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.

This Post is Gonna Be So Long You're Going to Be Sick of My Writing for a Good Three Weeks so Yay! It All Works Out.

Remember me? I'm sorry. I know -- yes, you have every right to be angry. It's just that things have been so hectic, and then -- of course I care about you, how can you ask that? I know I promised to write on -- but you should understand that they needed me to -- you know, have you ever thought that maybe it's you? Yeah, I said it. Maybe you're just not supportive enough and I couldn't feel like I could talk to you. So instead of pointing fingers, maybe you should take a long, deep look within yourself and -- oh, don't cry. Here, let's just call it even and forget everything, okay? And maybe make me a sandwich? Great, you're the best.

And that's how I would apologize if I were a boy.

But anyway, hello. Apparently I have this tradition (I'm going to call it a tradition instead of an unfortunate habit because that is the kind of denial positive thinking I am capable of) of not writing for a really long time and then feeling bad and putting up a ridiculously long and nonsensical post right before I leave the country.

So yeah, I'm leaving the country! My flight out is this Thursday, right after Mango's birthday tomorrow (happy birthday fool). It's like a fourteen hour flight to Korea (I wish so hard that I was exaggerating right now) and we'll be there for two to three days before making the shorter flight over to Taiwan. I'm not scared of flying at all, but sometimes I get a little claustrophobic in the stale cabin when it's going on hour eleven and my legs feel cramped no matter how much I am intruding into the personal space of the passenger in front of me, and I've already gone through the Sky Mall magazine twice, and made a third attempt to eat the congealed lasagna in front of me and OH GOD IF I DON'T GET OUT OF HERE I'M GOING TO THROW UP OR SHOOT MYSELF. Usually I just play the most soothing music I have and try to fall asleep. Sometimes I throw up.

So anyway, there's that to look forward to. I don't really know what I've been up to the last two weeks. I've definitely been enjoying my student pass to all the UCLA basketball games, and that might have something to do with all the tall, good-looking athletic guys because it sure isn't our 3-6 record that keeps me enthralled. Anyway, our student section is called The Den (because we're Bruins -- isn't that cute?) and they pass out a newsletter kind of thing at the beginning of each game debriefing us about who the opponent is. And there's this section called "The Dirt" where they trashtalk the other team and oh my god look at this one from a little while ago:

It's like they're personally attacking me. Also I'd like to meet this AJ guy. Also I don't know why my Paint made that stupid white erasey mark. Life hates me today and GUESS WHAT THE FEELING IS MUTUAL. Okay I might be PMSing (I bet you guys are like omg why does this girl get her period every other week? but sometimes it's not that, sometimes I'm just a bitch).

Also I spent a lot of time studying and a lot of time playing video games. Speaking of which, Mango has gotten into the habit of complaining that I've become "too girly." His comments are based on the dual facts that I occasionally roll some glitter around my eyes and that I seem to fall into an unbreakable kind of trance anytime I approach a store that even remotely looks like it could be selling some sort of clothing.

This second thing is nothing new though, if you have ever shopped with me you should know this. It's like I am some sort of homing device. The second I spot something of interest I will completely zone out my surroundings and make a beeline for whatever has caught my eye. I often lose my shopping companions by doing this. But it's not my fault they can't keep up, it's not like there's a rule against running in malls. I should know. But I guess it can be disconcerting to the people who accompany me; one second we are having a perfectly pleasant conversation about whether or not it is acceptable to wear black and brown together (it is not), and the next thing they see is a somewhat possessed gleam in my eye before I take off sprinting. Sometimes I don't return for days.

This is why I am looking so forward to shopping in Taiwan. It's like one huge Ross except everything is aimed at young women who like cute things oh my god it's heaven.

Well I mean there's also a lot of weird shiz. Like I remember when I went back years ago there was this really popular chain of stores decked out in bright neon lights that my childish eyes were immediately attracted to which would be a good marketing strategy except that the name of the store was "CONDOM WORLD" and they only sold one product (three guesses what it is -- although I'm sure there were many, many varieties of that one product).

