ninja newsflash

A Few Minutes at Vons

2011-01-02T22:08:00.000-08:00

Occasionally, when you’re very very scatterbrained and thoughts are playing ping pong in your head, simple things become extra hard tasks. Like your dad calls and wants you to pick up some parmesan cheese, and it takes you a while to say you’ll do it because you’re not sure it’s actually feasible at first. So you head to the store and dart for the cheese section. That area you remember choosing Lunchables in when you were little, and you see cheeses and cheeses but parmesan is absent. You think to yourself, people still use parmesan cheese. How can they not have it? This is Vons for crying out loud. They’re supposed to have things for typical family dinners.

Then you spot a bag of freshly grated parmesan cheese. Suddenly it hits you: there are three kinds of parmesan cheese. There’s freshly grated, there’s the powdery kind in the canister and there’s the cheese block. What kind did dad want? He didn’t say. You have an inkling he wants the powdery kind, but think what he’d say if that wasn’t right. He would say he wanted the other kind but then brush it off like it’s no big deal, and that would make you feel like a pile of dog crap even though you had no way of knowing and he wasn’t trying to make you feel bad. You decide calling him is the best bet. You knew it: powdery canister. Yet this food item is nowhere to be seen in this section.

Why wouldn’t they put all the cheeses together, in one place? Nothing makes sense these days. You think of Diggory, the Pevensie kids’ uncle from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. He said something in that book about people having sense. You thought it was funny then, you remember it registered. It registers now as you saunter through aisles of cereal and kleenex. Something about people learning sense in school. “What do they teach in these schools, if not sense?” Something like that.

Finally, you reach the pasta aisle. You suppose it took seeing the boxes of dry pasta to realize it almost makes sense to have Kraft powdery parmesan in this aisle. You reach for it and glance at the price tag: $8.99 for a canister. Since when did fake-ish cheese items become so expensive? They’ve changed the bottle. It’s see-through now. When you were a kid it was an opaque green canister, with a little sheen to it like a spearmint gum wrapper. You almost grab the cheaper imitation bottle for $6.99. In the end you choose Kraft brand for two more dollars, for old time’s sake.

In line, it takes the clerk at 4 a couple tries to tell you she can ring you up at her register. You were busy staring at the chubby girl in San Diego Padres logo pajama pants, high as a kite. Someone says they like your umbrella. Did you say thanks? You have no idea.

Walking out, you feel semi useful picking this item up. “They’ll have something to put on the pasta now,” you think, “because of me”. When you get into your car you burst into tears. You don’t feel useful anyway.

Things can be tough when you’re scatterbrained.

Janzy Observes Japan

2010-10-11T01:53:00.000-07:00

Hey people. Lots of things have been happening lately. I should stop using the word "lately" to describe as far as like, an entire year. But I like the word lately.
Around mid September, I got to visit Tokyo, Japan! It was the best vacation ever. The supernice boyfriend and I have both always wanted to go there! Not just together, but before we even met. It's just always been a magical place in each of our heads, and fortunately we were both right.

This restaurant had tiny Keroppi cups!

This is me sipping a boxed drink called 'Chelsea'. Underneath 'Chelsea' it said 'Yogurt Scotch Drink'. So that sounded good enough for me.

The best part of vending machines all over the place. You can get anything from a packaged banana to your favorite beverage: royal milk tea. (PS people wear socks with sandals in Japan, too. Yet their aim is probably cleanliness instead of idiocy.)

Here are the things I now know about Japan:

1.) No one is a creeper. If they are, they keep it within their level heads. They don't stare at you with rapist eyes like the creepers in America.

2.) Everyone included in the population, young and old, businessman and grandmother, has at least one charm hanging from their phone. Since I already had some asian bling on my phone, I felt up to par. But I brought home plenty more charms so I wouldn't run out.

3.) Everyone has cool shoes. Everyone.

