I MOVED!!

NOW YOU CAN FIND ME HERE. THAT IS ALL. Sorry for the betrayal. You will get used to it. I promise.

too busy

to blog. Too busy enjoying this other person's blog alot. I also suggest reading everything in their right hand side panel - most specifically "God of Cake". Have fun!!

If you are still bored and still mad at me for not taking the time out of my busy schedule to go to the gym or to write to you, unleash your ill will. Be fooled not by his squirrelly appearance, he is the love of my life...or maybe the goth chick is. Can't really decide.

P.S. I hate having to go places that make me feel like I'm in the 90's. (#Kinkos/FedEx and Car Dealership in Kearny Mesa) THEY SUFFOCATE.

Really? An IBM computer and fax machines? UGH.

P.P.S. I might soon be expanding my sloredom by transforming this blog into a Tumblr because everyone tells me that no one reads blogs. I'm starting to believe them. STRESS.

P.P.P.S. I APOLOGIZE FOR ALL THE CAPS AT THE END OF EACH POSTSCRIPT.

I'm a slore.

The time has finally come to admit why I have been avoiding my band of loyal followers (even though I have no idea if you are a band, much less loyal in the sense of the Robin Hood brotherhood I like to imagine). The reason is this - I am a slore. I am an iPhone slore, and I would be much more proud of this fact if it didn't make me a lying slore. (slut+whore-ut-wh = slore) If any of you are of the Robin Hood brethren, you would notice that back in January one of my first posts was bitching about the iPhone 4 for Verizion and Steve Jobs's general douchebaggery. Well, that douchebag is now getting 30 bucks a month for me to text like its an IM convo from 2003, and to take pictures of myself like it ain't no thang.

Also, weirdly enough, my email is faster on my phone than my computer. (Perceived obsolescence on my brand new MacBook Pro...)

If you must know, the reason I caved was because I desperately needed the NYC Transit app (which tells you what train is coming when from what station, walking directions to/from any station to your destination and a route map overlaid on a map of the city that shows you where you are even when you don't have service. #iPhoneisamazingI'msorryfordoubting. ("Please tell me you did not just twitter tag a text..." yeah, I started doing that even though I still hate Twitter. Need not jump on the band wagon to play with their literary toys!) Why a $3.99 app was worth the $299 phone I'm not positive, it just seemed like the right time to end my tumultuous affair with the enVy 1, 3, and 2 (in that order) phones after a 5 year run.

Subsequent to my most recent apple purchase and my entrance into the cult of "my iPhone is my baby", I'm having nightmares about shattering the screen. Good news is that I've only dropped the baby on it's head once since I got it for my birthday.

The iPhone's only faults are that I can't untag pics from Facebook, blogging is difficult for my gigantor digits, and that it is related to the iPad.

P.S. EveryoneIsGay.

Postdated from the UK. Missed Y'all!

Circa July 6th:

Contrary to my prior assumptions, I did in fact make it across the pond. I am currently sitting in the kitchen of my "Home Exchange" buddy's house, drinking instant coffee (they only believe in tea around these parts) and mourning the last 4 hours I spent laying in bed awake.

A few things I've picked up on thus far:

1. British English is not the same language as American English.

2. Brits spell things differently to suit their accents (ex. tons = tonnes, Claritin = Claritynn, etc.)

3. Searches are difficult when things are called something completely different than what they are (i.e. grocery cart = trolley)

4. It rains in London...always. Ads in the US that celebrate the arrival of sunny days and fireworks alike read, "Make the most of Summer" here. This seemed odd to me until I couldn't leave the house without a jacket, scarf, and umbrella yesterday.

5. The food here is almost unrecognizable. Everything is drowned in salt and margarine, so I have resorted to fruit, salad, bread, and wine. Wish me luck!

6. I like American teeth. I like them white, shiny, and in a line - that is all.

7. They will put anything and anyone on TV here. While they mostly air American shows (Will & Grace, 16 & Pregnant, etc.) their British remakes or originals are downright jarring. My personal favorite thus far "Embarrassing Bodies: Teen Edition"gave no warning, nor the polite 'Cops' blur out before full blown (no pun intended) infected genitals were shoved in my face. Lovely.

Thats all so far from good ol' London Town, but today we plan to visit my namesake, the Tate Modern (did I mention no one asks me to spell my name here? Rather pleasant) and I could't be more thrilled to ride the Tube like a proper Londoner. Cheers!

Circa July 15th:

it's been quite some time. I've been in London etc. and CANNOT wait to get home. I miss real food, the sun, and most importantly, my people.

The 'tube' here (the underground rail) has been practically idiot proofed for foreigners and residents alike. The maps are color-coded, clear, concise, and a lady with a lovely British accent announces each stop, what trains are available for transfer at that stop etc. Because of all this convenience, I hate it. It takes ages to know where the hell you are going on the NYC subway, and therefore only the deserving and the sharp-witted can handle the beast. Also, London has sacrificed efficiency in favor of politeness - which is a trend that extends far past the walls of the tube.

New York gives a big middle finger to tourism, and stupid people alike - which is precisely why I miss it. The entire time I've been in London it's felt like Disneyland. Terrible fried food, fat people, rides, lots of pleases and thank you's, and almost nothing of substance. Changing of the guards at Buckingham palace was a D-Land parade if I've ever seen one.

Also, I'm not sure why people complain so much about American's being fat, when I can now tell that it is genetic. Our fore bearers, the 'great' Brits, are the same, super-sized tubs of lard we are, just with a side of mayonnaise.

The most redeeming aspect of the British society is that they recognize the value of American television, and play Friends reruns in a continuous loop on channel 4. Ugh, I know. Stuck up American. COME AT ME BRO. All I want is to talk to someone with all their teeth and hair (the two seem to be an either/or thing here.)

Gotta love the lezzies

In honor of my most recent exit row mates, the Teva lesbians, and the hell that is the Phoenix airport - I bring you lesbians who look like Justin Bieber :) http://lesbianswholooklikejustinbieber.tumblr.com/

I will also soon be brining strep throat to the UK...I'll update you from my Philly lay over this time tomorrow!

Airport Living

I remember why I hate Arizona. More than tourists, more than crowded San Diego beaches – the state itself enrages me. First off, everyone who works at the airport was actually born in this country – I’m already out of my element. (Yay state legislature). Lady with a baby (questionably with one on the way to boot) in the smoking section. Most people are too unassumingly nice for their own good. The asian guy on the plane next to me actually spoke english, and the Einstein Bagel people stopped to have a 5 minute conversation with a little boy only after checking 12 times if everyone waiting around had been helped. Try getting that service in California. Scratch that: try even getting the Starbucks order you already paid for in California. The only person who wasn’t unassumingly nice was wearing a Yankees cap and didn’t think I would notice him watching me eat my sandwich. Go figure.