Also trendy when I was last in Taiwan were black blinged out tshirts showing a giant middle finger wearing like three rings with silver chains around the wrists. And the silver chains were actual metal chains hanging off the tshirt. So it's really more of a pick-and-choose market.

But that was a long time ago. So long, in fact, that Iz and I weren't yet allowed to wear nail polish (I know, insanity right?) whereas this time I plan to bring back a small suitcase filled solely with metallic and sparkly bottles of awesome. Jesus, maybe Mango is right.

Something else I want to do in Taiwan is streak my hair purple and get a tongue ring. Only one of these will be accomplished, and I'll give you a hint as to which one -- my parents like the color purple much more than they like punching holes into any part of the body that is not an earlobe (and even then it gets at least three disapproving clicks of the tongue). I'm trying to console myself by thinking about how I can get my ears re-pierced (this is how lazy I am -- I lost two of my earrings and didn't put in more studs for months and then when I tried: lo and behold, piercings heal, and now I just have one piercing left [if you're good at math or at least didn't get flunked out of remedial addition then you know I was supposed to have three piercings] so I'm like some sort of weird lopsided earring pirate... you know, like instead of having one eye I just have one piercing? okay never mind) and so I can finally wear cute earrings again and Iz will stop asking if the one piercing I have is "on the gay side."

So there's that.

Since we're going to Korea and none of us know anything about Seoul except that all the girls have cancer and all the boys are in love with someone who is actually their biological sister separated from birth (unless you're saying Korean dramas aren't an accurate indicator of the country's societal norms?), my mom asked if I could look something up online so that we don't get lost and never return or accidentally purchase a life-size cow made of solid gold that costs more than our house in America is worth.

So then I googled something like "korea tourist guide" and the first result was for the wikitravel article on South Korea and I was very happy because I love wikipedia and then the second search result caught my eye and it was the wikitravel article on NORTH KOREA. So naturally I had to click that one first and this is what I found:

Click to enlarge and you better do it because look how hard I worked

Isn't that awesome and weird? And terrifying?

And then I went to the Seoul page and found out I would not be entirely safe in the south either:

I'm a little nervous about my trip.

Speaking of angry, it's come to my attention lately that certain people who will remain unnamed think that I am a really angry but well-dressed person who is sincere about wanting to stab everything in sight. So I feel like I should clear this up, and not just for future litigation purposes: I only want to stab half of what I talk about stabbing. Are we good now? Okay. I tried to explain to these people (actually it was just one but I don't want to single this person out but then I was like well I don't want people to think that there is just like a horde out there who doesn't understand me so yeah it's just one person) that "it's just my writing style" and the person was like, very skeptically, "I've never heard of the writing style stabby" and I was like "well maybe you should spend more time reading and less time suggesting I look into anger therapy, yeah?" And then we ended our conversation in a completely civil manner that involved no bloodshed. See how suppressed mature I am?

Okay so I'm grouchy and don't know what to wear tomorrow and my feet are cold and my cramps feel like a stampede of thirty pound centipedes wearing soccer cleats are doing a jig in my stupid UNNECESSARY uterus so I'm going to leave before anyone reading this gets too alarmed and tries to come put me down before I can cause any damage to my immediate vicinity.

One last thing. Happy 20th birthday to my favorite tropical fruit even though I'm slightly allergic to it:

This blog loves you and dinosaurs. More dinosaurs though.

I Hate Everybody and Not Being Able to Stab.

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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.

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.

Happy Birthday, Iz.

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

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

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

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

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

And..

1.
Two words: penis hat.


Happy birthday, Iz.

Laundry Day.

Hello, Monday.

I spent the weekend in San Diego and Irvine and I don't know really what to say about it, except that it was one of those weekends where you feel like you need to wash all your clothes afterwards.

So since I've been so busy lately doing laundry with school that I never get a chance to write here, I came up with the best idea I've had since that time I ordered Enzos at ten P.M. because obesity has been a goal of mine since childhood I was studying late into the night and needed nourishment.

So, consider this the grand unveiling of Pictures in Lieu of Words Because I Fail as an English Major and Captions are Much Easier and Faster to Write (PLWBIFEMCMEFW).

