Lessons Learned

You know how when you interview for a job, or talk about your current job to someone else, and you say things like, I hope to/am getting lots of experience and learning valuable lessons that will improve my skills yada yada yada? Well, here are some things I've learned and am now sharing with you. Valuable lessons indeed:

1. When working with children, try to relate. In other words, have quick access to urbandictionary.com. This came in useful when i needed to figure out what the kids meant when they used the word "bamma", as in, "This girl at school always comes in sweats and never brushes her hair or teeth - she is straight up Bamma." After telling the sweet darlings of the unappropriatness of such language, I added it to my repatoire, and now say it to my co-workers all the time.

2. Travel Wisely. This includes many things, like don't make flight connections in Detroit. Mainly because if you get stranded there, like I almost did last week, you're stuck in DETROIT. Also, gloves not only keep hands warm, but provide a barrier between you and everything you're forced to touch, so wear them at all times - tis the flu season, after all. Also, remember that some fellow plane passengers have it worse than you, like the hot Italian man who was courteously trying to avoid, unsuccessfully, the paws of the probably-prostitute seated next to him named Twinkle. Good thing it was a quick flight.

3. Embrace the unexpected. Like when I woke up a few months ago, thought to self, "hmmm it's been awhile since I watched football. I think i really love football," so I had a co-worker explain the rules of engagement, and now I have to watch every game i possibly can. College and NFL - love 'em both. I spent a heavenly night watching multiple games with a funny Texan at a bar while my co-workers got wasted, and i kinda felt like the dude who is glued to the tv and ignores everyone till the game is over and demands people leave him alone unless they're bringing him nachos and i loved it. It's gotten pretty intense; I mean, i'm going to a bar tonight, ALONE, because the gym doesn't have the NFL channel and I need to see the Colts vs. the Saints and I'm already going out of my mind just thinking about it and how they're both undefeated but i really dislike the Saints and love the Colts and would love to see New Orleans get pounded but i'm pretty sure they won't because they've been doing the pounding this season and Indianapolis is more fast than strong and they're not shooting for an undefeated season but i hope they still try and omg what if Peyton gets injured and i love him and would love to see the Saints get beaten and hopefully humiliated it would be like an early Christmas.

4. Put away those stereotypes! When I was in New Jersey I was willing to give one and all the benefit of the doubt. A friend gave me a briefing on "the people of Jersey," to which I figured was a bit of a bias since she's a New Yorker, but . . . I decided on closer inspection that sometimes stereotypes are a great way to prepare you for the unexpected.

5. Just say no to free pets. This has nothing to do with my job. My brother came home with a 9 week black lab yesterday, and the parents are out of town. Already I feel like I've just dedicated my life to this mongrel, it's so needy.
This does not bode well.

I'm offering these tips free of charge, so take them. Treasure them. And learn.


AMENDMENT TO #3: As Mr. Lau pointed out, and as I realized when I got TO THE BAR, it was Colts vs. Jaguars - a bit disappointing, because who really cares about the Jags, but still a good game. Or at least would've been, had I not been called home in the 3rd quarter because little sister was vomitting all over the place and my parents are gone. Awesome.

I'm gone.

Traveling about the east coast + working long days + fickle internet = no updating a blog.

And no posting pictures either, because that just takes too many long minutes out of my very valuable time.

So wipe away those tears. I'll be home soon.

Pennsylvania: A Love Story

Susquehanna River, courtesy of myself on my jogging tour through the rain.

I confess that I sometimes forget Pennsylvania is a state. Or DID, rather, because now it is seared into my memory for all time. I think the problem was that when pondering upon the states in the contiguous US, I picture them in regions - and I never knew how to categorize PA. I sort of pictured Midwestern, even though it's Eastern, and Amish and countryside, even though it's the state of Ben Franklin and Philly. Yuck. And when I say yuck I am referring to Philadelphia based solely on stereotypes, not B. Frank whom I love dearly.

Anyway. The following is a list of the reasons why I just might have to get me a house in PA:

1) I'm a sucker for wide open spaces. Remember Lucy on The Peanuts Christmas, and she says she never gets what she REALLY wants for Christmas - Real Estate? I share the same dilemma. I stopped believing in Santa when I continued to NOT get a ranch for Christmas. Or a photograph of Rudolph.

2) This man. Mjr. Richard Winters of the 101st Airborne Division, who lives in Hershey, a mere 15 minutes from where I was staying. I love him. If only he weren't in his nineties and married. Such is my luck.
Not familiar with this stud? It's high time that you Netflix Band of Brothers then. And as extra motivation, the cast is really hot.

3) Speaking of love, I found my destiny on the plane ride back from Harrisburg connecting in Cincinnati. Truly, if ever there was a man made just for me, he was it. Beautiful, witty, workaholic, AND had a farm that sat on 300 acres which he HUNTED ON and rode ATVs on with his family. HELLO match made in heaven. Too bad he lives across the country. And didn't ask for my number. And don't feel like you need to tell me he's just not that into me, because I KNOW. A passionate celibacy is what I will have to content myself with I suppose, because I'm pretty sure he was my one shot at true love.

Moving on.

4) If one can judge a place by its airport, and I fully believe that one can, then I think this says all I needed to hear:


Yes, rocking chairs. Outside of security next to the kiosks. I mean really, why not? It's genius! AND comfy. I rocked for a good 15 minutes before waltzing up to security where I had to wait behind all of two people. I just felt so much more relaxed. LOVE IT.

Do you live in Pennsylvania and have a great job you want to give me? All you have to do is say the words and I'm there.

"Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it. "

So I know a lot of people just ADORE Halloween and claim it is their all time favorite holiday yada yada yada. But ever since the trick-or-treating days of yore ended it just doesn't seem to matter. What is the point of a holiday where you can no longer knock on a strangers door and demand candy in exchange for not pulling a trick on them?

Thankfully, there is no age limit on dressing up (or way, way down - depending on how you look at it). Costumes are an essential part of Halloween, and that, I think, is where my problem lies. Because here is what you maybe didn't know about me: I love going to places mostly naked.
Restaurants, the movies, playgrounds, church - you name it. My philosophy is The Less Clothed The Better.

And I don't really stand out when every other female, and the vast majority of males, are out-skanking me. All of these get-ups are stealing my thunder, and they act like they're SO ORIGINAL. I mean, why do we act like someone wrapping themselves in only cellophane and calling it a costume is the equivalent to brain surgery? Trust me, cello-wrap's not difficult to do, though it IS difficult to break dance in.