4.) About 4 in 5 girls wear stirrup leggings. Not the skinny stirrup, but a thicker one that goes down to the middle top of your foot. They wear them with heels or flats, but mostly heels because everyone wears heels no matter how far they have to walk underground to get to the next subway.

5.) The subways are pay for distance, not pay a flat fee to get into the station. It's not simple, like NY. It's gloriously complicated and wonderful. Because if you buy a Suica card, which is more or less like a metro card, you just stick it in your wallet somewhere, and then hit your wallet on the sensor as you walk into the station. It's extremely high tech and secret agenty. Though I felt a little bit like Mr. Weasley going to the subway every morning because in Order of the Phoenix he just taps the sensor with his hand cause he doesn't know how to use the London Underground. All you have to do is swap the hand for a wallet and throw a red wig on me. Then I'm Mr. Weasley. I got so far off subject.

6.) You're not supposed to tip in restaurants. It's rude.

7.) No one is allowed to smoke in public. No smoking tiles litter the pavement and walls everywhere you look; and, incidentally, there is no actual litter anywhere. It's odd, too, because you wonder where people put their trash, as trash bins seem to be scarce.

8.) Their toilets have a keypad to the side, like a game console controller. You can adjust water pressure for bidet, water temperature, and seat warming. You can push assorted buttons to make "flushing sounds" so no one can hear you pee. You can even release a "powerful deodorizer". All the trouble for public restrooms is odd, yet gratifying. I love the fuss involved in being discreet, because it's the norm there.

9.) Many food joints have a vending machine out front where you insert yen, push a button, and collect the ticket it spits at you. Then you give the ticket to the workers and they bring your food out. Yet the food they present is not greasy and full of a heart attack waiting to happen. It's genius, really.

10.) Politeness. If you go to Japan and don't heart the phrase 'sumimasen' 50 times every time you walk down the street, I will be surprised. That's the phrase for "excuse me, sorry." People say it even if you didn't feel them bump you. Because their bump is like 1/8 the bump of an obese American. They're like a pack of smooth little foxes.

11.) Green tea is free in a number of restaurants. It's like water.

I rather liked it there!

A Few Disconnected Introspections

2010-06-26T23:29:00.000-07:00

It's one of those rare days where you decide to reward yourself with starbucks for waking up at 6am, then you try to steal half 'n half from the creamer bar and you pour it all over the counter. You wipe it up and that takes an extra 5 minutes. You wipe it up because you hate it when people don't wipe up their spilt milk. You shouldn't steal I guess when the drink you order doesn't require half 'n half. When all you drink from starbucks is chai tea lattes or tazo earl greys. But for some reason you still want that plastic bottle of half 'n half. To keep for later, to store in the work fridge. You think ahead.

There are some real saucy things flowing naturally out of my mouth lately, and I don't know whether I'm proud or ashamed about the fact that I'm not ashamed of any of them. It's a separated fact, yet ingrained where I know it won't leave and I won't try to dismiss it.

The longer I work in this place, the more I realize that you have to know what you want to be where you want. There are people here who've had the same dreaded monotonous job for 40 years, and yet they're still here complaining that they're here doing their job, when this job is all they know. What did they think about 40 years ago, or 20? Did they plan on being here still, getting paid the same amount of money and mumbling as they sidle around? I always picture myself as someone with a secret. Someone with a plan that'll eventually lead me elsewhere, to someplace that doesn't reek of gloomy and unchanging grind. I'm the one with the secret plan. Did they think the same all those years ago? Or were their minds as empty back then as they appear now in the blinding flourescent light? Empty birdcages with hardly a tiny feather left, squeaking from lack of oil and sometimes swaying woefully.

I often take pictures of my shoes while I'm wearing them.