A hamburger-cake.

A close up of the hamburger-cake. This is how awesome it was. I love cake, I love hamburgers; one day I dream of eating a hamburger that tastes like cake.

Okay, so this picture is way back from the end of summer (this doesn't explain the expression on Iz's face, but then again, what can?) when our family drove one tiny car down to southern California with most of my and Iz's belongings. The car was crammed so full that stuff took up most of the backseat, and Iz and I were squished so closely she thought she was in heaven (this only makes sense to people who have experienced the clinginess that is my sister). So I guess maybe that expression is just a demonstration of her excitement at the thought of a six hour ride in close quarters.


OH MY GOD. My favorite souvenir from this weekend. Iz's friend ("Shaftsies" -- three guesses who came up with that nickname? Hint: not me) gave it to me as a "thank you" gift for going to my own sister's birthday dinner. If all family events were similarly rewarded, I would avoid my family a lot less. Then again, maybe not, some people would have a field day with my chocolate-enhanced figure.

Now I have to go collect my laundry from my bedroom floor. Our dryer apparently is confused as to what appliance it is and sucks like a vacuum cleaner so none of my clothes are dry and everything is spread out on sheets on my floor like I'm having some sort of strange underwear swap meet. I would put a picture of it here but I'm pretty sure it's a slippery slope from pictures of drying underwear to adult films or something like that.

The Sickness Didn't Kill Me, but My Life Might.

Hello, world wide web. I haven't been blogging lately because life has been sucking hard and I try to preserve the naivete of my poor innocent blog by shielding it from the big bad world of collegiate stress as much as possible. But yesterday was the last straw.

Let me tell you a little about the weeks leading up to this moment. Ever since class started, my life has been steadily spiraling downwards to the point where, when I fill my Eeyore thermos with mineral water every morning, I wistfully eye the half handle of Svedka in the fridge. But it hasn't quite gotten to the point of alcoholism (yet).

Instead, I've decided to fill my days with other worthwhile ambitions, like flyering for Prolit ("do you want to help children?" -- this was quickly shortened to "help children!" while I desperately shove the flyer into the passerby's hand; this strategy is alarming enough that it works up to 20% of the time), pretending I understand other English majors (how can one relate Curb Your Enthusiasm to Aristotle's Poetics to Soviet and Japanese productions of King Lear? Come to my senior seminar to find out!), to attending mandatory training sessions for volunteers working with minors (Powerpoint presentation: "try to limit your physical contact with children to high fives. No hugs! If absolutely necessary, side hugs only." Have you ever tried to high five a seven year old while she is sprinting toward you for a hug? I foresee this information causing more trouble than good), and desperately ransacking my apartment for food. It was the fruitlessness of this last endeavor that led me to a midnight rendezvous at Ralphs with Roro, Laycon and Mango. And that was where my weary spirit was dealt its last, crushing blow.




Now goodbye, cruel world.

Yellow is Not Mellow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who Needs Photoshop When You've Got Clipart?

So as you all must know, I am an extremely diligent worker at my prestigious summer job working with the University Apartments North office. Today I was honored with the task of creating an exciting new flyer informing the residents of an apartment building that their roof was about to undergo construction and that they should avoid the area until construction is complete.

This was the first draft.
Click to enlarge. And you better enlarge, I didn't waste all this time making it so that you could just glance over it and not read all the fine print.
Then I thought I would go with something more relatable to college students.
This is the second draft.
The text box is supposed to say "And donkeys and elephants will dislike you."
The animal clipart came up under my search for "party," so I really had no choice but to include it. With this draft the worry was that people might get confused and go to the roof in anticipation for a party rather than avoid it under penalty of potential injury. Also around this time I ran out of ideas so in my third draft I relied heavily on clipart.
And then I made the mistake of showing my bosses my masterpieces. Oh sure, they were all admiration and appreciative laughter, but when it came time to make a thousand copies to be distributed throughout the building, things suddenly weren't so funny anymore.
Oh they were nice enough, complimenting me on "thinking outside the box," and gently suggesting that my way with words (and clipart) might just be "too abstract for all the international students," but what it really all meant was just that MY FLYERS WERE REJECTED.

