it.
Dad: Yeah, hopefully you'll get a job here though.
Me: Uh huh. Or L.A. Probably L.A. That's where I go to school, so it'll probably be easier. For me. To find a job. In L.A.
Dad: Maybe..
Me: Yeah. L.A.

Me: I'm going on a diet.
Dad: You don't need a diet.
Me: I do, it's diet time.
Mom, clapping: Yay! Now you'll be the best! And pretty.
Me: Well, I'm done with dinner.

Carolyn's Diet Days 3, 4, and 5 or, Why I (Still) Suck At Life

Day 3
Yeah I'm a really bad diet-diary keeper and can't remember what I did that day. Odds are it was like all the other days of my summer so here's what I probably did.

11 AM: Wake up to a text from Tando calling me lazy.

12 PM: Lay in bed thinking about how unlazy I am. Get up because I'm hungry.

12:30 PM: Watch The Game and eat the (rice-less) meal my mom has left for me on the kitchen table, usually accompanied by a nagging note because even she can't lecture me while she's at her office (at least not while I'm avoiding her calls! Carolyn: 1, Mom: 0).

4:00 PM: Wonder what's for dinner.

Day 4
6 AM: Fall asleep after reading Jodi Picoult's new 477 page novel in its entirety. This isn't really diet-related unless you consider how much I read as a child instead of playing kickball, which I'm sure is where all my problems started. Also I was like totally rebellious and rejected all the societal norms and was like "I'll be as fat as I want! Screw you world!" which leaves adult me to clean up the resulting mess while enviously recalling all the carefree ice cream of my youth.

5:45 PM: Vinyasa Yoga! My first time trying it. Basically they heat up the room and then you move non-stop. Best workout ever, you feel really productive because you sweat so much. Also gross. Again because of the sweat.

7:00 PM: I'm so sore I have trouble lifting my arms to shampoo my hair. Life is good.

Day 5

10 AM: I wake up and consider getting out of bed but realize that would require moving and all my muscles are screaming about the impossibility of this task.

12 PM: I make the disheartening discovery that food will not be coming to me, so I drag my battered body off my memory foam and trudge to the kitchen. It helps that The Game is on tv. I love BET. (Iz calls it "bet")

6 PM: Yoga again. I'm so sore my downward dog looks more like an abused puppy. On the bright side, while I'm doing my stretches the instructor introduces herself to me and asks if I'm a dancer. She was probably just looking at my tights-under-shorts look but I take this to be a compliment anyway.

7:30 PM: Oh my god. Soreness compounded.

9:00 PM: On the way home my mom asks me in all seriousness, "Carolyn, are you secretly taking diet pills?"
"No," I say regretfully.
"Good," she says, relieved. "because some of those pills cause depression, you know? It's bad to take too much medicine. Besides, you aren't that fat."
I consider throwing myself out of the moving car.

2:00 AM: I guess this is technically day 6 but I don't feel like another day has come if I haven't slept yet so this goes under day 5. My dad comes home after 7 hours of mahjong (no exaggeration required) and yells at us for having more than one light on ("ELECTRICITY BILL EXPENSIVE") and I secretly think "hey if you stop losing $200 a night maybe we can afford some electricity up in here." I guess this also has nothing to do with dieting unless I can somehow connect it to the fact that I think we are totally being "financially sound" on the wrong things (like electricity and low-fat food) while spending on unnecessary things (gambling problem?). Oh look, I just did.

Oh, I'm bitchy? YOU TRY BEING SORE AND THEN DENYING YOURSELF MCDONALDS ICED COFFEE BECAUSE IT IS OVER 200 CALORIES A SERVING. YEAH I LOOKED IT UP.

Men: They're Either Taking Your Lunch or Boinking Your Best Friend.

So remember how I said I was totally going to lose weight when I came home this summer, under the theory that I will be so bored I'll actually go to the gym?
Well apparently no amount of boredom has that power. Instead what I end up doing is plowing determinedly through my list of "movies I've wanted to seen since forever but never got around to until now" like it was free cheesecake. Wait, so I guess this post has two parts.

