We're Really Doing It to Save Lives

What I Told Brian About Donating Platelets

"It's definitely not any more painful than donating blood. They even give you your blood back, so you won't even think you're missing anything."

"You get three free movie tickets! Three! And if we both donate we get six! We can go watch THREE movies together!"

"You just sit in this media center and watch movies or go online while you're donating. It's just like being in your living room. It's really fun. They have great movies."

"You get free cookies and juice at the end."

"And stickers."

What the Blood Center People Told Me

"I'm sorry, we're going to have to defer you. Your platelet count is too low."

What the Blood Center People Told Brian

"Come on in."

What I Told Brian at the Blood Center

"Well then can I take your keys? I'm going home to take a shower and maybe do my nails."

What Brian Told Me After Donating Platelets

"You didn't tell me that when they give you your blood back, it's COLD. And it hurts. I wish they had just kept the blood too."

"I got three movie tickets and you didn't get any. We can only go see one and a half movies."

"Media center??? What did you mean by media center?? Because all I got was a chair and a tv monitor. You made it sound futuristic, like a pod. And I watched 'Get Him to the Greek'. I only laughed once. I think it was at P. Diddy but I don't remember."

"I ate two cookies and drank three juices but I'm still thirsty."

"I got you a sticker that says 'Be Nice to Me, I Tried to Donate Blood Today'."

Things Brian's Doctor Told Him a Week Later When His 3 Day Fever Wouldn't Go Away

"Well, you don't have strep throat... but for some reason your platelet count is low."

A new post for the new year, as my blog struggles to survive another 365 days of my neglect and general apathy.

Remember in my last post when I talked about going skiing for New Year's eve? and not ziplining? well that, mofos, is what you call foreshadowing.

I think. I'm a little rusty on my literary tropes now that I spend the majority of my days feeling my eyeballs slowly dry out in a cubicle. But here's the whole sordid story, which I shall call "Carolyn goes Skiing and Not Ziplining which Very Nearly Resulted in her Death but through Perseverance she was able to Survive and even got a Burrito out of it at the End, although she did Lose her Lips and the Use of her Major Muscles for the Next Few Days."

Here's how it starts.

December 30th, 2010

8:00 AM: I have a cold. This actually started several days ago, but I don't want to recount my entire winter vacation.

7:00 PM: Isabel, Mike and I head over to Clayton's to hang out with him. We're actually there to pick him up for the snow trip, but we figured we might as well get some fun out of it so we went early enough to fit in a few games of Black Ops.

7:30 PM: We play those missions or whatever they're called. It's like a free-for-all but with special conditions. Like you only get one bullet or your gun changes every 45 seconds. I forget what they're called but they're really fun except for the part where I practically get a blister on my thumb from hitting x to respawn. Because I'm not so good at the video games. Mike is, though, and he has so much fun he says, "can we just do this instead of going to Big Bear?" Which is more foreshadowing.

7:45 PM: Isabel gets bored of not watching us play video games and borrows Clayton's computer to look at a naked picture of T.I.

7:50 PM: Isabel reports that T.I. "looks awkward" naked.

8:00 PM: We head to Brian's house because it's closer to Big Bear and we won't have to wake up as early the next morning. By which I mean 5:30 instead of 4:30. Yeah, AM. It was that kind of vacation.

9:00 PM: We get to Brian's house and his mom makes us red bean soup which is usually delicious but I can't taste anything because of the phlegm. From my cold, not the soup.

10:00 PM: Marc arrives and the whole party is there except for Rohit, who missed out on a night of all four boys sleeping on the floor of Brian's "bonus room," and, as Mike put it the next morning, "performing a symphony of snores."

New Year's Eve

6:00 AM: I wake up and put on my silly bands.

9:00 AM: We get to Big Bear and make our first stop at the ski rental place. At this point I was naively unaware that I was strapping myself into a torture device. Also I have to pee.

10:00 AM: We get to "Snow Summit" (a misnomer -- it should've been called "The Icy Gates of Hell") and luckily they have a bathroom or my day would have been even worse.

10:30 AM: Brian is the most experienced skier and tries to teach the rest of us on that little flat part of the slope where all the little kids are learning to snowboard. Everyone slides around uncontrollably except Marc, who is athletically inclined, and me and Isabel, who practice standing very still.

12:00 PM: We head for the actual slopes. The ones where you have to take the lift. Going into this day, I thought the lift would be my mortal enemy. When I was small it seemed really big and fast, and getting on and off was a tricky matter full of planning and coordination, neither of which little Carolyn was good at. My most ingrained memory of skiing in my youth is tripping off the lift at the dismount area, getting knocked on the head, and the operator stopping the whole thing while a dozen strangers watched me struggle to get up. Also I was wearing a snow jumpsuit. It was red.