I really wish I were one of those people who are easygoing travelers. I am instead, one of those people who is in a bad mood at the airport for no reason in particular. I am simply put out by the thought of airplane travel. It’s not that I’m not good at it, it’s just that I would rather hitchhike. I have nightmares about airplane claustrophobia, am highly skeptical of the new security body scan x-rays, and have a general distaste for lines and the invasion of my personal space. I hate how my skin gets oily and my hair gets static, and the way the seats are so damn close together even my butt falls asleep by the end of the flight, no matter what.

Last but not least, people always joke about airplane food – but can anyone do something about airport food? I’m sick of the same things in every terminal across America – Burger King, Chili’s Too, and Cinnabon. NO WONDER EVERYONE IS FAT. Not to mention all the “real” Mexican food advertised in this airport, served by white people. Get me to hawaii with my gays, ASAP!

who knew...

...that a bad pick up line could become the theme for a whole night?

I realize it's been a while, so let me catch you up. Graduated about a week and a half ago. Loving life as a quasi-adult. Went to say hi to a friend up the street at Mitch's Surf Shop on my way to getting my graduation present (a really cool clear Marc Jacob's watch) fixed (needed some links taken out for my baby wrist). Lucky me, knowing everyone to ever be employed at Mitch's payed off and I was saved the inconvenience of a jeweler...but not before I was greeted properly by the staff.

As I walk in to the store - no makeup, hair up, flip flops - I hear from behind the counter "Comin' in hot." I paused briefly to ponder whether or not this is my cue to finish the rest of the overplayed P!nk song, and realized that it was merely an unfortunate pickup line. I look up to see a strange facial dichotomy of overgrown goatee and braces (I swear adult braces are following me everywhere). Baffled as to what my next move should be, I folded and put away a shirt that was on the counter. They really should have hired me when they had the chance.

Anyway, later that night I am sitting at the Living Room (I hang out there way too much as it is the only place in La Jolla that stays open past 10 pm) and Kimball announces that he is "nearby on his hog". I tell the table that we have more people "comin' in hot on the hog". Little did I know that "comin' in hot" was the greatest gift adult braces Steve could have given me today. It is now not only a party term, hookup term, and transport term, but actually was made a reality when Kimball and I skidded into the In N' Out parking lot at 11:30. Literally, comin' in hot. Thank you, Steve.

Apoca-lame

Using the fact that I am typing this as evidence that the world did not end yesterday at approximately 6 pm (Harold Camping never did mention if that was Pacific or Eastern Standard Time) - life goes on.

The day after the apocalypse I went to the grocery store, wore a yankees cap, and got some dirty looks. Nothing out of the ordinary. I feel like everyone should at least try to make this triumph over Christian extremism a little more special for each other. Is everyone really that disappointed we didn't perish in some shitstorm yesterday?

On May 21, I counted down impending doom; predicting a warm shower of meteoroids through the overcast San Diego sky, after ruling out the possibility of death by tidal wave, considering the coastline appeared normal. After I deciphered safety had arrived in the form of 6:02 pm on my phone clock (does anyone actually have a watch these days?) I ate some sushi off a miniature boat in a whirlpool moat at a bar. (Yay, cheap Japanese food).

In the hours leading up to what I ironically anticipated as the end of humanity (and my sushi date), I listened to my favorite R.E.M. song, cringed at the thought of becoming an Alien sex slave, and realized - the apocalypse wouldn't be the worst thing.

This is for a few reasons.

A) Selfishly, because at this moment in time (mere days away from graduation), I am full of nothing but hope and potential - and as any daytime sitcom will tell you, my life can only go south from here. Bad weather, a dead-end job, and an inexplicably fat, yet lovable husband. If this is truly what I'm looking at, this is the best possible time to go up in flames.

B) I don't believe in hell. (I said a fearful "just kidding" to the ceiling for each time I discussed the joke that is organized religion yesterday, but I'm confident in my findings today). Even if there was a hell, all my friends are going down with me, and if anyone could make it a party out of it, it's us.

C) If 2% of the world's population (theoretically the most devout Christians) really did get raptured into the sky, that also would be awesome. Those people are nuts (i.e. Harold Camping) - and the rest of the world would have a little more breathing room.

In all, I'm glad we're all (well, most of us anyway) still alive today. Should we learn anything, it is not to listen to cult leaders. But hell, what do I know?

DDS

I hate the dentist. I hate the dentist so much I didn't go for a year. I hate the dentist so much I have three cavities.

Today, a week after my first routine check-up in a year, I got a cavity filled. Just one of the three. They like to spread these things out at Dr. Patel's office.

When I say 'I got a cavity filled' it sounds like a routine procedure. Let me assure you, today was anything but routine. I waited for my dentist, an ambiguously aged Indian man who insists on spiking the hair above his forehead, even though it is four inches too long for this purpose. You know you are too old to spike your hair when there are visible grays.

He waltzes in after causing what only sounded like innumerable pain in the office to my right, and without much warning jammed a HUGE needle into my lower jaw.

Oh, hi. Didn't see you there. Oh, you're gonna keep that in there for a minute? Gotta jiggle my cheek to make sure you get it deep enough in there? Sweet. I'll just be here waiting for you to take it out. No, no, take your time. It's no problem, really.

He disappears as quickly as he arrived with a quick "Sorry!"

I proceed to have a panic attack and uncontrollable tears roll down my face as I imagine the horrors that await me once he comes back to feed upon the poor tooth he just paralyzed. I'm done for. The loop of anxiety overtakes me: He is going to fill a cavity. OH MY GOD he is going to drill in my mouth. Okay, think about something else. Something else. WHY CAN'T I THINK OF ANYTHING ELSE. It's just a cavity; people do this all the time. OH MY GOD HE IS GOING TO DRILL IN MY MOUTH.

Suddenly, the incredibly nice secretary shows up (she likely heard my sobs from down the hall) and asks me if I want her to turn the air on, or if I would like some soda. How can she think of room temperature at a time like this? What does soda have to do with anything? I'm not overheating, I'm simply having a panic attack.

Although her adult braces made me uncomfortable (adult-anything for that matter, is disastrous. Adult acne, adult onset diabetes, you name it), I was not about to be rude to her, so I let her turn on the air conditioning. This mistake is what caught me up in a feverish dance of indecisiveness. Was I overheating? Sure. Sweatshirt off. Shivers. Well, I guess it's too cold to overheat. Sweatshirt on. Why am I sweating? And so on...

Finally, he returns. I have just gotten my tears under control and the left side of my face is sufficiently numb when he drills away like a happy little dwarf mining rubies. Like all anxiously anticipated events, the actual drilling was far less traumatic than my 20 minutes of incessant blubbering - which lead me to the sad realization that at age 18 I am still not fit to visit the dentist on my own.

As I was leaving, someone mentioned to me that I needed to book an appointment for my next two cavities to be filled.

"You better give me drugs next time unless you want another scene like that!"

Heigh ho, heigh ho! Off to kill Tate we go...