Part 1 is about how my dad keeps my diet on track without either of us meaning for it to happen. As far as I know. Dad?
Part 2 is about the movie I saw yesterday and how I might have rage issues.

Just clearing that up for you.

So the other day I went to the dentist and when the appointment was over I was glad because going to the dentist sucks and also because my dad had said that we were going to get pho at Kim Long, which is only the best pho place I've ever been to in my life.

When we got there I ordered the same thing I always order (#3 regular) and my dad ordered a #2 regular, which was odd because he usually orders a large. Oh it became clear real soon though.
"I ordered a regular because I'm taking some of your noodles," he said, sounding very satisfied with himself. "You won't be able to finish anyway."

I haven't had trouble finishing a regular since elementary school, but I was stuck in the trap of being a girl and totally had to pretend like I had a dainty appetite and could survive on bean sprouts and lemon juice. So when our bowls came my dad started shoveling my noodles into his bowl until there were literally no noodles left. "Oops," he said, laughing. "Almost took all of it." He maneuvered a few strands back into my bowl. "There you go," he said cheerfully.

Oh you think I'm exaggerating. I'm so not. There was seriously like 1/5 of the original amount left. And I was starving again an hour later. Except I was at home by then, and I'd almost rather die of starvation than get out of my chair and actually make something, so voila. Daddy: instant diet.

The day before I went to the dentist I watched The Duchess because I love Keira Knightley and have no life. I'm ambivalent about the movie but if I were Lady Georgiana oh my history would have been so different. Well maybe not because I'm all talk, but seriously if I had gone through all that she had to go through, I would've packed my kids off with a good nanny on a long vacation and then shanked my sorry excuse for a husband before setting his wig on fire and locking him in the dungeon. I'm getting mad just thinking about it.

Why My Diet is Not Working

Exhibit A
carolyn (10:47:37 PM): have you seen
carolyn (10:47:40 PM): thisiswhyyourefat.com
carolyn (10:48:23 PM): I think I have probelms
carolyn (10:48:30 PM): cus a lot of it just looks yummy to me
jam3rz (10:50:23 PM): dude, i was saying the EXACT SAME THING
carolyn (10:50:26 PM): whew
jam3rz (10:50:30 PM): like just a day or two ago
carolyn (10:50:35 PM): thank goodness
jam3rz (10:50:44 PM): mm...fat bitch sandwich

Carolyn's Diet Days 1 and 2, or, Why I Suck At Life

Hello. Yesterday I bought the cutest dress in the world, except for one major flaw: it is sleeveless. This is not a flaw on the part of the dress, just on my body. When I wear it. So I am going on a diet. When I told my family the news, my mom clapped, my dad evinced slight exasperation, and Isabel had already heard the same thing so many times she just said the basic obligatory, "no you don't need to" before turning back to her webcam. I sure love having a 5"3 100 lb. younger sister.

Since I made this decision around dinnertime, "day 1" is really just the six waking hours after dinner, which even I couldn't mess up. So for the next 15 days or so this blog will be turned into a diet diary with a play-by-play of me sneaking food when no one is looking winning the war on weight. Consider it my little way of making you feel superior inspired. You're welcome.

Day 1
7 PM: "NO RICE," I say to my mom. "I'm cutting carbs." It is also around this time that the clapping occurs.

8 PM: I make myself a diet plan, which is a notebook page that I've scribbled helpful hints on, such as "WATER ONLY" and "DO YOGA."

9 PM: I'm looking up diet tips online and come across this interesting little fact: "the human stomach is only about the size of a fist, so you should only eat a handful of food at each sitting." I tell this to Stuffin, who helpfully points out, "yeah, but your stomach expands, so.."
"I ONLY NEED TO EAT A HANDFUL OF FOOD," I reply. "THAT'S ALL. IT SAYS SO RIGHT HERE."