Just last night there was a pre-Halloween party, and the "Tarzan" who walked by got all kinds of stares and comments from my co-workers like, He's only wearing THAT?! And I was all, Please - like it's HARD to walk around in front of children with all your flesh exposed. I would like to see Mr. Thunder-of-the-Jungle pull that off next Thursday.

So really, I opt out of this holiday of pretension. If so many people not-so-secretly wished they were porn stars, why don't they just dress like that for everyday occasions like I do? Why all the spectacle and fanfare? Man all this nudity talk really makes me want some candy.

Another Tail for Tuesday

YOU GUYS. One of my worst nightmares came true last night. Remember this?




The Alligator Lizard of All Freakiness that I woke up to one day, STARING at me as it sat on MY HEAD?!? Consider this Unsolved Mystery case re-opened. Here is how it happened:

It was late at night and I was about ready to crawl into bed. My little sister was sleeping so I had a dim lamp on, ergo my eyesight was a little senior-citizen. I go to turn down my bed, and there it is - SITTING ON MY PILLOW! After my initial heart attack, my first thought was, OMG the diseases that thing is leaving on my clean linens is probably unfathomable! Thankfully, this was Rabid Lizard Junior - so it was only a couple inches long (not including tail). BUT STILL.

Dad was up, so I ran into his office and declared that he just WOULD NOT BELIEVE what was lounging on my bed at this very moment. I am eternally grateful that Dad is more adept at catching lizards than my worthless brothers, because he caught that sucker in one swipe (recall, if you will, Sam and his 20 minutes of "Swat the lizard with your glove").

Though I was exhausted and now nauseated and so confused at how this happened, AGAIN, I changed my sheets - like I'm going to sleep on something that nasty creature crawled all over. As I took my small blankie (laugh if you will, but yes I still sleep with my baby blanket) and began to shake it out, I got yet another surprise:

What you see here friends is the FULL-BODY-SKIN-SHEDDING of serpent junior. I am pretty much vomitting in my mouth right now in this narrative. I hope you are too - that's why I posted the picture. Because misery loves company.

Dudes - how did this happen again?! From whence are they coming? And why on MY bed? And why MY HEAD? Are they attracted to the smell of my shampoo? Do I emit some freak cold-blooded animal hormone? Because heaven knows I don't produce any pheromones (see: attraction). Am I actually part reptilian and didn't even know it? I mean, really - that would explain a lot.

So not only did Little Lucifer mysteriously sneak into my room, crawl under my comforter and get cozy on my pillow, but it also shed in my favorite blanket! That just really pushed me over the edge, you know? I mean, I'm kind of a patient girl - but no more! Which is why I am DECLARING WAR AGAINST ALL CREATURES OF THIS SPECIES. No more missy nice pants here - you disgusting animals have gotten the easy treatment from me. I WILL discover where you are skulking in from. And when I catch you I will throw you, with all my might, to the mutt mongrels next door - yes, the dogs owned by THE NEIGHBORS. And I will taunt them with you first, to make an example to all your nasty buddies who are apparently in on this prank too.

This war is official now. Be afraid, Spawn of Satan.
Be VERY afraid.

Some deep thoughts for you to munch on

(Photo from Despair.com)

Because its Friday. And who actually works on a Friday afternoon? Nobody, that's who.

I was standing in front of my closet this morning, thinking "REALLY? Why do I even own this stuff? I really have NOTHING else?!" and I discarded at least half of it into my D.I. pile because it was all either too blousy or too frumpy or too chinsy or too embarrassing or just flat-out ugly. So I had to take a breather and do some 30-second meditating. Here is a glimpse into the enlightened workings of my inner mind whilst working on my ch'i:

Why is it that I can never just buy ONE pair of shoes when I go to Nordstrom Rack? I think it is physically impossible for me to walk out the exit doors unless I am holding at least 2 pair. Which is absurd, because OBVIOUSLY what I need is some new clothes, not shoes.

Speaking of shoes, I am convinced that Steve Maddens just do not fit the foot the way that they used to. Am I alone in this suspicion?

I am really slacking in keeping up with fall shows. I mean, I've got excuses I guess - like I travel a lot and I'm still into my Indian Summer of YA Fiction - but is there EVER a really good excuse to just NOT watch tv in the fall? I haven't even STARTED Gossip Girl - it's that bad! And there are a plethora of seemingly so-awful-it's-like-a-train-wreck-where-I-just-can't-look-away kinds of shows, like Melrose Place and Vampire Diaries and Sorority Wars. It's time to take my daily productivity down a notch, obviously.

And since it is now fall, it means time to start working on those Fall Goals! Namely, watching more tv (I WILL keep up with 30 Rock and Glee this season, I am determined) and getting some new clothes. From Target. NOT Gilt, WHITNEY LAU.

I really need a career, so I CAN shop at Gilt and simultaneously build up my retirement. But since that's not happening, thank you mom and dad for allowing your daughter to continue living a Peter Pan lifestyle.

To continue supporting procrastination, I present Cake Wrecks for your amusement. You've probably seen it already, but when I'm in need of a quick giggle Jen's dry wit and sarcasm are just a click away.

Three cheers to brain-mush Fridays!

Recommends

Oft times I come across something great and think, Hey! I should review that on the blog.

But I don't, because most thoughts that cross my mind linger for an average of 2.3 seconds, and then they revert to something like, How many cookies can I justify eating right now?

So here's an overdue list of a few of my favorite things. (Insert clip of Fraulein Maria dancing about in her nightgown whilst singing "Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. . ."):

1. H&M tee shirts. How has is taken me this long to discover them? They're soft, they're a good length, they're CHEAP. Like $5.95 cheap. And I'd post a link, but H&M won't let you buy their products online unless you live in Scandinavia somewhere. If this were an argument it'd be a wash, because it usually requires just too much effort to get me to an H&M to buy said cheap tee.


2. "It's a 10!" Leave-In Conditioner. As a self-proclaimed hair product connoisseur, I assert that this is the best conditioner out there; both the hair-repair mask and the spray. You'll be impressed with how silky and healthy your luscious locks feel. It's a little pricey, but you can find it cheaper online. Your hair will thank you, so - you're welcome.



3. A cousin who gives you free things - like A CAR:
I know, right? HELLO adorable black convertible beamer. Courtesy of lovely cousin Kit, I now have my own set of wheels!
Don't you wish someone loved you as much as Kit loves me? Are you all crying with envy? Well rightly so. When I first drove this home I constantly yelled "FREEEEDDOOMMMM!!" real loud like William Wallace in Braveheart . . . TMI, I know.