Manorexia. A real thing?

"Dude I totally have workout bulimia."

"I did the Master Cleanse for 20 days once. I dropped like 10 lbs."

"Ugh that Chinese food was so much. I so wish I could throw up right now."

"Our diet starts tomorrow. I swear to god all we are gonna do is run."

"Could we go on a fruit and vegetable cleanse to start our group diet?"

"I wanna drop 40 lbs by the end of summer. They did way more than that on 'I Used To Be Fat."

The above quotes, believe it or not, are from a session spent in my friend's "cave", the basement hangout at their house. Yes, we spent a solid 45 minutes, including the walk we went on, conversing solely our respective weights and fitness goals. The methods among teenagers range from actively unproductive to extreme dieting - did I forget to mention the friends I was with were guys?

I understand guys wanting to "get big" - in their words - but to borrow tips from the eating disordered teenage girls next door and trying the get-thin-quick cleanses popular among housewives seems to go a bit far. Honestly, this conversation would never occur between two straight 18 year old men in any other place than Southern California. Living in the land of year-long beach weather has made us all a little neurotic about out appearances, I just never thought in escaping my girlfriends for an afternoon I would face the same conversations.

Case in point, Dennis Quaid of Hollywood, California's true state capitol:http://www.clickorlando.com/news/7965067/detail.html

Slick up your pick up

For some reason, the voice of one little foreign guy at last nights party keeps echoing in my head. "Do you know where Chile is?" He followed me around and asked me this about 12 times before I caught a ride home. The first time he asked it went like this (parenthetical references hold what I wish I had said to preempt further questioning):

"Do you know where Chile is?"

"The country (why, are you trying to get home)?"

"Yeah"

"The skinny one on the West coast of Argentina (the country that likely looks like an appendage of yours)?"

"It's in South America, near Argentina"

"Thats what I said (I'm almost grateful my ex-boyfriend is running interference on this one)"

...5 minutes later...

"Hey do you know where Chile is?"

(fml)

The Bishop's Difference

Proof of validation for what feels like a lifetime spent between historical buildings and uniform violations: my graduation announcements.

I have a list of people who I hope will send me money.

I have the package complete with name cards, cards, and envelopes.

I start stuffing envelopes as my mother taught me to do when I was a small child of seven and she no longer felt like doing our family's Christmas cards. At a rapid and accurate pace, I am almost finished stuffing the 50 graduation announcements in about 15 minutes.

This is where it goes south. There seems to be way too many envelopes for each card. And some are bigger than others. I figured that there was some sort of error, and I now have lots of extra envelopes for my future letter-writing campaigns. This is not logical at all. This is maybe where I should have taken an extra math class.

The great thing about Bishop's is that (almost) everyone is exceptionally smart in their given field. My peers continue to astound me in what they are capable of, and the general sense of impending success my class exudes as we approach graduation. This intelligence, however, rarely extend past the walls of classrooms.

The usual problem with overly book-smart people is a lack of common sense. Mine just happens to coincide directly with an acute lack of coordination and patience.

So, as I'm sure you've figured out, the envelopes were not an extra bonus. One envelope was meant to fit directly into the other, so that people could send back money in the smaller envelope, which you are meant to address to yourself. This lead me to the urge to calculate the real profit possibly made. If 50 grad announcements with name cards cost about $100, and you have to put two 44 cent (I am still astounded there is no symbol on my keyboard for the cent sign) stamps on each (in order to incite a return envelope), that is about $2.88 cents per card sent out. Not every person will send money. Is it worth it?

The real question, however, is was my expensive high school education worth it. If I am able to graduate from what is one of the most difficult secondary education institutes in the country, yet am unable to open a doughnut box, let alone assemble my own graduation announcements, was the investment worth it?

Well, once again, I'm putting all my eggs in the basket that is the big apple. I'm sure some street smarts will smack me in the face once I hit the ground running. 126 days to go!

Thanks, Mom

This first one is from a really cool art exhibit my mom and I went to on Ray St. in Northpark last weekend. The artist, Micah Smurthwaite (www.strawhater.com) made this installation called "Death By Consumption". When we got to meet him, my mom said, "Oh yeah, my daughter is totally into the whole recycling and global warming thing: she digs through the trash all the time when I get too lazy to recycle." Thanks, mom.

Thankfully, this guy was enough into the environment and my 6-inch heels enough to reply, "You dig through trash? That's hot." (So, actually thanks?)

Another gem, discovered just this morning, were my bottles of Diet Coke I stupidly left in the fridge. My mom, just to make sure I understood the consequences of my beverage, crossed out the label and wrote "TOXIC" on one bottle, and "CANCER" on the bigger bottle. (Evidence is inconclusive - that's my story and I'm sticking to it.) Thanks, mom.

Lastly, my mom is throwing my graduation party at a house 3 doors away from my ex-boyfriend. She mentioned she thought it would be funny to invite him, along with a "parade of ex-boyfriends!". I'm more than a little nervous. Thanks, mom.

Today's Winning* Headline

Yellowstone Supervolcano Bigger Than Thought

Really? Bigger than thought? Is thought quantitative? How big is thought exactly? What qualifies as a "Supervolcano"? Wouldn't the addition of the precursor "super" indicate that said volcano is, in fact, big?

It's journalists like these - yes, I'm talking about today's Yahoo! News article - that make me ashamed to be a writer. Come on guys, I understand you have limited space in which to enthrall the housewives that check their spam filter 12 times a day because that's the only thing their children have taught them to do on the computer. But lets be real here.

Here are some suitable alternatives (all within the five word allotment)

1. HUGE Volcano In Yellowstone Park

2. Yellowstone Volcano Not Normal: Super

3. Thoughts Are Small, Volcano Not

4. Vacations Cancelled Due To Supervolcano (I even used their stupid word in that one)

5. Firegods Rejoice: Supervolcano in Yellowstone

P.S. This version of the word "winning" is brought to you by Charlie Sheen.

Sometimes...

...you just need The Beatles. So, I present you with an abridged version of my favorite lyrics of all time to my favorite song of all time: Blackbird.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird fly

Into the light on a dark black night

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to be free.

The Shoes

I have been obsessing over this one pair of shoes from an overpriced national brand for about 2 months. By the time I got the balls to order them, they were on backorder until my birthday.

Being both resourceful and impatient, I decided to go rescue them myself. They were so expensive. Calling your debit card company in-store to see if you have enough to buy a pair of shoes is pretty embarrassing. Alas, I had sufficient funds. I practically crawled to the checkout counter. I told the sales clerk that I was about to hate myself and she was very concerned by my concern. True, people often drop hundreds a visit when they go to that trendy hot-spot, but I, by nature, am a Buffalo Exchange girl. Actually paying for an item of clothing, not to mention paying full price, is not comfortable for me.