12:20 PM: We get on the lift, which isn't nearly as fast or big as I remember. It was actually quite enjoyable. I didn't know at this point, but it would turn out to the best part of skiing because it doesn't involve moving or falling. Although, toward the end, falling off the lift would've been a sweet release.

12:30 PM: We go down the bunny slope. I discover there seems to be a problem with the brakes on my skis. Despite Brian's very helpful advice to "Wedge. Wedge, Carolyn. You're not wedging. Pretend your skis are pizzas," I find that the most reliable way of stopping is to fall onto the snow and then spread my body out to cover as much surface area as possible so that there is more dragging force and I can come to a quicker halt.

1:30 PM: We find Clayton, who has escaped to the baby bunny slopes. The ones that have the moving flat escalator thing instead of a ski lift. I am able to get down this without falling, but it is tiring because for every thirty second run down the slope there is a three minute wait on the moving escalator, and standing has become a chore of epic proportions.

2:00 PM: I can't feel my face. Or my fingers. I didn't eat lunch because a $5 hot dog would have been wasted on my frozen taste buds. I have approximately 30 bruises and still haven't learned how to stop. I'm pretty sure I was born without the muscles one uses in "wedging." On the plus side, I haven't mowed over any children or fallen off the side of the mountain. Incidentally, two of my biggest skiing fears.

3:30 PM: We get in line to go to the summit. The sign says the route is "the easiest." It literally says that on the sign. This little bit of false advertising would be my downfall. Also literally.

4:00 PM: We get to the top of the mountain. And I mean the top. We soared over all the other skiers and trees and small animals and landed at the peak. It was almost like ziplining except at the end you get abandoned and have to find your own way down.

4:00 PM -- 5:30 PM: For the next one and a half hours (yes, one and a half hours) I followed this time tested routine:

1. Ski fifty yards.

2. Start going too fast.

3. Freak out.

4. Fall down.

5. Stare at the sky, wishing I were dead, as small children zip past me on their skis.

6. Brian comes to a stop about six feet from me. While looking around pretending he doesn't know who I am, he says "come on, get up, we're almost there."

7. I continue to stare at the sky. "Go on without me," I say, "I can't make it."

8. "Well you have to," Brian says, "there's no other way down."

9. A concerned passerby stops and looks at me. "Is she okay?" he asks Brian, who reluctantly acknowledges my existence and says, "Yeah. Well, I think so."

10. I laboriously get up and look down the slope with trepidation. Brian and I stand there for up to five minutes before I can urge my body to once again hurtle itself down the side of a mountain.

Once in a while I would switch things up on steps #2-4 by falling on accident.

Later on, when I finally got off the slope and was feeling mildly human again, Marc told me that after he got down the mountain in "three minutes" (that SON OF A BITCH) he stood there "in the cold" waiting for me and Brian to come down. When we finally came within view, this is how he described it:

"Yeah, you would ski for like a few seconds, and then fall down. And Brian would ski over to you. And then you'd get up and you two would just stand there for like five minutes. What were you doing? During the one and a half hours I was waiting, I saw a couple of snowmobiles go by and I thought they were for you."

Needless to say I detest him.

7:00 PM: In a stroke of New Year's luck, across the street from our motel was a DELICIOUS Mexican food place that the nice owners kept open for us. I had a ground beef burrito.

8:00 PM: I call first shower and discover that the entire back half of my body is bruised. I have trouble stepping over the two inch ledge thing into the shower.

9:00 PM: We watch "Minute to Win It" Christmas edition. There is a task where the guy has to put a gingerbread man on his forehead and move it to his mouth using only his face muscles.

11:30 PM: Everyone wants to sleep but it seems like a waste to stay awake this long and not wait 'til midnight.

12:00 AM: We watch the ball drop for the third time that night and Isabel immediately turns off the light. We all knock out.

3:00 AM: Someone is snoring.

New Year's Day

9:00 AM: My lips are so chapped. Also I cannot walk.

Social Media is Scary, but Not as Scary as Me Being an Awesome Spy

I am hesitant to say anything regarding my job because it is my sole means of support now that I am no longer a student with allowance. And did you know, in the real world you have to pay rent? And this thing called utilities? And that, when the living room light gets left on all night, the latter increases? Yes, it is all quite overwhelming and confusing but I have been putting on a brave front and writing checks, which I find is easier to do if you are blissfully unaware of the contents of your bank account. I assume I have enough to cover this month's rent, let's just leave it at that. Like that old saying goes, "Assuming makes a .. happy person ...out of me." Or something like that.