4. The Hunger Games and Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins. I don't ever review books on here, mainly because that is a serious business, and here at NRL we avoid all things serious. Also, book choice can be personal, and I don't know how your book tastes run when you ask me for book recommends. Also, I can be a bit snobbish, and I now understand I can't throw things out like Atlas Shrugged to just anyone when they ask me what they should read next.

Anyway. I am telling you that if you want something good - read The Hunger Games. It's the first of a trilogy, and the second book, Catching Fire, was just released. They are Young Adult novels that deal with some dark and disturbing themes and situations, but (to me) it never gets graphic. If you like intensity, good writing, good love triangles, rebellions, and you're not an idiot, you'll like these. WARNING: they end very abruptly. If you are the type who CAN NOT handle a cliffhanger, then maybe consider waiting till the final book comes out next fall. Though I wouldn't recommend doing that. Jump on the bandwagon NOW people.

ALSO. Find me on goodreads.com if you really want to see what else I've been reading. Remember summer of YA Fiction? Going strong guys. Going strong.




5. Living here (also referred to as Paradise, minus the crap economy):
I was driving home from Irvine last week, and I stopped in Huntington to film some surfers, because, you know, I could. As I was meandering on the pier I thought to myself, Huh. This is my LIFE. Living in shorts and eating fish tacos and watching the surfers. Awesome.


6. Benefit Creaseless Eyeshadow.
I know, I was skeptical at first too. So I went to Sephora to try some on and see how long it lasted. I use the scientific method, you see. I was surprised that when I went to wash my face, usually betwixt 10pm and midnight, it was still fully intact without creaseage! I still don't actually own any, seeing it runs almost $20 per pot, but I have tried a few different colors, and each time it has easily lasted all day. It's definitely going on The Christmas List 2009.


Sheesh - I should get some kind of kickback for all that free advertising.

Have anything you'd like to add? Go ahead and comment to your hearts' content. And if you somewhat enjoyed this, but wish it were funnier or more interesting, head on over to my friend Rachie's blog where she reviews the latest: Roku Box!

For Amber

My grandparents have a cabin in Shaver Lake. They've owned it for. ev. er. My dad practically lived there every summer growing up. It's a nice place, and after NINE YEARS I was finally able to go back. Grams and Gramps love the place too - can you blame them - they live in FRESNO and they have a wonderfully nice secluded cabin in the woods, which is why their 8 children and their kids (and now apparently those kids with their spouses go for romantic getaways - which I would vote down if I could - I mean REALLY, its a family cabin not a honeymoon suite) rarely get to go. But I spent lots of time there as a wee thing with the sibs and cousins. Ah the memories . . .

See that huge log? I fell off it once while trying to cross it whilst it was covered in snow, and I landed in the frozen creek below it. It was a near death experience. Saw the bright light and everything. Though thinking back on it, it could've just been snow it my eyes. At any rate, those were the times when I was unaccepting of my clumsiness. Now I embrace it.


So at the end of the summer we had a family vacation, the first in years with all 6 kids there, where we made a pilgrimage back to The Cabin - only to find ourselves doing a lot of this:

Watching TV.

Well, after our nightly walk to Indian Rock where we star gaze and muse about the Indians who used to grind their corn there. Don't judge too harshly though - we are without cable at my house. A sore trial for everyone except my mom. Man vs. Wild always won out, which is no surprise as I'm used to being out-voted with 4 brothers, but don't be fooled . . . What Not To Wear came on during every commercial, and I didn't even have to request it.

As is was quite hot, we played at the lake during the day. And by "we played" I mean I sat in the boat and watched whilst the boys attempted to wake board and knee board and other painful activities I'd just rather NOT, and that suits me perfectly. I did spend a day rock jumping with the babies though, so that has to count for something. AND I tubed. Which any idiot with a decent grip can do. Idiot being the key word. Case in point:

Before.



After.
I caught lots of air, Kyle jammed his finger, Paige bled, the twins cartwheeled over the water, and Zach and Sam hung on so tight that they SKIDDED on the water behind the tube because they refused to let go.

So, it was a success.
And everything that tubing should be.


Here we see some of the crew, but not me, because I'm obviously utilizing my talents: sitting and tanning and watching (judging).
And despite my irrational fear of lakes (monsters and other bottom lurkers that consider me as a tasty treat), I jumped over the side every time we stopped (read: someone wiped out), because the water felt SO GOOD.

Behold Captain Kevin, whom I also refer to as Dad, who only let The Helm out of his grasp whilst he wake boarded for a whopping ten minutes. How we ever survived those ten minutes I will never know, because a) the boat sat REALLY low and took on water every time the smallest of wakes splashed by, and b) there was a madman at The Helm (read: Lance). Twin + machinery = heart failure for those in the general vicinity.


Shockingly, there were no trips to the ER, broken bones, sprains, or deep gashes that needed stiches . . .Quite miraculous considering he's jumping into 4 feet of water. But what's new?


And that, dear friends, BARELY scratches the surface of what went down at The Family Vacation, but I shall spare you the rest. I really don't think I get thanked enough for posting so few pictures and stories of my family.

As a side note: Notice the wood-paneled door in the picture of us in the family room? It's locked, and only Grams and Gramps have the key which means no one, and I mean NO ONE (unless maybe their favorite child Amy) is allowed to step into the other side . . . Have I piqued your interest of the secret room on the other side of The Door? I'M not even sure what the room on the other side looks like. Which is why I can say with total confidence that EVERY SINGLE PERSON who comes to stay there looks for the spare key that may or may not be hidden somewhere in The Cabin. Consider it a treasure hunt, a quest.

It's always something at the Seven-Eleven

It has been SO HOT here the last few days, and in these parts we don't believe in air conditioning. Mostly because there is only a week or so where the temps reach above 80. So when I got back from DC on Thursday and walked into my stuffy house, I had one unquenchable desire: BIG GULP.

Off I went to get me a 32 oz. at the closest Seven-Eleven, and it was the happening place, let me tell you. Diet Coke in hand, I waited in line to pay, and as I stood there this middle-aged man in a business suit walks in. NOT good looking. But my attention was diverted, so I looked his way. And he flashes me this big smile, and raises his eyes brows at me. I looked around to see if he was looking at anybody else, but no, apparently not. Because as I was in my car backing out, he walked out and gave me the same look. Raised eye brows and all.

Now, let me clarify - this WAS NOT a leer. Not a construction site stare-down. Not even in the same category as a trapped-at-the-stop-light check out. It was like there was something about me he found . . . funny. Okay, I'm not always the world's best dresser on a big gulp run, but funny? My hair was in a pony tail, I was in jeans and a tee, and I didn't have chocolate or smeared lipstick on my face. I'm also fairly certain that I didn't know him.