I politely declined a bag for my purchase (trying to make my Environmental Science teacher proud) and placed the box delicately on the passenger-side floor of my mom's car. I then proceeded to park said car in the garage next to the gym. After watching my friends band, Neverready, play, I got a ride back to my car.

So, here's the problem. Everyone knows parking garages lock at a certain time, right? Well, not this girl. So, my mom's car, and my self-hatred inducing shoes are locked away (safely?) for the night. Thank God I wont ever have to deal with car matters once I move - they aren't my forte. (Did I mention my broken down car is still parked out front of my old house? I don't even want it back.)

However, I will make my unfriendly-to-the-environment-and-my-budget purchase worth it by wearing my shoes on a field trip to the San Diego land fill next month. (In case you were curious: no, I am not cut out for this class. I had to excuse myself to the nurse when Mr. Kelso demonstrated composting).

Legal Sex Female Seeks Semi-Normal Roommate

"Filling out a housing application kind of feels like online dating," said Amy Hoagland.

This statement turned out to be partly true. Making yourself an attractive, yet not off-putting roommate option is almost more brutal than photoshopping flaws before posting to match.com.

After giving up on the list of suggested roommates based on a percentage compatibility rate, I opted for Facebook creeping. Scrolling through the hundreds of faces who have similarly joined the groups Accepted NYU Class of 2015 and NYU Official Party List, profile pictures and cities of origin told me more than I ever could have gotten from "how dark you like the room you are sleeping in?"

This immediate book-by-its-cover-judgement made possible by Mark Zuckerberg suddenly made me wonder how people would judge me by my profile picture. In changing it to a more mainstream solo shot, I hope to fully avoid looking either depressed (hello, girl frowning in front of a birthday cake), or obsessive (another marked one of her interests as "my wonderful boyfriend :)"), or a terrorist (scarf up to your nose and sunglasses? Looking to make friends, I see). I hope to be a non-offensive potential roommate - I think.

At some point, it seems easier to just get a random "Legal Sex (Female)" or a "Gender Identity Female" (typical NYU: sensitive to transgender preferences) assigned to occupy the same ten square feet of living space as me for a year. If I like them, great. If not, you will be reading a lot about them here.

And don't even get me started on choosing a meal plan...

Defects of a Generation...or Three

Today, at the fine American institution of Wal Mart, my dad and I were exiting the superstore after his futile search for an electronic, hand-held, Yahtzee game. I warned him that the company likely stopped production in the 1990's, and that he is the only person on the face of this earth who still even donates a brain cell to the world of Yahtzee electronics that was.

After settling for a hand-held Solitare game and I with my prize of Trident Layers gum , we were on our way. (The verdict is still out on the gum. It's been an hour and I'm still chewing it, so longevity is a plus. However, the odd mix between mint and apple falls between painless and somewhat enjoyable in the taste category.)

Anyway, to the main point. My dad and I walk up to a door marked with an exit sign. We both stopped abruptly, and stared quizzically with tilted heads at the door - aghast by the notion that it refused to open automatically.

Coming to the same conclusion that the door was clearly not meant to be used, we walked to the door next to it, and breathed a sigh of relief when it opened on the command of our mere presence.

Once we reentered the outside, I realized how sad and hysterical it was at once that we condemned what was likely a perfectly good door to uselessness simply because it did not open automatically. How many years did it take to train people into laziness - that indoor sidewalks did not require leg movement, and that doors should open without prompting? Clearly not long, if my own father, who, I must admit, does not belong to a generation close to mine, was as fooled - if not more fooled than I - by an ordinary building component.

Whether the fact that I set foot in both a Wal Mart and K Mart in the same week or the fact that I snubbed a manually operated door is more sad, I'm not sure. All I know is that Hawai'i is making me soft.

Gettin' Lei'd

Tate and Terry Take Hawai'i 2011 (Kona Edition)

For my dad's (67th) birthday (and his guilty conscience) he decided he and I should pay a visit to his house in Hawai'i. He is worried we will never have quality time like this again, so I obviously I jumped on the opportunity.

On the flight over, I sat in-between my dad and an Asian girl who I thought was about twelve. She watched Tangled on her portable TV while eating chocolate chip cookies, and was wearing an oversized flower ring and a Hello-Kitty necklace. My claustrophobia aside, I managed to observe her during the last thirty minutes of the flight in which she applied copious amounts of purple and pink sparkly makeup, revealed her Asian character shoulder tattoo, and changed into stripper boots. When we landed, she made a series of phone calls that indicated she, surprisingly enough, calls the shots. One to family on the island "Don't give grandma anything spicy. Or alcohol. You will regret it," and one back to California, "Are you serious? Why isn't that done? I need my f*cking car when I get home! Give the phone to someone who can fix this." This transformation shocked me, and only cemented my theory that Asian girls successfully act 1/2 of their actual age.

The first day, we went grocery shopping and saw a rainbow. Not as good as a double rainbow, but almost. Interestingly enough, the rainbows' end was found in a Costco...

Also, this coffee is from a place called Lava Java. We woke up at 6:30 day one, still on California time, so we spent two hours deciding whether people walking down the street were homeless or not. Nearly impossible to tell, and my dad and I argued over this one guy (who I thought was a woman for a good 30 minutes) reading a newspaper and then some sort of a journal. I decided there was no way he was homeless because he was smoking.

I later checked out the pricing behind the counter at the ABC store, and addiction is incredibly pricey around here - 10 bucks a pack. There is no way someone is wasting 50 cents a cigarette on a homeless dude in penny loafers. (Upon close inspection, you can spot said man perched behind my coffee cup). [Update: Today, I saw same man climb out of a bush, wearing the same outfit. I hereby retract my argument against homelessness.]

It is a bit odd to be reading Lolita on the beach, but lovely nevertheless. True to his word, my dad and I have spent some serious quality time together, mostly conversations about his "bad boy" days in the 70's. The days where he owned a "shag wagon", drank on the beach, dropped out of highschool, and had peroxided hair down to his shoulders to compliment his porn mustache. (Vintage photo update when I get home).

He also told me, on the beach yesterday, that he is thankful he never "got into drugs", besides the fact that he regularly smoked pot. Now, he is retired to edibles. He told me a great little ditty about his company Christmas party where everyone passed around a tray of brownies, and he was trapped inside his own body and therefore unable to stand. Go dad.

P.S. The statistic that about 1/3 of Americans have tattoos is largely contributed to by the beaches of Hawaii. Almost every person in sight had at least one unseemly tattoo. Unseemly because the portion of their body the tattoo is located now busts seams.

Sorry, I have to take my brother to the ER

If I use that excuse one more time I swear it will come true. Used today to get out of a date with a douchebag, it is not the first time I my brother's athleticism and history with injury has come in handy.

Once, my mom and I were meeting with a doctor. We go into her office and it's covered in weird trinkets. She is wearing head-to-toe Pepto-Bismol pink, including an oversized hair bow. She thinks a child-size desk is adequate. My mom, at this point, had just learned to text, and when she looked down and read an invisible text, I knew she was up to something. Suddenly, "Oh my God. My son is at football practice and he just broke his leg. We need to take him to the ER." Like mother like daughter.