Anyway, let me remain purposefully vague because I am keeping in mind one incident in which my sister's roommate went for an interview, came back discouraged, vented about said interview in her blog, and received a call not thirty minutes after it was posted -- from her interviewer. Asking her to take down the post. Because he had seen it through Google Alerts. Yes, the world is a scary place.

So for all our sakes -- including that of my landlord, with whom I'm not well acquainted but who I am fairly certain does not have a secret fondness for bounced checks -- let's just say that I am a spy by profession. And occasional blogger by night (but mostly couch potato).

One day, my daily routine of getting to the spy office by 8 AM was disrupted because -- TADA! -- I had something else on my plate that morning. Not literally, spies don't have time for breakfast. What I had to do was attend what everyone else there referred to as a "social media workshop" but which I referred to (mostly in my head) as a "super secret spy mission". The conference/mission was amusing for two reasons: I was experiencing a weekday morning outside of a cubicle for the first time in over two months (if spies got depressed this would be a good point to do so), and THE WHOLE POINT OF THE CONFERENCE WAS TO LEARN ABOUT FACEBOOK.

But first I had to get there. The directions were vague, giving only the address to what turned out to be a huge cathedral in downtown Los Angeles. Parking in the underground garage (for which the fee was $18, and quite beyond a spy's salary, so I was relieved to find later that it was validated for the conference), I made my way up the stairs and into the first building I saw. Which was the cathedral, of course. I don't know what I thought, that the workshop would be held inside the cathedral? I suppose we could have sat in the pews, and the presenter could have spoken at the ... alter? Podium? I'm not familiar with religious terminology. But this sacrilegious scene was not to be. When I made my way into the cathedral, I saw only a few bowed heads, devout worshippers in prayer for who clearly did not have profile pictures or friend requests on the mind. I tiptoed back toward the door, afraid that the echoing sound of my work heels against the stone floor would disrupt some sort of religious epiphany. It wasn't until I saw a man frowning at me that I realized mincing along with my body curled into the shape of a question mark wasn't the most inconspicuous thing I could have done in that particular situation. Luckily by then I was near the door, so I made my escape.

Soon after I found the actual conference being held in a modern conference room with no pews or praying people whatsoever. It was a lucky thing it was located next to the cafe, ensuring that sooner or later I would come across it, whether in search of the conference itself or just a nice frappuccino.

So I was finally at my social media conference. For those of you who are like I was a few months ago, social media is roughly the concept of marketing through social platforms on the internet. Or something like that. I didn't take notes on that part because they had FREE DANISHES. Spies have priorities, you know.

Anyway, it turned out I didn't really have to pay attention to much of it at all, because most of the conference was spent explaining things like Facebook fan pages and how to effectively use Twitter. Considering my ..spy company.. blocks the use of any website it deems unproductive (goodbye Bejeweled, cracked.com, personal blogs, or anything that may bring a tiny glimmer of light and hope into the dark abyss that is cubicle life), I settled in to enjoy the rest of the conference with a nice blueberry scone.

That is, until we got to the Powerpoint presentation. An extremely nice and dapper older gentleman was presenting from a local nonprofit, explaining how they'd used Facebook to spread the word about their fundraisers. He showed us screenshots of their page, which I guess was taken from his computer when he was logged into the account, because he suddenly cleared his throat. The audience followed his eyes to where he was looking at the advertisements on the sidebar. That's when I noticed for the first time that the ads were extremely... specific. GAY MOTORCYCLE CLUB, the first one said. The second one: GAY AUTOMOBILE CONVENTION. Okay, I didn't even know they had those. We went onto the next page. GAY BOWLING CLUB. "You know," the presenter said, very graciously, "I don't know how they find out this stuff."

All in all it was quite a successful morning.

A Pretty Compelling Reason I Shouldn't Have Kids

I have decided to give up on any semblance of chronological...ity? in anything I do. I've come to realize that it's really just too big a commitment for a girl who is reluctant to buy an entire serving of mushrooms because she knows very well that she is unlikely to cook and eat them all before the inevitable rotting sets in. This commitment-phobia extends to even the smallest of tasks.

A month or so ago I was browsing in a store near my apartment that specialized in selling whimsical things at seven times the price anyone in their right mind would consider paying. I came across a little notebook with some clever name which I no longer remember, but the concept of it was simple: a diary in which you write one sentence a day. Each page is marked with month and date, with enough room for about five sentences. The idea was to write five years worth of one-liners in that one notebook, so that on the same day every year you only need to look a space above to see what you were doing exactly 12 months ago.