Maybe this is a regular occurrence, but I'm too oblivious to notice. I was just so confused by the whole thing. At any rate, if ever I see him on the next inevitable BG run, I'm going to ask him what it is about my person that he finds humorous. And then, of course, I'll be so weirded-out by the exchange that it will have to end up on the blog.

August 28, 1959

The Twins: Aunt Tamy (left), Mom (right)

And you wonder where I get it from.


Happy Happiest of birthdays, dear mum and aunty T! No one would ever guess that you're FIFTY. And now everyone knows!

But really, Deby, you are kind and supportive and hard-working and funny with a contagious laugh, and you're a minimalist guilt-tripper, which I appreciate. And now I am inspired to write a haiku:

smell of warm cookies
and Christmas decorations
i think of you truly


Enjoy the BIG 5-0!

Let's go down the Disco!

Do you ever wonder what I do with my day when I'm not working? Of course not, but just in case the question has ever arisen in your mind, here is the answer:




I would love to make Ulises the Bunda-Bunda my Latino Lover.

In fact, I'm shaking hips to this video RIGHT NOW, because he will only want a girl who can shake it right along with him.

Post Script

As of last night, Hot Dude has returned!

See, it pays to shed one's dignity and publicly apologize and plead the return of a man one doesn't know but loves anyway.

Missing: C. the Muscle

Dear Hot Dude from The Gym,

Wither hast thou gone? It's been months since last I saw your lovely smile and huge tattoo. Did you start going in the mornings because of a recently acquired girlfriend whom you spend your evenings flexing to? Are you touring exotic countries with trust fund money from a deceased relative? Have you stopped coming because CNN is STILL exploring the apparent mysteries of Michael Jackson's death, thereby disrupting your very strenuous lifting exercises? Because I know how you loved to watch the game on the big tv overlooking your bench press machine, and I can see how the plethora of MJ pictures might . . . you know, disturb you a bit.

Or did you perhaps find out that I insinuated you might be on the feminine side? Because it was only a CONJECTURE - and if that is my offense, then I TAKE IT ALL BACK! I'm sorry I questioned your testosterone levels, and your matchy-matchy outfit with whats-his-face. Please, I AM BEGGING YOU, come back! Come back to your beloved weights and love us again. My time there without you has been so boring and lacking in pretend romantic tension.


Longingly awaiting your return,

T

HELLO August!

You know, it can take a lot out of you: waking up to the sound of waves crashing on the beach, picking out a trashy romance novel for the day, laying on the beach for 6 hours, jumping into the ocean when I felt a bit overheated, and ending the day with a Diet Coke and some Law & Order. I mean, really - those couple weeks were exhausting.

Now I'm back, and I've decided that there is no better way to get back into the swing of things than to make some "Summer: Part II" resolutions. Feel free to join me in these:

1. Wear less clothing. It brings such a sense of freedom - which is, after all, what this country is all about. Remember the days when you would wear your bathing suit ALL summer long without taking it off? Well, that's what I'm bringing back - MINUS THE SUIT.

2. I'm probably not going to go see G.I. Joe: The Rise of the Cobra. Sorry. But you can go if you want to. Although I might reconsider if I hear that it is really so awesomely bad that it's good, like Pathfinder.

3. I'm going to go to Baker. Yes, you read that right. Baker "Pit-Stop-In-Hell" California, because I have a hunch that that is where the chupacabra is hanging out.

4. Make a new friend. It's time for that once-a-year effort to meet someone new.

5. Get a real job. I think about my current situation about 75% of my waking life. I am going to reduce that to 50%, and read more YA Fiction with my extra time.

Wish me luck!

New state in the Union: West Arizona

Each morning when I wake up, after contemplating which cereal I want to devour, and how to make my hair more shiny and naturally straight when it air dries, I debate with myself about blogging something. Like, say - the copious amounts of flesh I see spilling over bikinis and speedos everyday, which is awesome.

But then I walk a block to the beach instead and forget all about it.

However, I have a bone to pick with a certain people. These people, herein referred to as "Zonies," are the snowbirds from Arizona who come to California coasts for the summer. So I suppose technically they aren't snowbirds . . . more like . . .ugh, I don't know. I've been in the sun and ocean a lot and so I'm TIRED and don't want to think of a word that defines them. The facts are these: they are many, they have big cars, and they think they own the place.

Look, I get it. Living in Arizona in the summer totally blows. How you old people survive those summers where Hell opens it jaws and breathes fiery air over the state for the majority of the year, I will never know. But Zonies, THIS I do know: I have been hit by one of your big-a cars almost everyday, I couldn't see Harry Potter the night I wanted to because you flooded the mall and theater, and you and your yappy brats surround my beach blanket everyday thereby distracting me from my quality romance novels.

I feel like I don't ask for a lot. I just want to try and get a tan while I watch the Golden State crumble. So maybe show a little respect for a dying state and let us loaf in peace.

It's SUPERnatural

I feel that in life I have really succeeded in being mediocre in every aspect, and I consider that a talent. I received "pretentious/almost nerdy" on my nerd score, so I think I can safely say that I can be pretty deep. For example, much of my time yesterday was spent contemplating the eternities (read: how I can get out of wearing a toga in heaven, because they look quite cumbersome), and how height differences can effect your life (aka, do midgets play baseball, and if so, is the field a different size?). I'm a thinker, you see.

So today, as I was "painting" I was musing about - what else? - THE SUPERNATURAL. My love of the mysterious has been pretty well documented, but I realized I haven't shared with the internet universe my newest quest, if you will: To find and capture the elusive chupacabra. That's right - the blood sucking goat killer often spotted in the southwest and Mexico. In fact, on my 5 hour trip in Mexico in April my goal was to find it. Alas. But I know it's out there, and when I find it, the world will know too.

When first I discovered this creature last summer, from a police video that captured a dog-like creature that WASN'T A DOG, I knew that I had found the infamous "circus pony" that my cousin had seen in Utah oh so many years back. In my heart of hearts I KNOW that the freaky creature she saw while licking a popsicle in the car at a 4-way stop was EL CHUPACABRA.

For all you nay-sayers who think my life quest is useless, riddle me this:




WTF, right? Should you have doubts, be my guest to tell me what you think that thing is.

The Founding Fathers would approve of THIS

Ahoy there Sailor! Wait - what's that L? You want a photo tour of the greatest holiday which we spent in Coronado? Why, it'll be my pleasure to showcase the highlights of the world's most patriotic community. In the words of your people, Anchors away!