This time was necessary because of a stupid, stupid guy. He, for some reason, mistook me for a girl who takes sh*t from anyone. After hanging out once, he stood me up, and then today, an hour after when we were supposed to meet, he texts me, "Hey". Hey? Hey, what? Hey, you were supposed to pick me up an hour ago? Hey, you are really cute, which is probably why you usually get away with this type of behavior? Hey, you suck and your tattoos are stupid?

Safe to say, I was what Amy refers to as "first-date fooled" in this situation. The first time I hung out with this guy he was great. A real charmer. A gentleman. But that was all a game.

Nicole says she has difficulty continuing to like a guy after the second date. Well, at least you can locate the guy to get a second date out of him. I don't possess that ability it seems, and this douchebaggery is just about enough to turn a girl gay.

New York guys, you better impress.

Little Miss Perfect?

Today, I met a little girl. She loved pink and puppies - and happened to have more sophisticated sales techniques than any of the strippers I met last week.

My mom and I renamed her Cinnamon after becoming increasingly jealous of her charisma. Cinnamon had set her sights on my 14-year-old brother. After calling him "Mister" and demanding he follow her outside, she took to rubbing the inside of his thigh - with multiple "accidental" slips into the danger zone. I gave her some slack and figured she was unaware of her geographical location. That is, until she mounted him.

Yes ladies and gentlemen, thats correct. I looked over and she had straddled my brother. His face was priceless. After she realized he wasn't budging from the couch, she moved onto the only other male in the room.

She walked over, and with a subtle shoulder shimmy, said seductively, "I remember you". Yes sweetheart, you probably do. From your family reunion last year. When you were three.

Later, someone wiped the chocolate cake off her upper lip. As a thank you, she seductively glanced over her shoulder and pursed her lips. Seriously?

The more I realized that I was being completely neglected by this four-year-old due to my estrogen levels, the angrier I got with American pop culture. The fact that even a four-year-old knows exactly how to seduce men more than 10 years her elder frightens me. I am not only disappointed, but flat-out intimidated.

I shouldn't really be surprised though, considering I am unable to get any of my female friends to text me back tonight. So much for girls' night.

"You smell like a baby prostitute"

P.S. Sorry no photo. I figured I should protect her from being over-exposed - at least on the Internet.

Piercing With a Purpose

Every time I feel like my mother has served her purpose as my mother and I am one step closer to being an independent adult, she finds a way to prove me wrong.

Today I finally quenched my longtime thirst for a piercing when I went to PB today with Mary. In my insomnia the night before, I had come up with the idea to get a double cartilage piercing, and that was the plan.

After a few hours I finally faced my mother. When I let her know what I had gotten, she did not respond with anger --she rolled her eyes.

She told me she thought cartilage was over-done, and frankly unremarkable. I was crushed. I thought it was special, creative, if you will.

So I spent the next thirty minutes inspecting my ear in the mirror, each second becoming less and less enchanted with it. So I left my house, once again, to have Ironhead Mike take them out.

Turns out Ironhead Mike (should have been a red flag) goes home at 6 pm. I journeyed down Garnet about 7 steps to the next tattoo shop and asked if someone there would do it instead. When he took them out there was plastic all over the steel bars. PLASTIC. I would have been infected beyond my wildest dreams in 24 hours. Thank you God. And Mom.

After the unsatisfactory piercing was removed, I opted for another, very different piercing. Couldn't be happier that I now, as my mom puts it, have "a piercing with a purpose."

How will you remember your St. Paddy's Day? (If at all...)

You only want...

...what you can't have. That seems to be the ruling philosophy of many human actions. Dieting doesn't work because the minute you tell yourself you can't have something you absolutely must have it. Dating doesn't work because the thought of being tied down to one person makes everyone else suddenly seem like a catch. Since I've given up on both men and diets, the one thing I wanted until today was a cupcake.

Not just any cupcake. Sprinkles, the gourmet cupcake bakery that originated in LA recently opened near my house. I, having built up cupcakes in my mind ever since I was young, have been only disappointed by almost every cupcake I've ever eaten (because they always look better than they are. This can be said about many things). This one, I was sure, was going to change everything.

The two weeks after Sprinkles opened, the line was doubled around the building, a 45 minute wait - if you got there before it opened. I was devastated that my impatience would bar me from the cupcake of all cupcakes.

That was until Thursday, when my friend told me that her new job was at the Rubios next door to Sprinkles, and every morning she goes in and orders her cupcakes, then picks them up at the end of the day.

I had a plan. It was go time.

Approximately two hours ago I had my first Sprinkles cupcake. It was good. Only good. ONLY GOOD. Nothing spectacular at all. And 10 minutes after consumption, I was hit with a stomach ache so bad I was convinced I'd been poisoned by the peanut butter-chocolate cake.

Turns out, I'm fine. But still nauseous. I hate cupcakes. I'm never bothering again.

Except I'm pretty sure I had a great one once at the Cookie Lady...maybe she is my salvation.

P.S. Ice cream is underrated. It never disappoints. Why can't I just commit?

"Yo, strippers just need to be more upfront..."

"Wanna go someplace and have some fun?"

"Uhh no."

"Wait, what did she even mean?"

"She was asking you if you wanted a private dance in the back room. It's $20. Do you want one?"

"Why didn't she just say that then? Strippers need to be more upfront."

20 minutes go by, and we realize that particular stripper was the one that got away, as she was the most attractive in the club by far. The rest of them ranged from actually disgusting to possibly attractive -- until you went to the girl's bathroom and saw them in the florescent light.

On one of those trips to the bathroom, a short-haired, big-breasted stripper asked me if I was trying to fix my hair. Apparently my almost-conservative, half-up, style was unacceptable in this establishment. She proceeded to take all my bobby pins out, part my hair on the other side, and tease it at the roots with her fingernails. She goes, "Much better! You should totally work here, you're drop dead gorgeous." I look in the mirror. I look like I just fought a wildebeest. I guess this is the look that sells nowadays. I thank her and exit quickly, making a beeline for my bottomless, non-alcoholic drink tickets (Tip: be wary of strip clubs that don't sell alcohol. They are generally strange and terrifying places).

Another mystery of the night are the stamps they put on your hand for reentry. They feature a cheetah, and say Fa_ Cat above it. All of our stamps had two of the last letters blurred together, so we are arguing between it actually saying "Fatt Cat", "Fast Cat", "Fart Cat", "Face Cat", or "Fact Cat". Either way, I'm not convinced these stamps were made custom for the club.

