Two Valentine's Day Plays

Play 1: For the Love of a Car

Scene 1

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

Scene 2

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

CCB Rep: Alright, bring it in.

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

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

Scene 3

Text messages.

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

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

Brian: Maybe you should text Carlos.

Scene 4

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

Text messages.

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

Carlos: Sure, bring it in.

Scene 5

Phone call.

Brian: My car will be ready at 7.

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

Brian: Sixty dollars.

Carolyn: I love Carlos.

Brian: Me too.

Play 2: You Make My Heart Fly

Scene 1

Sunday, February 13th. Morning. Text message.

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

Dad: Got it!

Scene 2

Sunday, February 13th. Early afternoon.

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

Mom: Oh, really?

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

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

Scene 3

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

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

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

Mom: What are you doing?

Dad: Should I get these for you?

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

Scene 4

Phone conversation.

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

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.

I Totally Take Back What I Said About Pictures Being Easier to Blog.

Hello hello. So I realized that I'm going to have four papers due within a span of about seven days for a total of maybe forty pages? Of original thought. So that sucks. Anyway, I'm going to save all my words for schoolwork so here are some pictures courtesy of my iPhone and Microsoft Paint.
Not sure what this guy was doing on campus. Not giving out free samples, that's for sure. I checked.

So for Jenn's birthday we went to Medieval Times and it was awesome because I'm pretty sure that makes me a princess. A classy one, as you can tell from our napkin menu bill of fare.
That guy is our host/chancellor. He was tall and pretty good looking and there were a bunch of girls there who'd been patronizing the bar and they were flocking around him like crazy. I wasn't one of them. Just to clear that up. I did bring a flask though (not pictured).
They had these knights assigned to each section. Ours was yellow. He lost though.
Probably no explanation necessary.


On Jenn's actual birthday her boyfriend and sister and best friend brought over some ice cream cake. For some reason we let the Y put the candles on.



At the basketball game last week Mango pointed out how they seemed to have buffed up Joe Bruin over the summer. We think they just stuffed extra padding onto the original costume. Either that or steroids.

Oh my goshhh so when we entered Pauley at the start of the game they had these raffle slips for students to fill out, and there was one that if you were chosen you could try to make these shots during halftime to win prizes. AND THEY PICKED MANGO! And he totally refused to go up, even though they broadcast his name like thirty times and had it up on the big screen and everything. He's so going to regret this forever.

Aren't these cute? If anyone ever has to give me a perishable token of their affection I hope it comes in puppy form.

That's all. I hope you enjoyed this because it seriously took me forever to get these pictures to this level of awesome and then I kept accidentally deleting shiz and I was this close to just throwing my computer out the window but instead I powered through it like a real trooper. You're welcome.

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.

I Don't Think I'll Ever Have to Kill Myself, Someone Will Probably Do It For Me.

So I've been listening to music a lot lately. It's because it's midterm season, and I'm sitting in front of my computer or a book all day long and it's either play something catchy or go buy a handgun and blow my brains out. No, I'm sorry. I realize I've been using a lot of suicide imagery lately and I agree with you that it's in very bad taste. Rest assured, my head is completely intact. You can refer to that picture on the right there to replace your mental image of a skull cracked open like a watermelon. Jesus, I'm doing it again.

Okay, let's start over.

So I've been listening to music a lot lately. And my top two choices today are "Empire State of Mind" by Jay-Z or "Get U Home" by Shwayze (hey, I never claimed to have a good taste in music. Unless you like these songs too. In that case, high five!).

So anyway, "Empire State of Mind' kind of makes me think about stuff. Well, the other song does too, but it's about exactly what it sounds like it's about (sample lyric: "make love to me up against somebody's car") and as much as I'm sure you guys want all the dirty details of my sex life, I'm not going to be writing about that. At least not until the next time I get wasted and decide it would be a REALLY! GOOD! IDEA! TO! BLOG! I'm an excited drunk.

So "Empire State of Mind" is about New York City, if you haven't already guessed/heard the song. Which made me think about New York City. I know, my brain is a mystery. I've been to the east coast before, to Washington D.C. (which I loved.. it was so bustling and bureaucratic, plus I once read a love story about a girl who ran a book store in Boston and was swept off her feet by a dashing lawyer, and I'm like OH MY GOSH I COULD RUN A BOOK STORE! and I realize that Boston is not Washington D.C. but for some reason I feel they are similar; also there are like museums every five steps and hot dog vendors every three and that is like combining two of my great loves), but I've never been to New York. Which I guess is weird, because I've been to San Francisco and Los Angeles of course and Beijing and Shanghai and Taipei and Tokyo and Paris and London and Rome and Venice and if I list any more cities I'm going to sound like some sort of travel braggart, but my point is you'd think I would've gone to the Big Apple by now. Or at least my family would have, since we are so big on traveling.