Remember these days? When you didn't care what your mom forced you to wear, and your biggest concern was getting your bubbles to be bigger than your siblings? And after losing that competition you poured their bubble solution out on the grass? Or was that just me?

Blow harder little dude, those are looking kinda wimpy.


For those of you who were worried that Capitalism is on its way out, fear not; these pre-teens have it under control. Only 50 cents for an Otter Pop? What a steal!
Nothing warms my heart more than watching people count money. Ayn Rand would be so proud.


Hey look - the parade is about to begin! Too bad you didn't grab a front row seat. Looks like we're going to have to walk against the flow of its direction. No worries, though - it makes it shorter. Three cheers for that!



We've already reached the best part of the parade! These guys reenact the famous photo of raising the flag on Iwo Jima. They do it in slow motion - and if this were the world of Harry Potter I would tell you to pay close attention so you could watch it happen. Alas.
What happened to the reenactment of US Marines rescuing their imprisoned comrade whilst simultaneously sneak-attacking the Taliban and shoving them in the bamboo cage and turning their own guns on them? Because that was AWESOME. Methinks it was a bit too . . . well, it certainly wasn't pc, which is why I loved it. I fear that piece will never return.


Do you have a good view from that second story window, shirtless man? And what, pray tell, are you staring at?
Oh . . .
I can see the draw to watch these Saloon Ladies in the bedazzled colonial garb, the authenticity of which isn't fooling anyone. They do look like they're having fun though, don't they? I wonder where one can sign up to become a member. I mean, it's probably a profitable and rewarding profession, and I hear STDs are overrated.


Oh good - Union soldiers. I was starting to worry that those proud brothel madams were going to convince the aging traffic patrolman to join in their cavorting on the float. Whew. Yanks with muzzle-loader rifles always make for good peace keepers.

As you were, gentlemen.


I bet you will never see so many Vets in such a condensed location as you will here on Coronado island. Vets from WWII, Korea, Vietnam, and survivors of the attack of Pearl Harbor. In fact, we had a Medal of Honor recipient there in the parade: John Finn. The oldest living Medal of Honor recipient, and only living Pearl-Harbor-Day Medal of Honor recipient. He earned it by firing a 50-cal machine gun at Japanese planes, even though he was out in the open and an easy target. He was wounded many times by strafing gun fire, but continued to man the gun till he was ordered to the hospital. Lieutenant Finn, I salute you.

And I salute you too, anonymous Vet with cute baby.



And who doesn't like a little free advertising when given the chance?

Sadly, they had given all their supposed 5-star-chef-made breakfast away. Probably with the stipulation that they be allowed to share a message.


Hold on a second here - was I transported back to Provo?! Maybe the tent pictured above should have given it away, because I didn't fully realize I was out of San Diego till I saw this:

Allow me to photo document this special moment, my liege. How I have missed you guys battling it out on the campus quad! And I'm pretty sure that 50% of your Medieval Club were in my major, because topics somehow always came back to the Vikings. I'm not quite sure of the 4th of July connection though . . . did we have knights fight in any of the wars?

But I completely agree, man-with-the-studded-tunic - the only thing the US Military needs is some medieval warriors. It could be a new branch: Knights of the Realm. Though I don't think the flowy white pirate shirts will make the cut.

And so concludes the historic tour. Hope you had as great a 4th as I did!

The Neighbors: Chapter 3

Back in March I promised the next chapter of THE NEIGHBORS to be about the S.W.A.T. incident. It's your lucky day - I have come to deliver.

Let me take you back, circa 2000, to when I-Am-A-Walking-Drug-Free-Foundation-Commercial Chris was still living with The Dirts. He and his baby-mama plus her other couple kids from other daddys. AND they all lived in his bedroom. Thinking about it now, I just . . . I don't . . . Okay look, if ever I find myself in a similar situation, then PLEASE, just take me to some secluded wood - or alley - and put me out of my misery. I remember hearing an argument one night between Chris and the girlfriend, and she was crying and yelling at him for always calling her "Angela," which apparently was the name of his ex-girlfriend, and he just mumbled unitenligble phrases in response . . . Wow. I really miss them.

Anyway. Chris is a treasure. His pants generally hang somewhere in the mid-thigh region and he walks like he lost a piece of his leg to a landmine in Vietnam. He was on house arrest for something drug related, and despite being born and raised here, he has learned to speak English, or rather something English-like, from rap songs.

Also, he has been MIA since the S.W.A.T. Team came calling.

And call they did. Thanks to Richard. Here are the important highlights of Rockin' Richard: long greasy hair, emaciated, snaggle-tooth, thinks he went to Woodstock, suspected pedophile, really loud electric guitar playing all night long, and most importantly: METH LAB IN HIS HOUSE. No one ever walked past his house, which was partially covered by weeds, and he rarely came out of it. The few occasions where I had the horror of seeing him was when he was conducting business meeting with Chris on The Dirt's front lawn, complete with lawn chairs, beers and the typical cloud of smoke.

One evening after dinner my family was weeding the front planter (yes, you read that right. MOM.) when two large black vans came screeching up the street to Richard's house. Men in black uniforms with S.W.A.T. written in white came leaping out of the vans and through Richard's faux-jungle and plowed into his house. My family sat on our curb and applauded as they cleared some things out (read: his drug lair), but his dang weeds blocked a lot from view. I'm not sure if they cuffed him and took him - does S.W.A.T. cuff people? - but I do know that he never came back.

And as for Chris, he and his fourteen kids are gone too. And now Joe has inherited the bedroom that can apparently house a family. My true heart's desire is to be here when Dog the Bounty Hunter and Co., whom I love, comes storming into THE NEIGHBORS house and takes them all out. One can dream.

In which I discover my Destiny

I haven't quite figured out why, but I seem to have a penchant for attracting men who fall under the following categories: emphysema, mustache, beer gut, infidelity and OLD. The "Furniture King," a client of my first boss who fell under ALL categories, once offered me the promising position of Mistress #2 - and I was definitely 18. So naturally I accepted.

On the second leg of my late flight from DC back to LA, I had a seat next to just such a man. THANK GOODNESS. Because the Earth would have been thrown off its axis and major catastrophes would have ensued had I FOR ONCE been seated next to a man who showered, brushed his teeth, and didn't snore while being fully awake. I didn't know that I had to add "Capable of breathing at a normal decibel" to my list of man requirements, right behind "Alive" and "Does not live in a car."