Janzy the Geriatric

2010-05-29T23:11:00.000-07:00

My harry potter desktop calender stares at me intermittently throughout the day. On this particular one I began getting a little worried at the thought of not having one next year. There won't get a new movie scene each day to stare at when I'm incapable of doing anything else. When my brain has already fried itself like the hairdo of one of those middle school girls who is overzealous with salon heating tools. It's understood that it's easy to look up screenshots from the movie, more than once a day, even, but that's not the same as each picture being dated, as though destined for that particular day. On friday, May 28th I was destined to sit at my desk staring at Draco being dragged out of Slughorn's christmas party by Argus Filch.
I don't remember if i was always this paranoid. I realize, though, that I'm becoming more paranoid, eccentric and shameless the more days go by. I'm just gonna start admitting things now.

I'm not afraid to admit the things I google sometimes, like what the health benefits of certain vegetables are or the 10 smartest people in the world or details on first wizarding war, and I'm not ashamed anymore that I do old people things. Exhibit A: This morning as my feet found the floor, a rush of cold air enveloped me. After the resulting shivers, I felt around for my towel and stumbled down the hall to the bathroom, thinking it curious that my parents were watching a movie in the living room so early in the morning. Once there, I began removing my clothes and turned on the shower.
It was only when I stared at the bathroom window for longer than a glance, at the black sky behind it, that I realized it wasn't this morning. It was still last night.
Exhibit B in this startlingly pitiful series is my contact lense situation. Today, I went to a party to paint faces and make balloons in a costume, inwardly panicking the entire time about why I felt cross eyed and half blind. I was, in fact, wearing my contact lenses in the opposite eyes, each of which has a different prescription.
The question on my mind is: am i becoming a geriatric? Does this happen to other 22 year olds who also don't do drugs or drink very much? I'd love your feedback. Missed you guys.
PS: Here's a picture of me, my little brother and my dad at Disneyland for your viewing pleasure.

Generic Mermaid Princess/Cousins

2010-04-19T20:26:00.000-07:00

Is it just me or does monday give everyone a mysterious yearning to stab people uncontrollably? Anyone that gets in the way, at least. That said, the weekend fared better than most. But it wasn't without the help of my giant filipino-mutt family and the cornucopia of asian inspired activities we're all equally interested in.

On friday I went to see Kick-ass. Let's just say that seeing an eleven year old girl call a room of gangsters "cunts" and then proceed to spear them all while wearing a purple wig was an absolute treat.

Saturday I had a mermaid party for a little girl who reminded me of a spider monkey (and even sat like one). So as I sang of the land above water in a dreamy voice, she crawled about behind me sniffing flowers and picking things off her skin and eating a handful of sweaty skittles after examining them one by one as though they were her only means of nourishment. Kids!

It's good to confuse people in other cars on the way there. They see your hair and they wonder why you look so fake. They stare a lot, and I just wave.

That night, I went to Domo Sushi with cousins, not dressed as a generic mermaid, followed by one of those asian karaoke bars where you can rent your own booth for all your friends. My little cousin Britt was turning 21, so her night of embarrassment began here. As a surfeit of cousins (plus the supernice boyfriend) sang song after kitsch song, britt's non speaking friends stared expressionless from the booth, sipping water and eating these sharp little french fries. I was a tired baby after that and went home, but not without receiving a number of text messages from Brittani, all having to do with not being able to stand up.
The next morning I went to the Broken Yoke with my cousin The Chi.

We ate a bountiful breakfast that I felt only faintly guilty about, on account of reading The Road right now in which all characters are emaciated and consider a can of beans a feast beyond measure. And here I am sipping cream off a ho-cho like some overlarge toddler. BUT SERIOUSLY WHO CAN LIVE WITHOUT HOT CHOCOLATE C'MON!

And after that we did a bunch of other cool things that I'm too tired to talk about, but they included summer hats on sale, frozen yogurt with mochi in a calm and secluded yogurt spot, comic book meetups, and chewbaca photo shoots with professional cameras. How was your weekend?