But we haven't, and I think there are a couple of reasons for that. First of all, it's very expensive. Like have you seen those emails or whatever, where they say what a certain amount of money a night could get you in different parts of the world? You could buy a villa in Thailand with the kind of money it'd take for you to rent out a dirty bathroom in some drug dealer's apartment in New York.

Wow, I'm sorry. I don't know why I have such a negative image of NYC. I have nothing against it, I swear. And I know a lot of people love it. I guess I just feel like it's very cold and dirty and everyone's skinny and wears black, and that is like a cocktail mix of everything that is anti my ideal living environment. Like, I would love living somewhere where it's sunny and clean and everyone's round and colorful. Oh my god I want to be a Teletubby.

Well I don't know how I can possibly recover from that, so I'm just going to end this right now.

You Were Warned.

So let me just say right now that if you value yourself at all you will not continue reading this. Because it's going to be long and rambling and, above all, angry. Because I am pissed. You can tell when my sentences get all fragmented that something else is going to get fragmented, and it'll probably be a bowl or someone's skull, if that someone were foolhardy enough to mess with me right now.

Yesterday I was taking a break from killing zombies and looking through my blog when Mango's roommate Maaron glanced over.

"What is that?" he asked.
"Uhm, my blog."
"I know that," he said, "but what's the point? Do people even read it?"

Now, if he had been a zombie asking that sort of impertinent question, I would have blown his head off with a trench gun. But since he has a soul (as far as I know) and his flesh isn't decaying off his body, I just gave him a dirty look.

"Uh, yes."
"Please," he continued, blithely unaware of the imminent danger he was in, "how many? Like five people?"
"EXCUSE ME," I replied, "MORE LIKE EIGHT."

But that's not the point (it's not why I'm mad now either). The point is that I don't know why I was all defending the readership of my blog. I mean clearly I think it's cool when people read what I write, but mostly I'm writing because I have this slightly neurotic fear that I'll forget everything if I don't write it down. Like I only have snapshots of memory from elementary school and that freaks me the eff out because come on, I'm 21 and I can't remember the third grade? Yeah. Thus my little self-prescribed mission to preserve my youth on blogspot. I hope this website has good technicians or whatever because if it ever crashes and wipes everything out there goes my entire past, and I don't think they'd want that on their hands. I'm like an android.

Jesus, where was I?

Anyway, what this post really is about is love. More specifically, about how love sucks and/or doesn't exist. Okay, I told you not to read this. If you're going to start crying you should really just leave now. I'm pretty sure it's all downhill from here.

When I was little I had this totally concrete idea about my perfect guy. In middle school I had it down to the color of his eyes (green; grey was also acceptable), his family background (he was an orphan or estranged from his parents), and of course, his personality. He was this total tough guy, kind of a thug actually. He would be sarcastic and a little mean and very in control. I think I read too many gang novels where, you know, that one nice girl could turn a gangster into a doting boyfriend and upstanding citizen. Anyway, now that I'm older I realize that my 'perfect guy' in middle school would, in real life, have with several warehouses full of baggage and probably be borderline abusive.

So that went out the window and I was kind of left to drift. I dated guys I would never have imagined myself with, mostly guys I couldn't see a future with. And I didn't really mind at all. I mean, if I had met that one guy with whom I could (god forbid) see children or wedding bells (hopefully not in that order), I probably would have driven the relationship straight into the ground using only the sheer force of my temper. It's kind of my specialty.

As it is, though, no prince has ridden up waving an obscenely large emerald ring and promising to cook for me for the rest of our lives (never using onions, eggplant or raw tomatoes, of course), bring me wet cloths when I'm sick or tell me my singing is cute and not horrendous.

So thanks to his taking his sweet time, I'm left to fend for myself out in the dating world. And it sucks. First of all, I'm not a real big dater. I kind of hate it, actually. Dates bore me, and plus they're kind of awkward because you know it's a date, and it's so hard to get to know someone when you're alternately wondering if you are making a good impression and when you can go home and put on your sweats. It's much better when you like someone, and you know they like you, and then you do something silly together like make root beer floats and have an Arrested Development marathon. In your sweats.

Okay, so I'm a loser, but I'm a comfortable loser. So that's one reason I'm mad. Because I have the sneaking suspicion that I'm a grown-up now, and I'm eventually going to have to go on grown-up dates, and I hate that.

And you know what else I hate? And I'm not saying this applies to me personally right now or anything but GOD I HATE IT IT MAKES ME SO MAD. Sorry, it just came out. I hate it when you can't be with someone who you want to be with.

