I Hate Everybody and Not Being Able to Stab.

Men are so unreliable. In the interest of not hating, I concede that there must be reliable men somewhere out there but I think they might be a myth because I CERTAINLY HAVE NEVER COME ACROSS ANY. Sorry, it's the whole anger thing again. And I'm not even PMSing so I'm considering going to a therapist or something for all these issues I seem to have.

Although I think I may be justified.
So yesterday I arrived back in Westwood via Southwest Airlines and the Flyaway shuttle, which stops like a mile away from my apartment. A mile filled with dark roads and a cemetery, just so you know. Anyway, my friend [name withheld for protection (my protection, not his, because if this person turns up in the area with mysterious eye wounds I will not be implicated)] was supposed to meet me at the shuttle stop but guess what? He didn't. And so I had to walk by the dark cemetery alone. It's a miracle I didn't get eaten by zombies. Here is a list of what I learned so that hopefully you will also be able to survive in a situation like this.

1. When your friend offers to meet you at the shuttle stop do not accept. Especially if other friends offer you a ride but your friend says "no, I'll get you because we can hang out and catch up after Thanksgiving break" so you say "okay, I'm dumb and will do that instead." And do not think you are being thoughtful by reminding him days in advance of the time you are arriving because this will not matter and he will leave you to the mercy of the zombies anyway.

2. If you pass by a fire station that has a sign proclaiming "SAFE HOUSE" don't get too hopeful because it just means that it's a place where children in danger can be dropped off and not that it's a haven from zombies. And if you stare too longingly at the fire engines that you're hoping are Transformers in disguise and will take you home then passersby will give you strange looks and walk a little more briskly.

3. If you scare all the passersby out of your immediate vicinity then no one will help you lift your fifty pound suitcase over a tall curb.

Eventually my friend got back to school and ran to find me which didn't really help with the anger but did help with the fatigue because he took all my luggage. And then he got all these pitying looks because he looked like a pack mule with all my luggage and all his while I strode briskly and angrily by him empty-handed.



So the moral of the story is that men cannot be trusted. It's actually kind of like a extended metaphor because I'm not too mad about this anymore but I am mad about something else that cannot be so easily explained away with zombies and blurry iPhone pictures. I don't even think I can stab my way out of it. So there is nothing to alleviate the anger and if you find me with my head completely exploded within the next week just rejoice for me because honestly that is probably the best-case scenario at this point.

U-C-STOPSCREAMINGOBSCENITIESINTOMYEARGUYBEHINDME-LLLLL-A!

Yesterday I went to my first UCLA men's basketball game ever. I've been to Pauley before, for a thousand different reasons: Mango's intramural basketball games, a UCLA women's gymnastics meet, a L.A. Sparks playoff game, the LMFAO concert. Random, I know. But this was the first time I've gone for men's basketball and wow, are sports fans unattractive.

Well, let me back up. I'm a sports fan, I guess. I would say my interest in sports is higher than that of the average female and lower than that of the average male. I'm like a sports fan hermaphrodite. It's really late, I don't know why I would say something like that. But what I'm trying to say is that every time I attend a sporting event I am reminded of how annoying most sports fans are. Myself excluded. Of course.

Mango says it's all part of the package, that trash talking and shrieking and senseless traditions are an inherent aspect of spectator sports. And I'm like, eh.

Don't get me wrong, I had a great time at the game. I might even have participated in an 8-clap or two. And UCLA won, which I'm pretty sure is a direct result of my efforts. In the spirit of the subject matter, here is a play by play of my night and a little insight into why I think many sports fans are idiots a tad overzealous.

7:00 PM: Mango and I join Robong and Dwang in the student section of the stands, which is like three rows back from courtside. When I'm trying to settle in I accidentally kick the girl in front of me, but I don't feel too bad because it doesn't seem like she noticed and also she did that thing with her Den shirt where she like cut the heck out of it so that it exposed as much shoulder and cleavage as possible. And then she tied it up at the back to bare some midriff and honestly, is it necessary to slut up for a sporting event? I'm probably not the right person to judge though, because I totally went in an (intact) Den shirt and a UCLA jacket and sweats. If it helps, they were girl sweats, so I didn't look too homeless. Just mildly homeless. Like I only recently lost my job and my house but I'm still trying to do laundry in the sink at the McDonalds on the corner to you know, keep up appearances.