The idea intrigued me. It was like conducting one of those long term experiments on yourself, or like that guy who took a picture of himself every day for six years and set it to somber music. So of course (because I was unwilling to pay $15 for something I could put together myself in three seconds, although I do owe the inventor some points for using his idea and so he is free to come and take one of my ideas any time -- like that one I have about, when I eventually own a gigantic mansion, setting library book collection bins in every room so as to avoid the troubling problem of losing a wayward book under a couch every time I'm too lazy to go to the bookshelf, a problem that consistently plagued my childhood) I went straight home (well, not straight home, I had some noodles in a nice little restaurant nearby first but that's not really conducive to the narrative) and got out my prettiest notebook and wrote very firmly, on the first page, September 12th. The notebook was a full size one, so I had enough space for eight years worth of one-liners. Imagine -- eight years from now I would be 30 years old, and the possibilities of the routes my life will have taken by then were endless. I COULD BE QUEEN OF THE WORLD. And such a journey should not be left undocumented.

Oh sure, things went well for a week or two. Every day I faithfully wrote down a brief summary of my day. Invariably the results were along the lines of, "Today I burned dinner so I ate three cookies and went to bed," or, "If that girl at work doesn't stop being so annoying I will probably smack her and get fired but it will be worth it." As is the problem with many long-term experiments, my journal seemed to require patience and diligence, with no promise of instant gratification in sight.

It was abandoned within a month.

I occasionally still think about it, of course. In fact, I'm thinking about it now, having just written more on the topic than I've written in the journal to date. But the thought of all those backlogged dates, those empty pages, is too daunting. Going back to it now would be like texting a friend you haven't spoken to in months -- it seems a little more trouble than it's worth, you can't ensure the outcome, and life has been going on just fine so why bother?

I suppose it is possible that eight years from now I will look at my notebook with half the pages used but less than fifty sentences written, and regret it the way I might regret not picking up the phone and moving my thumbs to get in touch someone I may end up missing after all.

But then again, I doubt such things will even cross the mind of the QUEEN OF THE WORLD.

It Was Really Just Good Clean Fun

Circle of Life. But Without Any Animals.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: Yeah I think so.

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

Mango: I'll go with you.

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

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

Me: I'm going in the daytime.

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

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

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

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

The Art of Compromise. And Hair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was not.

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

I feel like visual aids are in order.

Option #1:

Option #2:

And of course, what actually happened:

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

I am Mentally Incapable. It's Confirmed.

Oh man, I don't even know where to begin. Well actually I began by totally deleting the link to this blog off my facebook because that is just the kind of entry this is going to be.

So it all started with me wanting to go home for Chinese New Years. I'm pretty sure this was the catalyst because two things happen whenever I go home:

1. I get drunk the night before.

2. I have a lot of difficulty at the airport the next day.

I guess I don't learn lessons.

So on Thursday to cap off a two week period of midterms/fundraisers/dipping stuff I'm not allowed to eat in chocolate for five hours in one sitting/essays I got really drunk. I'm not going to go into details about the depths of my inebriation, but suffice to say it is a good thing I made that rule about wearing pants (or at the very least leggings) to parties way back in freshman year because I'm pretty sure at some point in the night I was not in total control of my limbs.

But this isn't really about the impressive amounts of cheap vodka I consumed or how I lost in semis in the beer pong tournament despite my amazing explosion shot to win the previous game or how around 2 AM I decided to play DJ and Maaron yelled at me for trying to put on old P. Diddy songs.

This is about the dangers of the morning after. So listen carefully, kids. You'll want to avoid the mistakes I made.

First of all - I'm not going to mince words - I looked like shit Friday morning. I had gotten home at four AM and by the time I showered (I have to shower before I get into bed no matter how opposite of sober I am - yes I am the epitome of hygiene) and dragged my dizzy self into bed it was god knows what time. And since I had a flight to catch at 1:30 I had changed my work hours that day to 8-11 and if you know me at all you'll know what a rough morning I had by the fact that I WORE GLASSES. Yes. Out in public.

The whole day was actually really comical in that kind of hazy, hungover, oh-my-god-is-this-really-happening way.

Let's list them:

1. The glasses thing. Trust me, it was serious. On top of that I was late because have you ever tried to wake up at seven after two hours of sleep while hungover? Then you understand why I didn't have time to put on make up or consider what to wear because I ended up in a pair of shiny red pants (I actually like these pants, and I totally wronged them with the rest of my outfit), this completely non-matching cream top and my Prolit sweatshirt. And purple moccasins. I basically looked like the personification of a hangover. Before I left I looked in the full length mirror by my front door and could only shake my head.