Besides the stripper with a heart of gold I met in the bathroom, the rest are downright forceful. They walk around the room expecting you to put money in their panties (which they double up, still have yet to discover the reason for doing so) when you are either asleep, like me (I took a total of 6 naps over the 3 hour course of our adventures in Stripperland), or you clearly are traumatized, like my friend Mary. To be honest, I've never felt straighter in my life than at that club. I don't know if too many gross boobs desensitizes you, or if the exact purpose of girls going to those places is to make them want to find a boyfriend to make out with. Safe to say my first - and hopefully last - stripper extravaganza did not make me a believer. I did, however, get proposed to by the bouncer, so I guess that counts for something.

Two and a half hours after stating his feelings about strippers being upfront, my friend is on stage, in a chair against the main stripper pole. He has a 5'1 asian girl with about 2 feet of tattoo coverage and 3 feet of hair extensions on top of him. Her crotch is in her face, and he is about to get on all fours and get hit with a doubled up leather belt. I'm pretty sure it doesn't get any more upfront than that.

Birthday Recipie

The Perfect 18th birthday sh*t show:

Preparation - 3 hours

Cook Time - 6 hours

Ingredients:

1 Birthday Girl

1 Gay

1 Justin Bieber look-alike

7 Body piercings (not counting ears) and 3 tattoos between everyone present

1 Yellow cake with chocolate frosting

1 Champagne slushie (an amazing accident)

1 Tube of Cherry Chapstick

1 Rack of Diet Coke

1 iPod

1 Run to Rigobertos

1 Game of Truth or Dare

Directions:

1. Slowly stir in all body piercings and party guests, preferably in an outdoor setting. Then, introduce (the most amazing) cake. However beautiful the cake is, make sure you smash it to bits while attempting to slice it before serving.

2. After a while, pour in Champagne slushie, make sure it's an accident though, so Birthday Girl eats it off the counter.

3. Let sit for 30 minutes - be sure to pepper in some Justin Bieber remarks.

4. Walk down the street to Rigobertos mexican restaurant 30 minutes before it closes, so it feels like you rented out the classy joint simply for your purposes.

5. After some Cherry Chapstick and dancing, let simmer.

6. Lastly, somehow maneuver 7 people into a queen size bed for a throwback game of truth or dare. (Optional: Have everyone make out with the gay friend. Not sure why, but adds a bit of an extra kick)

7. Make sure no one in the room thinks hickeys are funny. Especially ones that are so large and dark they can actually be passed off as an abuse injury.

8. Finally, Be sure to mock Justin Bieber for snoring like a harpooned baby beluga whale - all night.

Optional - Clean Up

(approx. 2 hours)

Ingredients:

1 Swifter mop

1 Power hose

1 Gigantic trash can

2 Rolls of paper towels

Directions:

1. Spray down deck (be sure to change hose setting to JET)

2. Swifter everything, including countertops. Everything that can't be swiftered, soak up with paper towels.

3. Go to the beach.

Happy Birthday Mary! Hope surviving your childhood was as exciting for you as it was for the rest of us.

8 Simple Rules For Throwing a Drink at Someone

1. That person should not be your ex- best friend.

2. That best-friendship should not have ended because you slept with their boyfriend.

3. You should not call said person a "fat bitch" unless the person is in fact a bitch, and in fact fat.

4. You should not throw stones from a glass house. (View rule number 3).

5. Be aware of innocent bystanders.

6. Be acutely aware of the mutual friend, whose house you are at, and their furniture and walls.

7. Do not say "she threw it" when said "fat bitch" turns around with a look of shock. Especially when "fat bitch" is covered in tequila. I'm sure this "bitch" may be "fat", but hopefully, if she was your friend at some point, she is not stupid enough to throw a drink on herself.

8. Don't throw liquid at leather, that's just inconsiderate.

P.S. Said "fat bitch" shouldn't have invited you to her New Year's party before you threw a drink at her.

VERY EXCITING

I'm not sure what I'm setting myself up for here, but I saw this new commercial for Domino's chicken and almost died.

Also, on that note, my friend told me that a friend of her friend's mom named her children Tate and Caden. What a trip.

That's enough self-indulgence for now.

Dinner Party Etiquette 101

Dinner guests from left: Birthday Boy, Meatball, Innocent bystander, sexter, frazzled hostess, horrible storyteller, over-powered in the element of surprise, head chef, and birthday boy's best friend.

Last night I threw my first dinner party, and it's safe to say we all learned a little something. First and foremost, I'm never throwing another dinner party until everyone is of legal drinking age. Also, gender balance is important, and I'm never throwing another "surprise" party again.

The gender imbalance played a crucial role in the failure of the surprise element of the night. The one female who wasn't in the kitchen at the time of birthday boy's entrance was overpowered by the idea of six males who thought the most surprising surprise would be no surprise at all.

Let me paint a picture for you: five boys (minus the best friend of the surprisee who was 20 minutes late) and one girl are hiding behind my deck. When I sent the surprisee outside to "get something" from the dinner table set for nine, they were supposed to jump out and surprise him. This moment did not occur. Since the party missed this cue, the consensus was that instead, they should all quietly sneak to their places at the table and wait until he saw them through the sliding-glass door. This moment of discovery was so anti-climactic I actually yelled "surprise" myself. Not very exciting at that point, I'm sure.

As for the first lesson, people are awkward at dinner parties. Especially people who all view themselves as somewhat witty. When words are flying around, some people (i.e. me) are easily offended. Dinner guests (i.e. high school boys) who are yet to understand the rules about talking trash about their hosts clearly do not belong at a table. This would have been fine if we weren't all so on edge. And so it goes...

Back to the importance of gender balance. Only 33% of those at the table were female, and this caused some interesting monopolization of conversation. For instance, the dinner guest to my left told a "joke" with a 15 minute set-up, and no punch line. Unacceptable.

Also during this "joke", the birthday boy took to playing a competitive game of Scrabble on his iPhone with someone not even at the table. The man to the right of me simultaneously started sexting, while the rest of us fought over the assortment of cupcakes. (Next time, all one flavor).

I responded to all of this by noticing that this dinner turned out worse than "that one episode of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills". What...an observation.

On that note, it is of utmost importance to recognize my own failures as hostess. Case in point, the following conversation:

Me: Yeah, that other meatball on Jersey Shore. The one who isn't Snooki. Who is that?

JPK: Deena.

Me: Haha. Takes one to know one.

What was going through my mind, I'm not sure. The choking aroma of failed wit and successful insult in the air briefly cut the cord between my brain and mouth. To be clear, I am very fond of the man I inadvertently called a meatball, and we discussed my affection towards him while he graciously helped me clean up. I still feel awful, though, which is no note to end a dinner party on.

Hopefully my pitfalls will be a fair warning to anyone who chooses to throw a dinner party in the future. And in my opinion, nothing should be a surprise, ever. Turns out I hate making them happen as much as I hate them happening to me.

On a side note: make sure your head chef likes to read the directions before three people simultaneously attempt to prepare a meal. I have no idea why there were onions in the macaroni and cheese, but the chicken was referred to as "90% water" once the word moist was voted out of dinner conversation.