9:01 PM: Stuffin stops replying to me.

10 PM: OMG I'M SO HUNGRY. Apparently a dinner of bamboo shoots and baby scallops is not super filling. I drink a lot of water and chew some citrus gum to fool my taste buds into thinking it is drinking orange juice.

1 AM: Oh my god I'm starving. I'm going to bed so I don't have to suffer anymore. Maybe I'll die in my sleep.

Day 2
9 AM: Oh gosh, I'm sorry about that moment of weakness last night. I silently thank myself for not dying in my sleep.

10:30 AM: Jesus I'm starving. I try to delay lunch for as long as possible so I won't have to eat multiple times in the afternoon.

11:00 AM: Screw it. Lunch? Bamboo shoots and steamed spinach. So this is what my life is going to be like from now on. I almost lose my appetite. Almost.

1:00 PM: OH MY GOD I'M STARVING.

1:30 PM: I eat a string cheese and briefly consider bulimia. Throwing up without being drunk just seems like such a waste though, so I watch tv instead.

4:00 PM: I WISH THOSE WALNUT BUTTER COOKIES WOULD STOP STARING AT ME.

6:00 PM: Yoga class. Good. I can work off all those cheese calories. We're late to class again so I get a spot in the very back and every time we do downward facing dog I hope nervously that no one is standing on the other side of the glass walls looking at my pre-diet butt.

7:30 PM: We decide to go eat hot pot for dinner.

8:00 PM: It's a buffet. Goddamn it.

10:00 PM: I'll start again tomorrow.

Yellow is Not Mellow

Does this look like a treehouse to you?
Ho-hum yellow treefort with a non-Ho-hum yellow slide. Oh god just kill me now. Wait, I'll explain.

That's because it's not. But I'm not sure what to call it (..fort?) and it is both made of and in close proximity to trees, so our family has formed a tacit agreement to refer to it as such. I think it would be confusing to outsiders, especially those who are standing in our backyard admiring the landscaping and can clearly see that it is not a treehouse but have to agree with us because we are the hosts and face it, our backyard is big enough to bury a lot of bodies, except that most of the people who have been invited to our home so far are not native English speakers and I think "treehouse" makes as much sense to them as it does to my parents. Which is about as much sense as that run-on sentence just made.

Anyway my point is that my parents have decided to repaint the treehouse/fort (treefort?) because they are about ten years too late in creating lasting childhood memories want our new backyard to look nice. Then they told my sister she could choose the color, and Iz chose purple because that color is awesome and agreeable with both of us. And then today my dad wanted to go buy paint and on our way I was struck by a sudden realization:

The slide on the treefort is yellow, and if we paint the treefort purple then it will look like...

I called Iz. "We can't paint the treehouse purple--" I began.
"We'll look like Laker fans!" she finished. "I know! We have to choose another color!"

At moments like these I can really look back and reflect proudly upon how well I've brought her up.

Too bad that sense of happiness was quickly dampened when I told my dad that we would have to switch colors.
"To what?" he said skeptically.
"Red?" I suggested hopefully (it'll look cute, okay?! like a fire engine).
He looked disgusted. "How about yellow?"
It was my turn to be disgusted. "The slide is yellow," I pointed out.
"I know," he said happily. "it'll match."

I was not pleased. I do not like different shades of the same color on one thing. Only the fact that my parents were paying for the paint and it was, technically, their treefort, and arguing over the color would be too much an investment for the three weeks out of the year that I'll actually be seeing the thing kept me from protesting. Still, the principle of the matter..

No, forget it. Moving on. My only consolation was that we chose a Disney paint color (so we got "Ho Hum Yellow"), but then the paint guy undid all the good that Disney's naming division created.

My dad was actually pretty well-prepared to buy paint, despite not being really a maintenance kind of guy. He knew the surface being covered (300 square feet), and made sure to tell the paint guy that it was for outdoor use and all that other lame home maintenance stuff that I know nothing about. But then the guy asked us what the paint was for.