2. I had to bring my luggage to work since I was leaving straight from the office. I also had to bring the crushgrams that my co-workers bought for me. And I am so sick of hearing about them from the fundraiser that I don't want to explain but basically it was a six pack of glass soda bottles. Which I precariously balanced on my rolling suitcase while walking the four blocks to work. In my glasses. It felt like some sort of strange and strenuous dream.

3. Luckily my work is awesome so everyone sympathized and gave me different bits of advice on how to not die but THEN. Oh my god. This is kind of complicated but basically what happened was that Tando came into the office for the first time since he stopped working there, and I don't want to get into details but I was SO MAD that the one day I come into work looking like shit he happens to have an errand up at the office. When he came in through the door I lifted my head from its resting place on the table and was like "Jesus, please tell me you are joking," but nope. And I'm not saying that I look gorgeous when I step into the office everyday but I definitely don't usually look like a TellyTubby got drunk and threw up and the puke put on glasses and became me. And it's not like I'm trying to impress anyone but seriously. Talk about adding insult to injury.

4. Did you know airports had terminals? Well me and my hangover didn't. I'd never taken any airline other than Southwest from LAX, and Southwest is at terminal 1 right next to the security. So since I was already checked in for my United flight I was like "oh I'll just get off at Southwest because I'll be closer to security." Uh WRONG. United is at terminal 7. I was so confused. I literally had to text Arrow because I was like WTF WHERE AM I? And because he is the best friend a hungover girl can ask for (and has a strangely comprehensive understanding of the LAX floorplan) he directed me to the right place. It's not interesting enough to go in depth into but let me just tell you a shuttle was involved. That was how far I was from my flight.

5. The shuttle went to the ARRIVALS section of terminal 7. And there was this one other middle aged guy on the shuttle who got on and off at the same stops as I did (which helped because I was like oh hey I'm not the only one who makes these mistakes, and this guy doesn't even look hungover so he soberly made this mistake) so I started following him and he KEPT LOOKING BACK worriedly at me. I mean I was looking a mess and probably had on a pretty grim expression because I was wondering if I would miss my flight and also mentally vowing to never drink again but still after the fifth time he looked back I was starting to feel like an old-person stalker. Which didn't really help.

6. I made it to my gate in the nick of time. My flight was delayed. For two hours. My laptop and phone both ran out of batteries so I couldn't tell my dad when I was taking off. I had to pee but I couldn't because they loaded us onto the plane and THEN announced the delay. (I don't like airplane bathrooms.) I sat behind a crying baby.

Oh and on my way to the Flyaway shuttle I was telling Mango how I will never ever drink again and he gave me a baleful look and was like "you always say that. but you always do again" and I was like "oh this must be what it's like to be an alcoholic parent."

And that was my Friday. Happy Chinese New Year's everyone.

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

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

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

Some interesting quotes from the article:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being a Ho: Does it Pay Off?

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

Mango: Maybe.

Mango: Is she good?

Me: At sex?!

Mango: Never mind. Next question.

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

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

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

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

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

Me: [same question]

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

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

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

Jamerz: I'd definitely have concerns.

Me: About her ho-ibility?

Jamerz: Yeah.

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

Jamerz: I think that's fair.

Ho-ibility.

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

Iz: If it's not my first time.

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

I've taught her well.

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

Me: Do you prefer it when women are mysterious?

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

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

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

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

Me: [same question]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mango: Oh.

Me: Start over.

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

Sometimes I don't even try to understand him.

Mango: 2. If they were anorexic.

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

Mango: 3. If they're a boy.

Me: Okay, I just explained this to you.

Mango: Oh, right.

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

Me: That's a pretty good--

Mango: Or if they go to USC.

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

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

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

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

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

Carolyn: 1. He uses messenger bags.

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

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

Maybe it's just me.

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

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

Mango: Wow. I probably wouldn't propose.

Me: Would you break up with them?

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

Mango: Yeah, counseling.

Me: Alone or with them?

Mango: With them.

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

Me: [same question]

Jamerz: Whaaaaa

Jamerz: I would be devastated.

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

Me: HAHAHA

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

Jamerz: [silence]

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: But he was perfect in every other way.

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

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

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

If I'm This Scattered Writing a Blog Post You Can Imagine How My Final Papers are Going.

Where are you on a Thursday night? I hope you are out at a club trying to pick up a hot guy/girl or downing jagerbombs at a bar because I am sitting at Laycon's desk wearing Mango's monkey hat (see picture) and trying to do an essay about Romeo and Juliet while listening to music that kind of makes me want to kill myself.
Not me. I was too lazy to take a picture so I found one on Google. She looks a little too serious considering her get-up. Also I don't have the gloves but now I know what to get Mango for Christmas this year.