So this is what all my drafts led up to:

And then I was like, well someone has to appreciate all my hard work. So here it is. Let the compliments roll in, people. I'M WAITING.

A Lesson in Culture

So let me say right off the bat that the encouraging part of all this is that we ventured out on a burning hot afternoon in Southern California to make the journey to the museum in the first place.

Now that I've gotten that out the way, please don't judge us too harshly for this:



Me with a large thingie that I don't know anything about because I was too busy posing like it to read the description. I think it's Polynesian. Or something.



Or this:


Mango with a slightly less large thingie because he was too afraid to take a picture with the big one. Like he literally said, "Noo what if someone's hiding in it?" And it took some browbeating to get him in position. And then afterward he gave this huge all-body shudder and scampered out of there.

In a weak attempt at redemption I would like to introduce Exhibits A and B:

Exhibit A. Me trying to look thoughtful at the courtyard fountain. Convincing, no?


Exhibit B. I don't know why Mango's thoughtful pose has to be this full body production. He insisted.


Right. In closing, I would just like to apologize to every history professor or social studies teachers I've had. Sorry. Really.

Brazilian Wax, Korean BBQ and Chinese Karaoke-- how much more multicultural can you get?

Yesterday night was the last Friday all our friends would be in town for a while, so we decided to paint it red.

After work Teenerz and I had an appointment at a small studio for Brazilians. It was her first and my third, and when the lady found out she assumed I had gotten my previous two done at her place, and thanked me for the referral. It was awkward to deny her gratitude, and also I was secretly hoping for a thank-you discount, so I kind of just glossed over that moment. At least this supported my assurance to Teenerz that the wax wouldn't be embarassing or awkward because the lady "probably saw like a thousand of it a day and she's not going to remember yours." This belief was confirmed when I semi-disrobed and she didn't yell out "aha! I've never seen that before-- you didn't refer a friend at all!"
While lying on the table in a position very few people in the world have seen me in, I wondered what possessed me to go through this incredible painful ritual over and over. I mean, a waxed body feels nice in a streamlined, clean kind of way, but it wasn't something I couldn't live without --and I certainly had better ways to spend the $27. But even when my entire body convulsed off the table in a spasm of pain, I realized I'd probably be back. Maybe it's a mental disorder.

Next on the itinerary in this night of fun was the Korean BBQ buffet. Only one out of 9 of us there spoke Korean, and as he was sitting at the other table, Teenerz, Jamerz, Tony, Mango and I were left to fend for ourselves. The futility of our attempts at communication became clear when we asked for this:


Steamed egg that is simple but that I am in love with and tried to recreate with some success in my apartment using a wok as a steamer and four chopsticks as a makeshift steam rack. I was afraid the chopsticks would melt and create a poisonous fume but Mango pointed out that they were wooden. Also the fifth time I asked for a refill of this the waitress started laughing in a scornful manner, probably because she thought we were fools for filling up on egg and not meat. You'd think she'd be grateful.
It's empty because of its deliciousness.

and received this:



Some weird cabbage thing that we didn't even eat the first serving of before she gave us the second (larger) dish.


Also everytime we asked for garlic she brought us more meat.


The last thing about this restaurant -- I found out just today that their $2 "valet parking" is just a few rotating waiters illegally parking the cars streetside and running to move them when parking enforcement appears. How can you not love this place?

P.S. Thank you, Mango, for buying me dinner. I have yet to pay for a meal at this place and in my opinion that's the best way to eat.

Finally, we went to karaoke. It was an Asian karaoke bar, so none of the music videos were actual videos featuring the artist. Instead there would be random touristy shots of things like San Francisco, boats, a woman fixing a roof and swans. These are all real examples. The best video was for R. Kelly's "I Believe I Can Fly," which featured a young black boy alternately playing with a toy airplane in his room and flapping his arms in a flying motion on a grassy field.

After karaoke we squeezed seven of us into Jamerz' compact car -- I sat in the front seat with Teenerz crouching on the floor, and the four guys sat in the back -- and slowly chugged home. It was a good night.