So there I was - stuck. My iPod died, I finished my book, and I couldn't sleep. AND I was sitting next to Vito Corleone's unfortunate twin brother whom we've never heard of because of his inordinate amount of phlegm that constantly must be hee-hawed out. Let's call this man Jerome, Christened after THE NEIGHBORS (Joe Dirt) clan leader himself, because they might as well have been the same person. Anyway. As I do in all situations in which I try to escape from reality, I concentrated on my favorite topic: how to unite quantum laws with general relativity before Edward "M-Theory" Witten does, the tosser.

Just as I was getting somewhere, Jerome leans over into my personal space in a very Chuck Bass way, and oh how I would have given anything for a piece of that Bass at that moment instead of the Jerome leering down at me.

(Chuck Bass, NOT Jerome)


Jerome: Whatcha writing there darlin'?

Me: The next big break through in theoretical physics actually.

Jerome (grinning smugly): That's a big word for sucha young blonde thing like you.

Me (attempting to raise one eyebrow): You're right. Excuse my psychobabble. What I meant was that I was doodling hearts and rainbows around what could be my new last name, depending on which of my 5 boyfriends I end up marrying.

Jerome: Well then why don't you try putting it with my name - after all, I could take on all those boyfriends of yours. Plus, I own a Cadillac.

Me: Huh. . . Good to know. I will take that into consideration.


And after some careful contemplation, I have decided that this could be an opportunity that the Universe is presenting me, and I just keep slapping its hand away! I mean, we all know what a great trophy wife I would make. So the next offer I get I am totally taking and running with. Jerome may be no Chuck Bass, but he DOES have a Cadillac.

Tattoos and Lakers hues

It's been a while since the topic of Hot Dude at The Gym was visited, and with good reason. As something of a stalker, I can tell you with reasonable confidence that he takes a lot of holidays during the summer. Blending that with my indentured servitude travels, it has been too long since I have gazed admiringly (and by that I mean stared shamelessly) at his chiseled biceps. Trips to the gym would be bleak indeed if it weren't for USA and TNT channels now being offered, which means all the House, Law and Order and The Closer my little cold heart could ever desire.

Anyway. There is also another reason I've been hesitant to bring this up. I'm beginning to think - well, actually I've been suspecting this for months, but go with me on this - that Hot Dude is GAY. It first occurred to me in April, when I noticed he was wearing a coordinating Lakers outfit with another ripped tool. Red flag #1. As other said tool was walking by, I noticed a large tattoo on his shoulder/arm which, to my utter astonishment, was EXACTLY THE SAME TATTOO AS HOT DUDE'S. On closer inspection I noticed a large initial in the middle of the tat, but I was too far to see what letter it was. Minutes later when Hot Dude strutted by, I noticed the same thing in the center of his tattoo. Red flag #2.

Here's the thing: even if the initials inside their tattoos AREN'T each others initials, I still find it . . . worrisome? odd? strange? that they would have matching tattoos. I mean, who does that? Unless of course you are in Hollywood, which equals whacked-out crazy. Or in the marines, which equals hard-core crazy. And I feel fairly certain they are involved in neither.

I could be totally wrong about the gay thing - it wouldn't be the first time. I thought I had pegged two different guy friends as being totally gay, and apparently they are not. Or supposedly, I should say. If you think he still might be straight, please feel free to at least validate my feelings of how weird the matching ink is. Because it is, right?

The Neighbors: Chapter 2

Like a great many people in Southern California, I live in an old tract home neighborhood full of senior citizens, crazies, and the occasional nice family. And, like most people, I rather detest developments, but I also don't have 5 million dollars, so I don't have much of a choice.

My bedroom window faces the bedroom window of the one and only Joe Dirt. As in, the youngest son of THE NEIGHBORS. And by "faces" I mean it's so close I could stick my head out and spit into his bedroom. I have actually been tempted to do that on many occasions, and it's totally possible because he has neither a glass pane nor a screen over his window. Just a sheet. Which is part of the problem - because Joe Dirt watches tv 24 hours a day LOUDLY.

You may be thinking, Just shut your window genius. And my answer to that would be, I ALREADY DO. But I love fresh air and our house is old and gets kind of musty, so I like it cracked open (not enough though, obviously, to let in the devil's alligator lizard). I also have a fan to help block out the noise - I'm doing my part.

So. I woke up yesterday, my whacked-out internal clock still recovering from skipping time zones and a bit of jet lag, and the first thing I heard was Joe Dirt guffawing at some joke on tv. I stormed into my kitchen, and declared to my family that the only thing I hated hearing more than stupid chirpping birds in the morning was Joe Dirt and his loud-a tv.

"While I'm falling asleep all I can hear is Saved By The Bell or Fresh Prince. EVERY NIGHT. And this morning I woke up to Elf. Who watches Christmas movies in June anyway?!?"

"Well," said my dad, "it's better than porn."

Hm. True.

Thank you dad for pointing that out. Although I agree - that would be both uncomfortable and creepy. And if there is anything that THE NEIGHBORS don't need, it's more creepiness.

Mile High City

Any desire to post recently has been sucked out of me by traveling. And I'm not saying that in the way that celebrities --cough, Jessica Biel/Alba/Cameron Diaz, cough -- complain about how hard it is to be so beautiful and thin and how they give their designer cast-offs to children because they're the only ones who can fit in them, and how it has taken 6 WHOLE WEEKS to lose their baby weight from working out 10 hours a day and eating really fulfilling celery and cotton balls. I mean it in the way that I love seeing different places in this great nation but airplanes make me really nauseated and I have almost vomitted on the laps of multiple people squashed next to me who are always men who INSIST upon spreading their legs out AS FAR AS POSSIBLE leaving me cramped in the fetal position for hours on end.

So anyway. Denver. I liked Denver, but was slightly confused by the blend of cowboys and hippies. Here is what you really need to know about my stay in Denver:
1.) I didn't like the kids and lots of them, inexplicably, had anger issues. Weird.
2.) I almost got sucked into a tornado. For real - I felt like I was living in Twister, and I kept waiting for Bill Paxton to come bounding up and shout for me to take cover with a typical overly-dramatic look on his face.

Photo by Eric Nguyen

I've heard multiple times in my life that California is a scary place to live because of earthquakes - but dude, there is like maybe one a year that you can really feel, which more than likely does nothing more than make you consider whether you want to walk all the way to a door jamb, and by the time you have decided no, it's over. If anything, be afraid of the the fires.

But I freaking saw a FUNNEL FROM SATAN come out of the sky that destroys things. Trees and houses and small animals and probably children - GONE. How is that NOT scarier? That siren was enough to make me want to piddle my pants.