8:00 PM: The game is under way and okay, there are a lot of weird traditions that college students do. Like the entire student section is standing right now. Is this going to stop anytime soon? Some of the traditions at least are funny or amusing but some are kind of mean and make me a little sad. Or is it mad? Anyway this one thing they do is when a member of the opposing team makes an air-ball, they chant "air-ball, air-ball" every single time he has his hands on the ball up until he makes a shot. This one guy on the Concordia team shot an air-ball in the first five minutes of the game and then didn't make a basket until the very end of the second half, so he had to put up with a lot of this chanting. I'm going to be honest, I felt bad for him. He was really hustling and plus their team is the underdog, and I always root for underdogs (hence my undying devotion to the Warriors), and so what happened was that I kept accidentally clapping for the other team.

8:15 PM: Hunh. So I guess we're not sitting down.

8:30 PM: Seriously, they will not stop with the "air-ball" chants. This bothers me on a number of levels. First of all, I'm not a fan of chanting. It's so cult-y and I'm also not a fan of cults. Second of all, it's so mean. I try to counter all the mean vibes by cheering positively ("maybe try again!" "don't listen to them, you're still a good player!" "welcome to Los Angeles!") but it's hard to be heard over the crowd and also Mango keeps trying to quiet me down to prevent us from being killed.

8:45 PM: Wow I did not know you were allowed to call a ref that without getting thrown out.

9:00 PM: Seriously? Standing for the duration of the entire game?

9:15 PM: Okay, guy behind me with a super loud annoying voice: stop telling the opposing team's players to go home. (Verbatim: "hey YOU! Number 33! Go HOME! YOU SUCK! GO HOME!") If they went home there wouldn't be a game to watch at all and then you'd have to be alone at home wondering why you have no friends and okay guess what it's because you're obnoxious there I solved the problem for you okay?!

9:20 PM: This thing is like two hours long. My feet are getting tired.

9:30 PM: Thank god it's over let me sit. UCLA WINS! The game ends with UCLA shooting a clutch 3 after our best player fouled out and winning by one with our first and only lead of the game. It's pretty cool and I'm all school-pridey and stuff but secretly I feel a little bad for Concordia because they played so hard and all their players were like a full foot shorter than ours. I feel like they should have gotten points for being scrappy but Mango says that is not a category in basketball scoring.

In conclusion, I hope next time our school plays a team who's really mean and maybe are known puppy-beaters or something because then I can cheer with a clear conscience. Although I don't hope that anyone hurts puppies. And if they did they should probably be in jail and not on the basketball court. Although Mango did tell me that one of the UCLA players was suspended for a while because he beat up his girlfriend. I definitely did not cheer for him. That's kind of an awkward note to end this on. Oh well.

Did You Miss Me?

Remember when I used to get mad? Well since I've calmed down and returned to the land of the sane, I've been thinking about that. And since I took two psych classes back in high school, I feel I'm fairly qualified to diagnose myself; I suspect I may have a little, teensy problem: I don't get sad, I get angry.

Here are some examples.

Cause: I'm making soup for dinner and I burn it and it's the last batch of ingredients I have.
Result: I get very mad. Also hungry. But mostly mad. I turn off all the lights and go into my room and vow never to eat again, just to spite food. But then I realize it would be way more of a punishment if I ate everything instead, and then I go to Ralphs and buy those cupcakes that are super on sale because they're about to expire in five minutes. Take that, food.

Cause: I find out I can't go to something fun because of a (less fun) prior commitment.
Result: I get really mad and think about how terrible commitments are and swear never to make another one and then for good measure I kick some defenseless animals to seal the deal. The last part may be a slight exaggeration but the first part is true and also explains my inability to commit. It's not you, it's my anger.