Goth Clubs, Sandwiches, Parents

2010-04-12T18:14:00.000-07:00

Goth clubs are sincerely hilarious places. I've been to this one a few times, and it's always a riot. You should see the people who go. Flashing lights target select portions of the floor and give you unsustained images that seem frozen between the darkness. I like to dance to the beat of music that is not contemporary r&b once in a while. I like to look at these people and wonder what they do in their daily lives. Do they wear cat suits or leather corsets to work or school? Full body fishnet outfits and cherry red eyeshadow? Or do they keep this life a secret and fool their coworkers with beige pantsuits? My favorite part of the entire thing is that no one even dances together. Each person dances within a concrete bubble, closing their eyes and saying goodbye to stress. Waving their arms in fluid motions and twisting their hips to the beat of Don't You Want Me by Human League, praising the condensed air with their flailing limbs. I love this.

These are my parental units. It was my uncle's 40th birthday last weekend, so the theme was 1970's. Are they a couple o' kids or what? Do you think I look like them? I've received mixed comments. People always say I look like my dad, especially because my mother has pale skin and hair. But occasionally I'll get the "mother's eyes" or "mother's smile" comment. My dad is, indeed, grabbing his crotch in this photo. My mum kept slapping it away. Just so all of you know.

And this is a sandwich I ate recently. Simple, yet scrumptious. I have this dire need to take pictures of food I'm about to eat. It's like I'm giving it a permanent place in history before I nom it right up. I know I make a lot of allusions to myself killing things, but this kind of photography is similar to a serial killer keepsake.

Janzy Opens Up, Finally

2010-03-24T14:46:00.000-07:00

I'd never been in a crash till today. I had driven for 6 years without doing it, and although it wasn't severe, I feel I ought to have a time out or something, since it was my fault. There was no texting or calling or loud music involved, but there was a moderate dose of spaciness on hand. That's all it takes to rear end someone, of course.

On the way to work - my mother drove me - we stopped at starbucks and along with my chai, I helped myself to a decent portion of half n half by pouring it in a handy water bottle. I'm not sure why I do things like that. I could easily buy my own half n half. I guess it's just comical holding a water bottle a fourth of the way full of half n half. It's one of those "clothes on my cat" situations. Pair two things that don't go and it makes a joke. Half n half + water bottles. Clothes + cats. Bro hoes + books.

What's sweet though is my new nail color. It's a charcoal colored China Glaze that I renamed Dumbly's Crispy Hand Takes a Crunchy Swipe. It's implicative of the moment in Half Blood Prince where Dumbledore has to wipe his blackened hand across that dark cave wall, offering his blood so it'll open up into the cavern with the lake. Its original name was Black Diamond, but that's not exciting nor implicative of anything. I like to personalize my possessions. That's the reason my phone's name is Jarvis, my computer's name is Chauncey, my car's name is Scout Finch, and my razor scooter's name is Penny. It's why I have a nickname for most of the people I know that is, most of the time, an offensive way to tease them.

Also brightening my spirits is my recent tea shopping trip. I picked up my normal earl grey, some jasmine green, some regular ole mint, and some peach black. My beautiful tea boxes are adorning my desk in the following manner, with mother honey bear, tea shepherd.

Tuna Melt for Free

2010-03-01T18:00:00.001-08:00

You know what's pretty awesome? Free tuna melts. When I started this post I was going to talk about the empty flashes that streak across your mind, over your body, after all 8 of the people on your favorites list don't pick up their phone. How their voice messages feel going down your ear and through your static mind. But then I thought of the tuna melt I ate today. It was scrumptious and I earnestly doubt I've ever had a better one.

So this professional tuna melt maker, my (super-far-removed-too-difficult-to-explain) uncle Kerry, has been dubbed Martha Stewart by the employees at my main job because of his insatiable passion for 1.) grocery shopping, using the time honored rule of "buy only what's on sale" and 2.) creating magical feasts with said sale items. So I began calling him Uncle Martha, and when he became a grandfather a month-ish ago I began calling him Grampa Martha or Grampa Kerry. I'm a sucker for nicknames. I can't help it. They just stick.