The takeaway: tornadoes suck. Pun intended. And I fully intend on chasing one the next time I am around one, which will be never.

Not walking in Memphis

I am trapped in Memphis. Very much against my will, so thank you Mother Nature for jack squat. I really thought I would make it to Indianapolis without a hitch, but no. I had to sit on the tarmac and wait out a thunderstorm as my last-chance plane to Indy rolled out.

Of course this would happen, because the moment I walked into the Memphis airport the only thing I wanted to do was race to my connecting gate and never look back. The ceilings are much too low, the lighting is dim and fluorescent, and everything smells like smoke despite the multitude of announcements over the intercom decrying smoking in the terminal.

The story of the airline workers (and getting lost in the bowels of this hotel) is such a nightmare that I just don't have the heart to recount it. Suffice it to say that I am in a Not-Such-a-Holiday Inn and I fly out at 6am to ATLANTA only to connect to a flight to Indy. All the while I am fearing for my life. I mean really - holy GHETTO.

All I really have to say now is that I hope to never set foot in this place again.

Stone Cold Sober

If I drank alcohol, I would be an alcoholic. I know this because I am always drinking something like Diet Coke, and if I'm not, then I'm thinking about how I wish I were drinking something like Diet Coke. Which is one of the many reasons I don't drink. Last night I remembered another reason: getting drunk makes you look like a total idiot.

Example: A girlfriend and I went out for some late-night dancing in Seattle. We were the first on the dance floor, getting our groove on while everyone else was getting hosed. Miraculously, an hour later the floor was packed with people who suddenly had zero inhibitions where they were previously chalk-full of them an hour before. Girls thought themselves the new Britney (with considerable less balance), the dudes ogled with bottles (and very likely roofies) in hand, and the cougars (bless their hearts) took advantage of anything male that came their way. Such a delight for a connoisseur of human folly such as I.

After hours of dancing and interesting encounters, we tried to bus it home - a total disaster - and just talked a cab into a ridiculously low rate to take us home instead. But I am convinced that had I been sloshed out of my mind, I would be dead. So thank you Diet Coke for giving me a good alternative to mind-blowing inebriation.

I hope that the next few cities on my itinerary hold as much, if not more, intoxicated ridiculousness. I have a feeling I won't be disappointed.

a tail for tuesday

Not so long ago, on a warm and balmy afternoon, I was lounging on my bed reading. A salty breeze was wafting in through the window, blowing my blonde locks ever so gently across my pillows. The down comforter swaddled my tired limbs, beckoning them to submit to its warm embrace.

I could hardly keep my eye lids open. I placed my finger in between the pages to mark my place, and set the book down on my stomach. Strange dreams faded in and out with the breeze. Seasons seemed to drift by, but minutes later . . . I felt something stir my long straight strands. Just the wind, I told myself. I could hear the blinds on the window stir, like they are wont to do everyday around noon when the ocean air blows through the town. Just the wind.

No more than a few minutes later I awoke again to an odd sensation. Self, I thought, Why is my hair moving so much?

WAIT.

Why does it feel like there is something on my head??

I tilted my face up toward the window, and what did I see? A big lizard face staring right back at me.

OH MY GOSH! I yelled as I rolled off my bed. Satan Lizard scurried to my bed post, and then I realized that this was no ordinary lizard, this was an ALLIGATOR LIZARD. Named so because 1) It has a really long snake-like tail, and 2) It BITES. And hisses.




Sam! I yelled, Get in here and catch this thing! Sam came rushing in and asked, Where is it? I pointed to my bed knob. Sam ran to the garage to get a glove, and consequently spent the next 20 minutes screeching as he tried to corner it. Lance came home soon after, thank goodness. He informed Sam that smacking a lizard with a glove won't get it out of the house. Within a few minutes it was trapped in a bucket, and after a brief study of it we realized that this same lizard was in the house the day before! It's mismatched tail gave it away. Apparently setting it free in a neighbors yard across the street was not far enough.

Unsolved mysteries: How did it get in the house two days in a row? Why was it sitting on my head?! And what kind of reasoning capabilities do these lizards have?!

Suffice it to say I have kept my window shut ever since.

The end.

the devil on the airplane

In betwixt the sleepless nights lying in starched hotel sheets and logging a series of nauseating transcontinental flights, I have come up with a few observations that I wanted to share with the internet universe.

But you know what? I'm TIRED. So the musings about the Austin woman with the matching bejeweled crosses on her purse and jeans will have to wait. As will the story of Phat, my conspiracy theorist shuttle driver in Virginia.

However, something almost amusing happened a couple days ago:

I boarded my flight Saturday morning after 3 hours of sleep the night before. I knew that for the next eight hours the only sustenance I would have would be the Nutri-Grain bar I took from the hotel, but on the flipside I had the second half of Harry Potter #7 to devour for probably the fifth time (I had read the whole first half on the flight over), so I felt slightly unstable but not quite If-I-hear-one-baby-scream-on-this-flight-I'm-going-to-have-a-rage-blackout.

As I was stowing my carry-on, I glanced at the man sitting in front of me. He had this debonair aura about him that was magnetic. Perhaps it was the dark blue suit and red tie. Or the subtle level 5 Mystic tan. He looks like someone famous, I said to myself. Then, a few minutes later, as I was flipping through one of the airline magazines, there he was! In the magazine. Featured as . . . the Devil?

It's Ray Wise, and apparently he plays Satan himself in the show Reaper, which I have never seen. But I'm pretty sure I've seen him in an episode of Law and Order: SVU. And he's also VP Gardner in 24 Season 5, in case you wanted to know more, which you probably didn't.

Anyway. The point is not that I saw a "celebrity." The point is that even Mr. Wise is having to cut back his spending these days, as evidenced by his descent into slum-class with the rest of us mere mortals.

So I asked, What Would Bea Arthur Do?

Last week, quite whim-ish-ly of me, I decided that I am mightier than the economy and I was going to prove it.  So I packed up my bathing suits and flew to Arizona to visit some friends. Where I bought some more bathing suits. AND business suits.  And some gorgeous turquoise heels.  Basically I have done what I do best - shop and loaf. 

I was having a great time shopping, pooling and eating - and I figured, why stop there? So off we went to Mexico to get some Swine Flu.  We spent an afternoon eating fish tacos, getting bombarded by vendors, and forced to witness middle-aged Americans as they blew our ears off with unbearably loud Eminem as they cruised around in their 4-wheeler with hydraulics.  I hope to be just like them in 30 years - they were so classy and cool. 