This is vaguely maddening not just for the obvious reasons but also because I thought I was done with high school. I'm so over 14 year olds thinking they are in love and dragging the whole fair city of Verona into their teenage drama. I mean if I can't tell at 21 whether or not I'm anywhere near love then how can a couple of tweens? Anyway, I'm not sure if I'm low on sleep or vegetables or some other integral lifestyle element (cupcakes?) but I'm so distracted today there's no way I can get myself to string 2478 words together in a cohesive manner. A few minutes ago Mango looked over from where he was studying on his bed to find me looking in the closet mirror and squeezing the monkey ears on my hat.

I think I need more animal clothing.

Anyway, I was trying to at least appear to be productive by doing my psych reading and highlighting in lieu of actually processing any words when I came across a sentence too alarming to be glanced over.

"Mortality rates from all causes of death are consistently higher among the unmarried than the married. Unmarried and more socially isolated people have also manifested higher rates of tuberculosis, accidents, and psychiatric disorders such as schizophrenia."

Oh my god you guys. I am at risk for tuberculosis. Isn't that what Nicole Kidman died from in Moulin Rouge? This is just all bad because I don't want to be a hooker or dead or Ewan McGregor's love interest. No I take that back. Ewan McGregor is fine but I don't want to be the love interest of that whiny poet he played in the movie. I mean I'm all for the destitute Parisian lifestyle of the bohemian author but when he THREW THE MONEY AT HER AT THE END? I WAS ENRAGED.

Okay well I guess technically I'm not "socially isolated" but I am unmarried and this paper makes that sound like some bad shiz. And I mean it's not like I have anything against marriage and I'm definitely way too young for that but I don't know anyone who I would even remotely want to spend forever with. Although it looks like I should be less nitpicky if I don't want to die an early death.

I can't believe how quickly this quarter is ending. It's just me getting closer to being homeless, jobless and out on the street so I guess it's pretty natural that I feel like time is flying. This week is basically over and then I'm only here for two days next week, and when I come back from Thanksgiving there's only two more weeks before I peace out of L.A. for practically a whole month. And then it's off to Korea and Taiwan and if I don't kill myself because I'm a size XXL there then I'll have lots of pictures and adventurous stories for you all when I return.

I'm sure you guys can gather from this little blog that my life is pretty boring so it probably won't come as a surprise when I tell you the most exciting thing that happened this week was when the cutest guy in my class told me he liked my backpack. I was very pleased because a) he has good taste and b) he was talking to me. Also c) I was dressed very cutely that day. And I especially loved the way he said it because he spoke very quietly and kind of shyly and made speical mention of the bows I'd glued to like every available surface. Later on when I shared the good news with the Y she suggested that maybe he was gay. I denied this possibility. And then today when I told Aarow he had the same reaction. I mean I guess they could be right but I have my doubts because of the way he dresses and how scruffy he looks.

It's not really about him though. It just reminds me that I adore shy guys that aren't groomed to within an inch of their lives and when they're all nice it makes my heart go bumpbump and makes me stutter and then I'm shy and then we never speak again because both of us are too mortified to approach the other. And this is why I'm going to get tuberculosis.

Life is Stupid Awesome.

Today I got called out for my excessive use of violence in my blog. Apparently eye-stabbing isn't a widely accepted form of emotional expression? Or something. So in an attempt to repent, I've decided to try and cut out all gratuitous mentions of stabbing or kicking or even fork-stealing. Consider me reformed.

Other than that, how was my day, you ask? Well really only one notable thing happened. And I'm stretching the definition of notable. I was at work when a package arrived. It was a nice hefty size and it was addressed to me, so naturally I got really worked up and excited until I realized that the return address was Laycon's home, which means his sister/parents had sent him some goody. I was pretty sad, but in a totally non-violent way. So anyway, like the good friend I am I decided to lug the package over to Laycon's apartment, which is more or less on my way home from work.

Two things I learned:

1. Laycon's parents must have sent him goodies in the form of gold bricks because that thing is heavy.

2. I'm kind of a loser.

Elaboration: I had my arms wrapped awkwardly around the bulky box and was trying to distract myself from my not-getting-package sadness by singing along to my iPod. Unfortunately this prevented me from hearing the footsteps from behind that would've warned me I wasn't alone on the path. As it was, however, I was at the height of the song when I saw a guy hurry by. I thought about how I must've sounded to him and started laughing at how weird I am. Only I didn't wait long enough before the giggling started so what he experienced was walking by a girl in a red coat and purple eyeliner singing off-keyedly to herself while struggling with a largeish package and then, when he passed her, unexpected chuckling. Yeah, I totally understand the weird look he gave me over his shoulder.