Cause: Some boy breaks my heart.
Result: I'm furious and I want to knee him in the face except that I probably still like him (because otherwise how is he going to break any internal organs of mine?) so instead I think about how satisfying it would be if I mastered his absolute favorite video game and then beat him at it and then while he's crying I secretly steal all his forks and donate them to the forkless and then when the next time he sees me he asks, "Hey, do you have any idea where all my forks went?" I reply, "Hey, just be grateful they're not all IN YOUR FACE," and leave him mystified and rueful that he ever let me get away. See, it's subtle but appropriate.

So I don't know. But now my midterms are over and the mad dash to finish three simultaneous papers on three very different topics has not yet begun, and my mom just sent me a surprise care package today, and a rather handsome knight defended my honor (and that of approximately a hundred other people sitting in his section) (yellow), and there are birthdays and holidays and even Disneyland on the horizon, and as a result I'm feeling almost... mellow.

I know, it's freaking me out too. But just thought I'd let you guys know that I didn't explode in a fit of temper and take out half of Los Angeles; I've just been too busy taking midterms, buying flasks and eating chicken with my bare hands to post. Rest assured though, I'm still working on PLWBIFEMCMEFW and soon you guys will be able to peruse through a post filled with dozens of blurry iPhone pictures showing food, dorks, anachronism and dyslexia. Don't say I didn't warn you.

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.

If You Plan On Ever Going Anywhere, Just Don't Even Bother Befriending Me.

And now, for the next in my series of Things I Hate About Adulthood I present:

this exclusively adult idea of Impermanence and Mobility.

I hate it. When you were a kid your parents (if they were good ones, I guess, or if they at least read some child psychology books) tried to give you stability. Like, that's pretty basic. You went to bed at nine, you woke up at seven, you had to go sit in the corner if you were being too rowdy unless you were too rowdy while your dad was sleeping, then you had to go kneel in the backyard (this is where emotional issues and childhood knee scars come from). You saw your friends every day during the school year, you played with your neighbors over summer vacation and then you went back to school and caught up with your buddies like nothing had ever happened.

Adults cannot do this, apparently. Now, I know I'm being kind of hypocritical because whenever things get tough around here I threaten to move to Hawaii and pick up surfing and get an intense tan and marry a boy with killer abs who lives for making me fresh pineapple juice every morning. But I haven't done it yet. And it's not like I'm sitting in my room looking at one-way plane tickets online.

But apparently some people are. People I know. People who, if they left, would not only be leaving California, they would also be leaving me with severe abandonment issues. But do they consider that? Nooo.

"But," I point out. "if you leave, who am I going to hang out with on Tuesdays? We always hang out together on Tuesdays."
"Well," they inevitably reply, "first of all, that's not true. Second of all, I hate you and can't stand being in the same state as you. Even a state as big as California."
"Screw you," I say, "I hope the Atlantic Ocean swallows up Florida or wherever you're planning on going."

Alright, so that conversation is not completely accurate. More likely than not they give me some stupid response like "My girlfriend lives in Chicago and I want to be closer to her/I got offered a job in Minneapolis and it's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity/I'm in love with New York and would be a thousand times happier there/My ailing mother's last wish is for me to move to our family estate in Savannah/I'm fulfilling my lifelong dream of being a shark hunter in North Carolina" or something like that.

And they're totally missing the big picture. Which is that if they leave, I'm going to have to make new friends, and I hate doing that almost as much as I hate dating. First of all, it's going to be impossible because I'll be dealing with all the insecurity issues I've acquired as a result of being abandoned in the first place, and who wants to befriend a weirdo who won't let her new friends out of her sight, even if it is to go to the bathroom?

So, to my friends who are moving away, think about it this way: you're not only leaving me a big issue-y mess and forcing me into social situations outside my comfort zone, but your actions are probably also going to get me arrested for being a stalker.