"A treehouse," my dad said.
The guy looked at my dad like he was crazy. "A treehouse?" he echoed.
"Yes," my dad said patiently, "a treehouse."
"Like a house.." the guy said, slowly. "in a tree."
"Yes," my dad said, " a treehouse."
The guy made a gesture with his arms that I took to be a tree. "A. House. In. Tree."

Oh my god. At this point I wanted to deck him but he was old and I know sometimes old people freak out at accents and start acting like... this. So I didn't.

"That's a big treehouse," the guy said, still doubtful.
"Yes it is," my dad said. "300 square feet. Can we get the yellow paint?"

After he mixed the paint for us I think he felt bad about doubting our intentions for "Ho Hum Yellow," and also I kept glaring at him, so he started to make small talk. Not that it really helped his case.

"I built a treehouse for my daughter," he said, putting his hand at his waist to show about how big she was. "She was around nine."
My dad smiled. "Oh," he said. My dad is not a real conversational guy.
"I strung lights," the guy continued, making what I guess was a stringing motion. "you know, electricity?"
I opened my mouth to say, "Yes, my dad is familiar with electricity," but the guy continued.
"I had a tree house when I was little, too," he said nostalgically. "It makes you feel like.. you know, a king. King?" He pantomined a crown on his head.
"Jesus," I said, but just at that moment the paint was ready so we could get the heck on out of there.

And, just as a side note I guess, my sister and I totally didn't even help paint the treefort. We were totally willing to, but my dad said it was kinda high up and he and my mom thought it was too dangerous. Yeah I know. Princesses.

Immediately After Writing This Post I Went to Check the Mirror.

So recently I've been thinking about make-up. I don't wear it, at all, and I'm 21 years old, so what's up with that. Actually I think this is because of my mom. When we were little my mom wore you know, the standard amount of make up for a woman of her age, and once in a while when she didn't have lipstick on my sister and I would be like, traumatized, because if you have a mom then you probably know when women who have been wearing lipstick for years suddenly don't they look like leeches have sucked all the blood out of their faces. And when Iz and I would be like, "omg mommy what happened to your mouth" she'd sigh and shake her head and say, "see, girls, this is why you don't wear lipstick."

And apparently I have taken her words to heart because I never wear lipstick and so far my mouth is still an acceptable healthy sort of color. Right? Right??
Also when we were little my mom would try to force a little bit of lipstick on me for when I had piano recitals and I hate 1. the feeling of anything on my skin (this is why I use spray-on sunscreen and hate pants) and 2. piano and 3. recitals, so I probably associate lipstick with all sorts of childhood trauma. Anyway this is just a really long-winded way of explaining why I don't wear make up. Here is a picture I took while scouring the aisles at Target for a base coat (nail polish is NOT make up, despite what the aisle distribution at Target tries to tell you) that gives another reason, much more succinctly.

What the. I don't wanna be a more beautiful version of myself. I want to be an accurate version of myself. Like, it's all well and good when you put on a few layers of foundation and some mascara and eyeliner and whatever else and everyone on the street is like "ooh look at her maybe it's maybelline" but then it's another matter entirely when your boyfriend sees you come out of the shower for the first time and screams "OH MY GOD WHY DID YOU EAT MY GIRLFRIEND."

So this is why I don't wear make up. I am way too lazy just like the au naturel look. Also I'm lazy, did I mention that? honest. Speaking of which, my mom gave me a girly kit with cool stuff like shampoo but also mascara, and I tried it today and I look exactly the same except five minutes later out the door, so I think I will give it to my sister for her birthday. Shh. Don't tell her.

Welcome to the The List.

My dentist is on the list.
To explain, I'll have to go back to last night. Well I don't have to, but I am a talkative momo and this is my blog so suck it. Wait, sorry. I'm just a little annoyed right now. Let me explain how this is my dentist's fault.