So there's a guy walking around the school area right now convinced I'm a freak. If you meet him don't listen to his lies. You have the real story. Just kick him in the shins smile and thank him for the warning.

Anyway, by the time I got to Laycon's place my arms were sore and I was overly warm from the brisk walking and a little annoyed because Mango hadn't answered my last two calls telling him to come down and get the package. I was about to do some eye-stabbing figured he was busy with something and decided to try the door buzzer. When no one responded to me over the intercom, I considered throwing a brick through their window called Laycon. He wasn't at home, and wouldn't be for another thirty minutes. I thought about telling him where he could shove his package told him I would call another one of his roommates instead. When I called Maaron and he picked up, he didn't really know what I was talking about and kept telling me to go upstairs. I threatened to burn down their building if no one came immediately tried to explain that I was on my way home and would prefer having someone come down to grab the package so that I could continue on my way. When Roro finally came down to get the package, he received a call before I could greet him. He held up a "wait-a-second" finger and I showed him a finger too silently handed him the package before waving goodbye.

All in all it was quite an infuriating uneventful trip and I am proud to say that my non-violence streak is going strong.

The First Step is Admitting You Have a Problem.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

Why I'm Not a Phone Person. Or a Listening Person. Just Read This.

If you ever feel like you are talking to me but I am not really listening to you, don't be offended; it is because I use up my entire year's worth of listening ability in three weeks at home.

Let me explain. If you've ever met my sister, you might think she is the reason. But my mom is exactly the same. Having them around is like having two machine guns constantly going off except that instead of shooting bullets they are using words. Sometimes I'm not sure which one is worse. Kidding, I love my family. I might love them more if I invested in some ear plugs though.

No, I'm sorry. I know I got half this trait. I'm like a balance of my parents. Sometimes I won't tell you anything and sometimes you can't get me to shut up. Anyway, when my dad calls me our conversations last for four minutes max, unless he happens to get a business call on the other line and I have to wait for like minutes before either he comes back and says "hey, I have to take this, everything's okay with you? Okaygreatbye" or I get bored and hang up. When my mom calls, I have to clear my schedule for the next thirty minutes. At least. This is why I tend not to pick up her calls when I'm at work, in class, about to be in class, or studying. Or watching a tv show. Or movie. Or talking to my friends. Mostly I just call her when I'm walking somewhere or if I get left home alone. It's a pretty good system and usually works, unless my mom goes into Helicopter Mode and (as when I didn't pick up in Vegas) freaks out if I ignore a call. This often leads to text messages like this one from Iz while I was still in Vegas:

Hi moms worried call her back

Yeah, I didn't. Mostly because I read it at like 1 in the morning and was out of my mind drunk and I was like "wtf is this" and then fell asleep.

Or this one a few days later when I was taking a nap and ignored another call:

Mom asked me if anything is wrong with you and I said no.. And then she's like if somethings wrong you have to tell me >:O hmm?? And I was like there's nothing I dunno!! And she sighed a big one

And then later that night my mom reinforced the message with a text of her own:

Hi, baby, i wish you are doing good, if you got any problem, must let me know, ok? Love you!

And of course the whole "love you" thing stabbed me in the heart like a stake of guilt, so when I replied I was very, very assuring and only slightly annoyed as evidenced by my heavy use of exclamation marks, though I did soften it with a smiley:

Hi mommy, I'm fine!! Stop worrying! Just my last few days here so I'm seeing all my friends before I leave :) ok? See you soon!!

But I mean it was effective, because I got this in reply, and no phone calls for a good 12 hours or so:

Ok, that's good. Yeah, i think i worry too much. That's mom! :)

I guess it's kind of cute. And it's not like I totally ignore the calls on purpose, sometimes I just don't have the energy for the time and active listening this kind of phone call neccesitates. I hate talking on the phone but I guess my mom and sister don't have that problem.

But I totally went off course. My whole point is that as much listening as I need to do with them while I'm at school, it's a thousand times worse at home. Because there's two of them. And I think sometimes they team up on me.

For example, when I got off the airplane, Iz talked for like two hours straight. I'm serious, we went to get a late lunch and I'd already finished my pho (no easy feat, I was hungover and hadn't had a real meal in like 48 hours) and she still had a full bowl because she was way too busy chattering to eat. One of the things she told me about was how my mom had left watermelon slices in the sink overnight the other day by accident, and the next morning there were ants. Don't ask me the point of telling me that, the content of all our conversations are similar to this. But my point is my mom just came over (like literally five minutes ago) to tell me the exact same story. I'd given up trying to be polite about five years ago and whenever the beginning of a story sounds vaguely familiar, I try to quickly interject with "oh yeah, mom/Iz (depending on who's talking) told me already, haha!" This hardly ever works though, for example, this time my mom was like "oh, Iz told you? hahahah!" and then proceeded to retell the story in her own way, which was basically not very different from Iz's way. There are only so many ways to tell a story about watermelon slices in the sink.