Is that what you want? Yeah, that's what I thought. Now go to the backyard and think about what you've (almost) done.

Screw You and Your Immune System.

I'm sick. No, I'm not bitching, I'm actually sick. Sick as in the Y was so concerned just by the weakened state of my voice that she took my temperature. I insisted that this was unnecessary, but I guess I was wrong because it came out to something a little over 102 degrees, which, according to the Y (resident expert in over-worrying about illnesses -- a little quirk for which I am now very grateful) is "hella high." Then she gave me some Nyquil, so I'm just typing fast now in a race against sweet medication-induced sleep.

Why am I writing instead of sleeping or mentally railing against my usually reliable immune system? Ah, college. I turned in at the early hour of 10:30 after watching a sneak preview of Zombieland, after which I felt so ache-y that I practically sprinted home and then stood in a scalding hot shower for thirty minutes solely because I couldn't find the energy to towel off. Then, at 12:15 AM, I was awoken by the sounds of drunken revelry outside my window. Thursday night on frat row. I tried to be understanding, I really really did. I tried really hard not to imagine the students outside as raucous zombies and me as Woody Harrelson with four pistols and two machine guns. I told myself that surely I've had nights like that, where I was just the right amount of drunk to enjoy walking and not notice the volume of my voice, and hey, it wasn't their fault I was sick, right? Then I hear from outside some drunken jerk slur, "that guy is a faggot-retarded faggot." Okay. I would never say that. A girl chimes in, "hey guys, I'm going to pop a squat in about five steps. Okay, I'm popping a squat!"

They were lucky I was having difficulty even getting myself to sit up, much less be in any position to pour burning oil out my window.

The thing I hate most about being sick -- more than the feeling that my head is wrapped in really hot cotton, more than the whole freezing-without-blankets-burning-up-with dilemma-- is that I become a huge brat. I mean, more than usual, if you can imagine. I'm kidding. I'm usually very good, if I do say so myself. I mean, I'll occasionally throw a minor tantrum, but it's nothing compared to what I'm like when I'm sick.

Take, for example, Jamerz and Teenie and I in line for Zombieland. "You don't have swine flu," Teenie insists. "you don't even have a fever." (Oh, how wrong she was proved to be). "I'M DYING," I wail, causing multiple heads to turn and the strangers nearest to me to back away. "I'M GOING TO BE DEAD IN A FEW HOURS AND THE LAST THING I DID WAS STAND IN A REALLY LONG LINE." James chuckled. "You're funny when you're sick," he said. What I think he really meant was "thank god my girlfriend doesn't get like this."

I'm fairly certain that my mystery sickness escalated in severity solely because no one (with the later exception of the Y) sympathized. When I walked to class with Mango in the morning, his idea of being comforting was something along the lines of: "No, you're not dying. Yes, you can make it up those stairs. What do you mean you can't, it's only twelve flights. No, you're not going to throw up." And this was before he started imitating me ("Oh, I'm soo sick. Oh I'm going to die. Oh my head feels like it's going to implode.") Cruel? Certainly. Unusual? Unfortunately not. It turned out to not be a departure from anyone else's reactions throughout the day.

In my class today the only person I knew didn't even attend lecture, so I had no one who could even pretend to care. Talk about inconsiderate.

At work Arrow did not evince much concern for my state (apparently snacking on Funyons and Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies is not a symptom of illness-- excuse me for missing lunch), but he did offer me a Tylenol. This is probably what sedated me for when Tando messaged me, saying "you're not dying" -- this in reference to my facebook status ("I'm dying I'm dying D: someone medicate me"). It was not exactly the kind of comfort a girl would like to receive on her deathbed.

Okay, I'm going to stop typing because my fingers are getting so warm I can't feel them anymore (sad? yes, welcome to the life of an invalid). I'll set this post to automatically publish tomorrow night so that if I die you'll all have something to remember me by. Oh, and try not to dance on my grave. But if you must -- absolutely no square dancing. I mean it.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.