Like, if I were Rachel McAdams in The Notebook and my parents dragged me out of town and I didn't hear from Ryan Gosling for seven years I would have razed the town of Savannah or New York or wherever she was (actually, it was New York for college and then Savannah, where she was getting ready to be married. Have I mentioned it's my favorite movie?) Or if I were Nicole Kidman and I had to pretend I didn't love Ewan McGregor anymore because I had tuberculosis or "consumption" or whatever, I would've torn the windmill right off of the Moulin Rouge.

But sometimes it's not an obstacle as easily overcome as protective parents or a fatal illness. Sometimes it's more than that, or less than that, or (in what I'd imagine to be the worst cases) the other person. And there's nothing you can do about that. Because no matter how many major metropolitan cities you threaten to destroy, you can't make that person like you, or at least not enough to take you out for ice cream or watch Titanic with you on rainy nights, I'm pretty sure. To be honest, you'll probably just scare him/her off further with your displays of violence. You should really get your anger problems checked out. But enough about you. Back to me.

So yeah, I'm angry today. It's one of those days where it doesn't really feel like things work out for good people, or that no matter how compassionate, sympathetic, helpful, optimistic and well-dressed you try to be, life is going to kick you in the face with a muddy boot and then leave your doors open on its way out so that a fly gets in and you can't open the windows to let it escape because it's pouring outside (that's how the boot got muddy) but you're not fast enough to kill it, probably because you are still recovering from that attack on your face, which, by the way, is probably going to leave a scar that will have kids calling you "Harry Potter" for the rest of your life. Yeah, one of those days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reason #2384971 Not to Have Children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

10 Things I Learned in Vegas (Mostly About the Properties of Rum)

1. Rum will fuck you up. Bad. Seriously, you will be drunk for seven hours and then black out for like a day and a half and wake up back in your own room feeling weak and having trouble typing when you try to update your blog.

2. This is not necessarily a bad thing. After all, you had a great time in Vegas. If only you could remember it. Did you even go? Whatever. Someone had a great time. It was probably you.

3. When you go to a Vons in Vegas on an alcohol-buying expedition (because waiting for a cocktail waitress to bring you one vodka tonic at a time is too time consuming, even if it is free) and type in your rewards number and the check-out guy asks how you pronounce your last name and you say "Wang," he'll snicker but you can't do anything about it because he's probably part of the Vegas mob, like those guys who beat up that cute guy in the movie 21.

4. In the rare moments that you are sober you and all the friends you are with will think that there needs to be some excuse to drink excessively, so you will all drive around in the 100 degree Vegas heat looking for a sports store to buy ping pong balls for beer pong, and after two hours you'll finally find a Wal-Mart and get them, and then you'll go back to the hotel room and start taking straight shots of rum and suddenly no one can find the ping pong balls, much less have enough coordination to rearrange any furniture.

5. And you will all be so messed up you forget the ping pong balls in the hotel room the next day, and on the ride home you'll wonder if you're in a stoner movie.

6. If you work in an office that also happens to contract out a nice older gentleman who doesn't mind hanging out with a bunch of drunk kids, then you will get to hang out in his Four Seasons hotel suite, which is apparently at the top of the Mandalay Bay hotel, and you will be so impressed by the view that you start drinking until you can't see it anymore.

7. Also Four Seasons hotel suites have a total of three (count 'em, three!) sinks, and if you fill these along with the ice bucket full of ice, then you will have enough cold space to store a bottle of rum and 32 cans of beer.

8. And between the four of you, you will finish 21 cans of beer in an hour and a half, although that's not really a fair way to break it down because you only had four, and one guy had like fifteen, but that might not really be his fault because according to sources the next day you kept opening beer bottles because you liked the sound when it popped, and you'd drink like two sips and pass them to him.

9. Apparently public drunkeness is not a crime in Nevada. And neither is walking around with uncovered alcohol. And this is good because you've found out that when you're drunk you totally don't need food and can get by on one real meal and roughly 300 shots of rum. It's practically like you made money by going to Vegas.

10. You love Vegas.

Marriage Made in My Confusion.

Yesterday Mango and I were perusing the stationery department of the UCLA store when I came across something that was simultaneously delightful and worrying.

OUR SCHOOL IS SELLING ED HARDY STUFF!

Let me back up a little. I have a love-hate relationship with Ed Hardy. I love the tattoo-inspired style, I hate the heavy use of skulls. I love the "love kills slowly" slogan, I hate how emo it sounds. I love the colors, I hate the exorbitant prices. (Side note: I once saw an "Ed Hardy" stand at a Hawaiian swap meet-- the Ed Hardy is in quotations because while I was browsing the owner of the stand came over to inform me that his products were all fakes. Encouraged, I inquired about the prices. Apparently Ed Hardy knock-offs are still out of my budget.)