The American Way

Laziness and procrastination, beautifully exhibited by me, here.

Finally, I have multiple things to note, such as the fact that the senior rec room is infested with rats. One galloped by my feet, I screamed like a large-boned little girl, and scurried away. I realize the two verbs would make more sense if swapped, but that's how it happened. Upon this horrifying discovery, someone casually mentioned that there were two others she had seen on the couch. ON THE COUCH.

Girl: Oh, but they're so cuteee!

Me: That's something you can discuss with your therapist. I need to leave now.

No one seems to be as concerned as I am that these rats are living with us. I suspect we will be kicked out of the rec room for extermination, and that, my friends, is unacceptable.

It has also come to my attention that I need to keep up this blog for academic reasons. My journalism teacher handed back my most recent article with one comment: "You need to work harder on what you turn in for class. Case in point: your blog is better." So, if my blog is better than my grades, I should at least keep that to hold on to.

Also in recent news, I had to get a haircut. This seems mundane without pretext. I had a breech in sanity last Tuesday night, and figured "since I am competent at trimming my own side bangs, I should be able to give my whole head a trim." False. I chopped into what I thought would become a medium-length chunk of hair, which turned out to be chin length. To ease the trauma, I made the other side it's twin. This was a horrible idea. After panic struck, I hid the evidence and wore my hair up.

Fortunately, this story has a happy ending. I made an appointment at a new salon, and fell in love with my Latvian hair dresser, Ella. She is full of knowledge and wit, and my hair is half-decent looking. I'm not sure why I regressed to the large toddler stage of my life and destroyed my own hair, but hopefully the part of me that enjoys wash-and-go locks will prevail over crazy me in the future.

Moral of the story, it could be worse, but is still a pain to have to blow dry my hair so it doesn't look like a bob. The end.

P.S. The fake dog mysteriously disappeared. Good riddance.

This dog

...came with the new house. I'm not sure why it's here. Maybe as a scarecrow for neighborhood dogs considering pooping on our lawn? Not so sure, but it scares me every time come home. Also, contrary to what you may believe, is made of styrofoam. It is being sold in the garage sale next weekend, thank god.

Some better things about the new house than that dog:

1) Better cell phone reception.

2) Can walk from my room to homeroom in 3 minutes flat

3) I have an alley.

4) Jacuzzi. Yet to be tested out, but it exists.

However...

1) It's cold.

2) I can't go in my room for more than 5 minutes if I'm not sleeping because it makes me claustrophobic.

3) The first night I slept here I was awoken numerous times by what sounded like rats in ten inch heels moving miniature furniture above my head and testing out scratch and sniff stickers. (Update: The problem has been remedied. The high heels and furniture will be sold among their personal effects in an estate sale following the group funeral).

4) My brother's friends think this is the new party house. The first day he had people over they broke the bed.

Me: What happened?

Him: There were five of us on it, and he said we should all do a big bounce.

Me: Wow, thats sooo smart what were you even th - wait, what were FIVE PEOPLE doing on your bed?

Him: Playing C.O.D.

Oh, the innocent. Let's pray he stays that way.

Also

Facebook is incredibly mundane. Maybe I need new "friends"? I have taken to "Hiding" everyone from my news feed that is consistently annoying, but I don't have the heart to delete them.

On a brighter note, TFLN updates fairly quickly this time of morning. And my new house is approximately 148 steps away from Jack in the Box.

Unfortunately, I can't leave my house until the Cable Guys are done, and so far they have done nothing but peruse my backyard for 30 minutes. My mom, in fear that I would get hungry, brought me Cheerios, milk, and two cans of Diet Coke. We have no bowls or silverware. So, it is finally proven: Diet Coke = breakfast of champion Cable-waiters.

Waiting for Cable

At the new house. Sitting on the ground. Siphoning WiFi from the next-door neighbors. Just me and my dog. And of course, we are having quality conversation.

Me: Bella are you as bored as me?

Bella: ...

Me: Yeah, I'm bored too.

Move about 15% in progress. I'll keep you posted :)

It's that time again

Ah, Moving day. The boxes, the movers, the impeding sense that I have become a gypsy.

I have moved exactly 6 times since I was 13 years old, this weekend being the 7th. Each time I feel like I have fewer boxes and less stress. Except this time. Because this time, my mother has hired my ex-boyfriend to help us move - in addition to the Saturdays he spends teaching my brother about lacrosse and life.

This is my life. You can't make this stuff up.

Actually, I like moving. I like the feeling of a new neighborhood, and a new house. My mom worries that my childhood was ruined by my learning to travel light through life; only one memory box, unattached to furniture. Clothes are the only thing that need to be kept in check, but I like trading in old clothes at Buffalo Exchange. Returning them to the cycle of retail-life. She worries that because of my experiences, I will grow up and only live in one house my entire adult life. Unbudgingly, as if to offset my skyrocketed number of previous houses. I feel differently.

The way my memory of adolescence is categorized is by houses. To be honest, it makes things much easier. I get the feeling I will need to continue this constant shuffle of living quarters in order to keep my memory sharp as old age approaches. But who knows.

What I do know is that my next move after this weekend is to NYC. I hopefully won't leave the small, overcrowded, polluted, and beautiful island for a very long time - but don't hold it against me if I try out every neighborhood there before I leave.

Hey There

So, I got into NYU today. Super exciting etc etc.

Anyway, life's good and therefore I have few complaints - which translates to not much to write about. BUT, this is for your viewing pleasure. Thank god for that new side bar on Facebook that allows you to creep back in time so easily.* I just can't put my finger on why this one just gets me. I actually spent 3 minutes laughing out loud. Perhaps it's the hunger in her eyes and the confusion in his? I'm contemplating putting this on up on www.whoissettling.com.

*Names are being avoided to protect the innocent. It's not their fault this picture is so amazing.

Weekend Update

The weekends just keep getting shorter and shorter it seems...

1. Friday 7:14 PM: Girls' night. I'm not good at these for three reasons - I hate Zach Efron, I don't think the pizza guy without the tattoos is that cute, and I feel really awkward bumping Ke$ha while sober.

Despite these setbacks, and my numerous references to my knowledge of world religions - Judaism in particular - girls' night was marginally successful. It was resolved, like most good things, with cookie dough and exhaustion. No pictures because, unlike your fantasies, girls' nights do not involve nighties and pillow fights, and most of us were wearing sweats.

2. Saturday 1:14 PM: After a luxurious hour and a half of being conscious that day, I realize it's beautiful out and I should take my dogs for a walk. An hour and a half later, I realized my ambition (as well as my blisters) were overwhelming. Today I am in the physical pain to prove "the day I was supremely awesome and walked through all of La Jolla" truly existed. (Yes, that is the phrase I repeated to myself on the way back up the mountain).