Next up - the beach!  We drove down the cement sand until we found the right place, put up the tent, and sat on the sand as we watched the tide roll out. 

Five minutes and 14 vendors later . . .

Rich:  What if we just drove back to Phoenix tonight?

Us:  Sounds good.

Back to the USA! It felt so good - we were done with Mexico.  Unfortunately, some fugitive men were thinking the same thing when we saw the border patrol handcuff them.  Too bad!

Ever since Earth Day I have had an insatiable desire to consume, consume, consume. And  I feel like I haven't quite consumed enough petrol yet, so I'm going to fly to Austin on Wednesday before I go back to California. Can't wait for more department stores and restaurants to ravage! I really think this mini-break has shown me what I'm made of. 

RIP, dear Bea. In honor of you, Laquina and I are doing a Golden Girls marathon tonight. 

Oh to be the youngest

Meet Paige.



Paige is almost 10, or is it 17? I can't remember.

She's a pretty little thing, isn't she? Like a young Regina George, and not just in looks. Know that whatever Paige wants, Paige GETS. Sometimes it's through begging and pleading and making deals (and threats), but usually it is through her true medium: Manipulation. She is as skilled in this art as Aubrey O'Day is in being a skank. A true master. Though my brothers and I are immune to such forces, my mother, apparently, is not. Perhaps it's because Paige is the baby, or maybe my mom is done fighting battles after 6 kids. Who knows. The fact of the matter is that the docile, sweet, obedient children ended with #5.

Now I know you might be horrified that I say such things about my own blood. Dudes, chill. She's 10 and doesn't read blogs. Besides, she my sister and she knows I love her. Usually. When I haven't run out of Diet Coke and patience.

Let me direct you to the following incident that took place just a few days ago as my family was vacationing in Pismo. We like this restaurant, The Splash:


We like their toasted bread bowls, but the clam chowder isn't THAT great. Paige, however, decreed that it indeed WAS that great, and while the rest of us wanted to eat at Brad's, she demanded that we wait in this line instead:

On a very cold, blustery afternoon mind you. Despite the fact that there was a near mutiny on her hands, my mother acquiesced. Such an enabler. (Just kidding mom). Why, I kept asking myself, am I standing out here waiting with the freaky art when I could be ordering a better bread bowl or tri-tip sandwich right next door? Because I'm lazy, that's why.

So I looked at this for a while and couldn't decide between the following:




a) Clam-Man is horrified at the immodesty of Lesbian Laura/ Feminine Fred / Unisex Pat. For the sake of propriety let's go with Unisex Pat.

b) Clam-Man is horrified that Uni.P here is immensely enjoying eating his cousin Gill, who was unfortunately caught by the dreaded fisherman's nets just when he thought he was safe.

c) Clam-Man is afraid that Unisex Pat is in fact a woman and is about to go into labor, and being a clam he can't do much but look horrified, especially because she seems to be bizarrely smug about it.


Obviously I came to no real conclusion, other than wondering why we humans need to anthropomorphize everything.

THEN, after our very clammy chowder had been devoured, we went back to the pool of the hotel which we had already checked out of hours earlier, so Paige could swim. And, thanks to that great decision, we got stuck in horrible Santa Barbara traffic.

So if you ever meet Paige in person, JUST SAY NO.

The Day

Dear Lovely Self,

Congratulations on getting halfway between twenty and thirty! Can we consider it an accomplishment? The question now becomes, how old do we claim to be? When does lying about age become commonplace?

Anyway. I just wanted to tell you that 25 is the new 15 and you really are looking younger, thanks to that night eye cream probably. And less laying-out.

So enjoy your "Day of Decrees" and remember: We are going to ROCK the mid-twenties.

XOXO,
Me

Hollywood, Ho!

Ah, the school play. It's that time of year - FINALLY. Were you ever in one? I wasn't, and let me tell you, I feel gypped. My ex-roommates always had stories about elementary school play drama, and I listened with envy. To my everlasting satisfaction though I got to live vicariously through my sister's production, themed "California Dreamin.'" I won't post all the pictures, because who really cares. But I do feel the need to direct your attention to the following:

(NOTE: I have not yet made a foray into photography, so please excuse the shotty camera work)



I know it's blurry, but check out the girl who is PREGNANT carting a stroller with a baby dragging along BY THE NECK in the back. Somehow I found this fitting, considering the theme. I believe this number was taking place in Santa Monica, hence the "Will Sing for Food" sign and assorted freaks and geeks costumes prancing about. And I'm pretty sure I've seen some prego kids on 3rd Street, so good job portraying reality School Play.

Also for your bemusement:



Cats.

??

Your guess is as good as mine.

Sight for sore eyes

Yesterday was one of those glorious days where I saw two truly fine and fascinating specimens of humanity. Sadly, I didn't get photo evidence of either, so words shall have to suffice. It was a treat, and I'll tell you why.

First, I was driving about town in my tank top, windows rolled down, warm breeze blowing through my locks, when I spotted something . . . unusual.

I did the double take. And it was just what I had hoped it was. Sadly, the moment happened so fast I couldn't take a picture of it, so let me provide the original idea so you get a taste of my enjoyment:


It's appropriately called The Flying Wedge. And I truly never thought I would see one of these on anything other than Kath & Kim, another planet, or Solange Knowles. BUT I DID. Some twenty year old indy hipster was just strutting down the sidewalk with The Flying Wedge. How? WHY?! Had I not been going on the opposite direction on a busy street, I would have pulled over and ran after her, posing as a writer for some fashion magazine with a few questions. Alas.

Second incident.

I was at the gym. And you know what that means.

Hot dude.

I walked in, and there he was in all his glory, working his triceps. I drooled a little and continued to walk past him. And I ALMOST mustered the courage to look at him in the face so I could finally ask him about his ever-growing tattoo. But then I chickened out, as usual.

Well.

I was doing some hamstring/quad/whatever leg lifts strategically in his general vicinity. And I was conveniently "watching" the TV so I could look at him, secretly, out of the corner of my eye. Because I had zero interest in the actual basketball game when I could watch rippling muscles in action.

And then angels descended and sprinkled Luck dust all over me, because he started to walk RIGHT towards me and LIFTED UP HIS SHIRT to wipe the sweat off his divine face and I got a full shot of his incredible abs, akin to this:



Have you just reached for some ice and a fan to cool yourself off? You're not alone. In fact, when I was blessed with The Ab Shot, I stared. Shamelessly. Like I always do. And he knows that I did, because I was RIGHT THERE. But I don't even care, because despite what you may think, I KNOW that expose was meant for me.