So when I saw the Ed Hardy notebooks, binders and pencil boxes, I wasn't sure what to think. But I soon realized that the prices (everything under $10? who are you and what have you done with Ed?) were actually ... well, reasonable. My bitterness evaporated. I was ready to purchase.

That is, until I slowed down and looked at the pencil box in my hand. I felt a sneaking suspicion. "Mango," I called to where he was slowly inching towards the electronics. "Mango, what does this remind you of?"

"Uhm," he said nervously, one eye on the bright purple and pink in my hand and one eye on sweet escape in the form of manly technology. "Nothing. Ed Hardy?"

"No," I said grimly. "This looks like Lisa Frank. Remember Lisa Frank? All those sparkly stickers little girls had in the '90s?"

"No," Mango said, confused. "I wasn't a little girl in the '90s."

I waved him away. As much as I was eager to actually make an Ed Hardy purchase for the first time in my life, I felt.. reluctant. Why was this pencil box so glaringly pink? Why did it have equally bright purple accents? Why did I feel that if I bought this I should also remember to bring a check for the lunch lady and put on my sticker earrings?

I was in a pickle. I spent the next five minutes glumly contemplating the fate of my $7 and the sparkling new pencil box in front of me. As I was giving it one last one-over, I made a discovery.

"Mango!" I shrieked. "Mango, come here!" He sprinted over. "What's wrong?" he asked worriedly.
"Look at this!" I shoved the Ed Hardy pencil box under his nose. "Look! IT SAYS LISA FRANK. RIGHT NEXT TO THE ED HARDY LOGO. WHAT DID I TELL YOU?"
Mango did not have a satisfactory response. He gave me a look of mixed confusion and annoyance and meandered away.

So now I am here, letting off steam and wondering WHAT ED HARDY IS DOING. First advertising on the back of a recently divorced father of eight who spends his days ho-ing around on boats, and now making products aimed at tween girls, the same demographic that created the menace that is Twilight?

Come on, Ed. I stuck with you throughout the realization that a lot of people think "Ed Hardy" is another name for "supreme d-bag,"and throughout your "sales" that marked tshirts down from $150 to a mere $75. I even generously overlooked the fact that I don't relate to or even like most of the other people who wear your clothing. I thought it could be different with me. I thought I could pull off your brand without seeming lame. But this? This might be the last straw.

I am a loyal if poor consumer but even I'm starting to be glad I can't afford any of your stuff.

Imposter Alert. Sort of.

I recently gave a friend the link to this blog. Like literally copied and pasted the link into her chat window. Somehow this happened:

Friend: Weird.
Friend: I clicked on the thing you typed
Friend: and it brought me to a blog named
Friend: seven
Friend: instead
Me: What?
Friend: and it's only post is
Friend: TUESDAY, APRIL 10, 2001
I roll wit catz wit iced-out headbandz wit loose bracketz.That'z how I got KNOW-LEDGE.
droppin Jewelz

I was vaguely alarmed at this mysterious blog intercepting my traffic. I went to see it for myself and what I saw only slightly cleared things up. The blog was entitled "SEVEN CIPHER: Freestyle Rhymez and Poetry."

So not only does this seven cipher guy get direct access through my link, but he gets to roll with cats with iced-out headbands with loose brackets. Life is so unfair.

Literally a Crappy Day.

My day thus far can be summed up in one sentence: "SOMETHING POOPED ON MY ICE CREAM."

This is how it came about.

I got to work today planning to take lunch at 12 noon. It was my usual time, and I had made plans with Mango to get free yogurt (our school newspaper had coupons, and we had gathered about half a dozen copies -- our living room table was currently covered in unread Daily Bruins). Through an unfortunate series of miscommunications, my lunchtime was shifted to the 1:00 spot. I was unhappy. I was close to throwing what Teenerz would call a BF. Only remembering that I was neither a child nor a diva (not to mention the fact that I desperately need the income this job generates) kept the bitch fit from erupting. Also I would like to cling to my dignity for as long as possible -- at least until I go to Vegas with my coworkers next week.

With that said, I was resigned to my fate. I allowed my coworker to cajole me into walking down to get ice cream. Despite reservations (weight, money, what else is new?) I got a single scoop of Medieval Madness. I was on my way to being content, even happy. Then what happens? SOMETHING POOPS ON MY ICE CREAM.

The worst part is I don't even know what did it. The.. substance was brown, and my coworker swore it looked more like tree sap than bird feces (perhaps a self-serving belief, as it splattered onto his shirt and pants after terrorizing my ice cream) but I had my doubts. Especially since it happened in the middle of a crosswalk, and there would have had to be a mighty breeze to carry one glop of sap all the way to where we were.

The bright side of all this is that hopefully the day will only get better. I mean, as soon as I go wash my hands.