3. Saturday 9:20 PM: Garnet St, Pacific Beach. What a place to be on a Saturday night. My friend needed to replace part of her piercing, so we wandered into Avalon Tattoo shop. Being in PB always makes me want to get something pierced, so while Mary got refitted with some new metal, I perused the possibilities.

Ooh, that Labotomy is pretty steep.

Looking back on this picture, I have some questions:

A) What if I only want one nipple done? What if I want three?

B) Why would a genitalia piercing go upwards of $70? What unforeseen costs could arise once you're already in the chair?

C) What are divers? (Upon research, divers are represented as interchangeable with dermal anchors. In that case, what is the difference according to the tattoo shop?)

D) Who would ask for a refund on a tattoo? No return policy seems applicable.

Sunday 1:15 PM: Stop by at the new house to put down a rug. Encounter a man who appears to be talking to himself. I immediately locate the bluetooth but before I can even question why someone wouldn't just hold a phone if they aren't driving I hear part of his conversation: "So I read on your profile that you lead an 'active lifestyle'. I too am very active. I'm on a walk right now actually." The bluetooth is qualified by his accompanying action: lighting up a Marolboro Red. As he doubles back after making it a quarter of the way down our block, I hear another gem as I watch his man boobs jiggle, synchronized with his beer gut: "Oh yeah, I love dogs, my youngest daughter loved to play with our dog when she was four. She's 28 now..." Way to slip that one in there. I bet she'll never know the difference once she meets you in person.

I hope he feels almost as stupid as this Trekkie.

4:25 PM: I awake from a nap, wishing I hadn't. I come out of this weekend with some empty moving boxes, broken dreams of going to Hooters with my wives, and not much else. Here, I anxiously await the consumerism holiday that is Valentine's Day.

Where will i take my naps next year?

Failblog

Recent Failures:

1. Hair tinsel. This is nothing new. Strippers have had it for ages. Even a Beverly Hills Housewife had it before you...

Really? This is what you aspire to?

2. The White Stripes. First of all, apparently no one but me was sad they broke up, and for that I might have to hold another funeral. They have been divorced since 2000 and just recently were unable to continue making music together. Thats longer than most divorced parents can effectively raise a child in conjunction, much less one of the greatest bands ever. Irreconcilable differences? I suppose that excuse will do.

3. Polyamory. Yes, that's a real thing. As a True Life addict, I was perusing episodes On Demand and realized I hadn't seen this fascinating story. Apparently, similarly to polygamy, people live as "couples" both bisexual and homosexual, in groups of no less than three. I always felt sorry for the "sister wives" I've seen on Oprah, but no longer. I have full reason to believe they are enjoying themselves after watching a particular "couple" add a fourth. They took him for a test run in a karma-sutra, yogaish, grunting and holding session.

Better than Bikrams!

Unfortunately, both love groups featured on the special were looking to add a fourth, and both crumbled because of it. Apparently three really is a magic number. (Tip of the hat to School House Rock, what would I do without you?)

Really? REALLY?

Some thing in life are just unacceptable. One is having to apologize for something you didn't do wrong. (i.e. uniform violations). Some others include the following...

1) Saw this gem on Facebook: "I thought she moved to portugese (sic) or something!" Are you serious? Portuguese is a language, not a location. I wish you luck in life.

2) Human feces, anywhere. I have a picture of this, which I chose not to upload as a matter of taste, but let me set the scene: Your midday getaway. You sit down to look at the ocean, look down and realize there is literally crap next to you. Not even dog crap. And someone was nice enough to put a pair of headphones around it. It is not acceptable to turn my hideout into a toilet.

3) Taking out your anger on someone else. Yes, I'm talking to you. It is much more constructive to bottle up your anxiety, depression, and anger into a tidy, travel-size container, and put it in your pocket. Wait about 3 hours until you are in a controlled environment, and unscrew the cap. Look ma, no hands!

4) My lack of quality blogging. No, the recent addition of pictures is not meant to distract from my mediocrity. Therefore, I break rule number one, and I apologize.

Take that, Suzanne Somers.

Unsolicited advice...it's just that.

When someone gives me advice I a) didn't ask for or b) don't even like/know that person in the first place, it is not only obnoxious, but redundant.

Telling someone something they already know, but obviously don't want to hear is a simple act of stupidity on the givers part. If your coworker wants you to "go eat a sandwich" for the third time in one day, a response of, "Thanks, but I already ate yours, I figured you shouldn't," is not only a warranted, but courteous return of their "favor".

For some reason, people like to inform me - as if I didn't already know - that Diet Coke will give me cancer. (For the record, the evidence is inconclusive). If Diet Coke is the first thing in this life to give me cancer, l'chaim.

Case in point: my Environmental Science class. We learned about a way to calculate risk called Average LLE (loss of life expectancy). This method averages the years off all the people's lives that have died from certain things.

This method also, coincidentally, makes nothing look like a threat. Smoking cigarettes takes an average of 3.9 years off a female's life (sorry guys, for you it's 6.6 years). Additionally as my friend, Nicole, observed, the highest risk in this world is being born male. And of all the environmental pollutants we are worried about, air pollution is the highest risk - costing us a whopping 40 days.

I also pointed out that I need not worry about the section pertaining to environmental pollutants effecting my life, considering I ingest most of them willingly.

So no, I will not eat a sandwich, and I will never stop drinking Diet Coke. Go Ducks.

Yes, I realize it's backwards. 'Sup Photobooth.

P.S. If I wanted a running commentary on my life, I'd get a Formspring.

Week(end) Update

I realize it's been a while...

Thursday, 9:35 PM: My brother, Caden, finally gets a beard. Scratch that, a bear. My dog Bear, decidedly likes to sleep on his face, and would not exit the facial area even after incessant prodding. They are bonded for life. Somewhat similar to Peter Griffin's bird beard in Family Guy season 3 episode 17 .

Friday, 1:13 PM: More irritating license plates from the Bishop's parking garage...If these belong to you, you suck.

"What Gaz?" (wtf) "Mother F***er For Life"

Saturday, 12:40 PM: Draper dog park, waiting to pick up Victoria. Stumble upon (in real life) this sign: the topper of a myriad of arrows pointing to possible desired locations and their relative distance from this "YOU ARE HERE" grounding force. On a side note, Draper Street is at an elevation of 121 ft. We are screwed when the Pacific rears its ugly menopausal head.

"We're not all here because we're not all there" (Sorry, had to climb the sign to take this picture, couldn't get it all in...)

Sunday, 10:42 AM: "I like that CRAP on your face" - James, at Busy Bee's for breakfast. Best coffee/bagels/everything ever. Also, CRAP eyewear is pretty "dank" according to all the groms who sport it. I must say I agree in social context, but for the record (according to New Oxford American Dictionary - which seems like an oxymoron in itself), dank is descriptive of someplace "disagreeably damp, musty, and typically cold". Think cave.

Hello world, I'm not quite ready for the new week if you couldn't tell. Here's to us.