And sometimes it's worse. Iz also told me a little 'story' about Poops' Chinese name and how hilarious it was that he wasn't sure what exactly it was and my mom spent like thirty minutes puzzling over it. Then when I got home, our mom attempted to tell me the same story, and Iz was there too, and I was like "oh yeah, Iz told me already, haha!" except before my mom could even have a chance to consider not telling the story, Iz said "ooh but I don't think I told it right! tell it again!" And of course the story was exactly the same.

Do you SEE what I have to deal with?? So yeah, if you're talking and I'm not listening, blame my family. Just don't try to talk to them about it. You'll never get off the phone.

When You Gave Birth to Your Baby Did You Know You Were Also Signing Away Your Sanity?

So uh, what's up with parents? Recently my sister ("Iz" -- what I used to call her when we were little and I had to yell her name so much I shortened it to just one syllable) had her boyfriend ("Poops" -- seriously, that's her affectionate nickname for him. I couldn't make this stuff up; the first time I heard it in public I just wanted to flee to where no one knew we were even remotely related) visit our family home and meet the parents for the first time.

Now, this is a significant moment in our family history because neither of us had ever introduced a boyfriend to our parents before. This isn't to say we haven't had any that they knew about (although we had many more they didn't know about), it was just the first time one of us voluntarily brought a boy home in this context.

Quick side trip down memory lane: when through a lot of high school drama my parents discovered the existence and identity of my then-boyfriend, they more or less tactfully suggested to me that he might be on drugs because they thought his eyes seemed constantly glazed over. Of course, they were right, but I couldn't tell them that. So, in a nutshell, that is the story of how I had to spend the latter half of of my high school career airing my clothes out so they wouldn't smell like weed.

Anyway, when Iz brought Poops home I expected my parents to be overjoyed that they were at last meeting at least one of their daughters' boyfriends. Not only that, but he was nice, went to a good school, and treated my sister as well as a college boy can treat his girlfriend. So imagine my surprise when I get a tearful text from my sister mere days before Poops' trip, telling me how our mom was not only unenthusiastic about the impending visit but was in fact beginning to complain that he would be staying in one of our bedrooms.

When I confronted my mom about this, she told me she had absolutely no curiosity regarding Poops, and that it was "too soon" for Iz to be serious enough about a guy to bring him home. When I told her she should be glad Iz was willing to share this part of her life with her family (as opposed to sneaking around town with druggies -- this part I didn't say out loud though, besides, that's all in the past, and I'm totally mature now, and drinking until I black out is totally different from thinking "quality time" with my boyfriend is lighting his bong for him when he smokes out), she tried turning the tables and asked when I was going to be introducing a boyfriend to the family. I hung up before the words "on my wedding day" could escape, and texted Iz to wish her luck.

Throughout the week of her boyfriend's visit I got occasional angry rant-texts from my sister, like this one:

Mom is ridiculous!!! I'm in my room showing [poops] my yearbooks and the door is wide open, mom walks by and asks why we are in a stuffy little room and not outside and I say cuz my yearbooks are too heavy to carry all the way into the living room so there's no point, a few min later she literally yells at me to come out and I'm like... okay... and after two seconds she yells again and is furious soooo annoying I don't understand her... are we really gonna be doing stuff while she's there...with the door wide open uhhh I'm 20 I think I can be in a room alone with a guy with my own judgement

or this one:
So [poops] threw away a bag of fruit his mom gave him cuz he said it rotted and mom fished it out of the trash can and told me [he] wastes food minus one point... kinda jokingly... psh! haha mom wishes you were home to babysit us

For the record I just want to say my mom is not usually insane, which is what makes her behavior all the more irrational.

Anyway the reason I even thought of all this was because I was talking to my friend Stuffin today, and the subject came up about his girlfriend's super protective parents and grandma, and this was our conversation:

Stuffin: she told her mom that I got her the [Tiffany's] bracelet
Stuffin: she didn't seem to care
Stuffin: hopefully they're warming up to me
Stuffin: I think her grandma did
Stuffin: but then she found out I don't speak Canto
Stuffin: now I think she hates me again
Me: HAHA

So really, what is it with parents? This is just one reason I never want to be one: I like my sanity intact, please. Also I don't think I could be off alcohol for nine months. But mostly the sanity thing.