Last night I was online, talking to people, singing along to Pandora and chewing tropical flavored gum; you know, a regular night at home, when suddenly, this happened:

Me: OUCH
Tando: what happened?
Me: I BIT MYSELF
Tando: .. how
Me: I was too enthused in my gum chewing
Me: OW
Me: damnit
Me: I did it again
Tando: ...
Tando: put some ice on it

And that was when I got this idea:
Me: omg
Me: I'm going to eat chocolate
Tando: what
Tando: no
Tando: ice
Me: the chocolate's in the fridge. compromise.

And if you know me at all what happened next shouldn't surprise you:
Tando: how's your chocolate
Me: I got pie instead
Tando: ...
Me: it's strawberry pie

So that was why my mouth was still raw and hurt-y this morning when I headed to the dentist for our bi-annual teeth cleaning. It started out innocuously enough. The dentist complimented my teeth and the lead apron he gave me to wear for the x-ray was pink, and I thought we were cool. But then. Then he took out the cleaning needle (this is a real dentistry instrument, right? my parents aren't sending me to some back alley practice?) and, under the guise of checking for cavities, jabbed me in the sore side of my cheek. Twice. The needle was still in my mouth so I couldn't really shriek, but I gave him a dirty look that very clearly said, "watch it, bucko, or that big plastic tooth model on the counter is going to suffer a very nasty accident." And my silent communication must be pretty effective because he finished up relatively quickly and jab-free-ly, and lavished praise upon my cavity-free condition, so I didn't cause a scene. But he's on the list now. And he better watch out.

Imagine what it would've been like he'd told me I did have cavities.

What Work Ethic?

Hello. I was home all alone today, because even Iz has a part time job right now. It's actually a pretty sweet deal: she tests hardware products at the company where our dad works for 8 hours a day and gets paid $12/hour. I had the same job for a few summers in high school; it's as boring as it sounds but the pay is relatively decent. And plus our dad buys lunch.

So even though I worked all summer I haven't saved up much, thanks to rent and food (my aversion to cooking is really very financially crippling) and little side trips to Vegas. For a while I considered asking my dad if he could get me a few hours in the lab alongside my sister, but two things changed my mind.

The first was my mom telling me that she thinks the lab manager would have to cut another temp's hours in order to create the extra position for me. I may be poor but I am not poor enough to have to snipe jobs away from other, potentially poorer workers. I have more integrity than that. Plus it would be easier to just steal from orphans.

The second was that, if you recall, I was kind of hungover the day I got home, which would explain why I slept for like seven hours from mid-afternoon to early evening. By the time I dragged myself out of bed to go rummage in the fridge (I'm a lovely, attractive human being, I know), my mom had already been wondering what was wrong with me for a good half hour.

"You're so tired," she said, hovering over me while I searched for juice (in vain, apparently no one in my family believes in beverages because I always come home to a fridge full of water and despair). "Working full time in LA must have exhausted you. You can rest for the next three weeks. No need to work anymore."

Her tone brooked no argument and I was hardly in the condition for a show down.
"Sure," I said, giving up both my desire to quench my thirst and any dreams of augmenting my now-nonexistent income. "Can we get juice?"

Which is why I felt very unproductive a few hours ago lying on my yoga mat while the instructor crooned, "Now just relax.. let go of all the stress of the day.. all the busyness of the world... our worlds are so hectic, just take this time for yourself.." And then I felt kind of like an imposter, because while all the other people around me were trying to loosen up after a day at the office and emptying their minds and letting in light and energy and compassion or whatever, I was actually kind of annoyed because honestly? Yoga was the most stress I was going through that day. Not that it was actually stressful, but it's hard to do anything with less stress when what you've done all day is alternately eat candy, watch tv and marvel at the wonders of memory foam. And then the instructor said something about taking a walk down your throat until you reach a private beach (seriously) and it was so disturbing that I blocked out her voice entirely and started thinking about school and and then I got kind of stressed out. And my back hurt. So I think yoga was bad for me.

In conclusion, I need a job, my house needs juice, and my yoga instructor needs some better 'relaxing' imagery.