And although my main job is a festering trench of despair, mainly due to the slaves who trod there, things seem to come together for lunch. There's a hot plate that Grampa Martha/Kerry is continuously grilling things on, and a community bottle of Tapatio. There are numerous microwaves, crock pots of all sizes, and long tables almost Hogwarts worthy. There are organized meals, where each person is in charge of one item. Then all morning something wafts into our offices, something spicy or meaty or otherwise succulent. Something more delicious than the dismal input, the calls from happy/angry southern customers, the paperwork.

So while I'm trapped in thatodd prison, dreaming of moments I fear I can't reach, it's a comfort to know that someone is planning lunch. No amount of imbecile coworkers who wear too many bluetooths per ear can ruin our sacred lunch.

Toy Story Clouds/Various Secrets

2010-02-20T15:32:00.000-08:00

I don't know what to say.
It used to be the more I talked things through in my head, wrote them down, the more I understood them and the clearer things would become. Now the more I try to reason through every problem, the foggier things are. The rain takes my thoughts. It takes away my creativity and my will. Those people who love the rain - they're on a separate plane than I am, further away from my brain and my ideas than anyone could ever be. Driving to work at 630 a.m., the rain is an eternal, violent reminder that things in life can't always be how I want them. Things in life that I want, that I would die to become, are flying far away from me and the things that I'm most scared of are crawling to take up space in my head.
When I miss writing the most, I cannot form sentences. When I drive, asleep and awake are the same thing. Everything out the window looks pretend. The other day, these clouds pestered me with their beauty, sticking up for themselves, claiming to be real. I couldn't believe it. Toy Story clouds, big as ever right above the 52 east. They were a painting.

Saltines with Memories

2010-01-07T00:48:00.000-08:00

Hunched over on my bed this bleak wednesday night, candle burning near me and water jar with a straw keeping it company (even water tastes better out of a straw), saltine crackers never tasted so goddamn delicious. The salt particles on them adorn my agonizing throat with a comfort I can't describe. My mind travels back to those childhood sick times when I'd call out hoarsely to my parents, complaining of the pain, until I was allowed to get up and eat salty tortilla chips for a while until I felt tired again, felt my debt to the sore throat monster was paid in full. My mother would make me gargle with hot salt water as well, which wasn't my favorite part, but I dealt with it in return for these seemingly confidential midnight occurrences. Tonight, I feel a little glum looking back.

My childhood has nightmares written all over it. I remember sitting in the very center of my bed and calling out so desperately for someone to rescue me. Sometimes if I was staying at my grammie's house she would let me get up and sit at the kitchen table with her. She would hand over a small glass dish of peach ice cream, tired eyes looking me over, assessing me, caring for me. Nothing needed to be said; it was enough for both of us to simply stare at each other, me admiring her burgundy night robe and her sitting with her porcelain teacup, uncomplaining.
Perhaps this is what I have to blame for my eternal loyalty to night. Maybe this is why I can never get anything done but for nighttime, why my mind is most acute and active when it's black outside.

Happy two-thousand-ten, everyone. I've missed you.

Nothing Like What I Usually Talk About

2009-12-17T23:19:00.000-08:00

It was impossible to sleep last night. Sleep was this hazy beacon on a far shore, taunting me and not letting me acquire its peace. I was the bobbing idiot who forgot how to swim. Therefore I remained in that halfway state for most of the night, turning over every few minutes, not wanting to glance the beaming red numbers telling me it was far past my bedtime, telling me the sun would soon pop the quiet of night.

Was it because he wasn't there and I was waiting? Even though he had a completely adequate excuse and I understood? The absence of his heavy breathing, his form lying to my right, was that what caused the wakefulness? His cats meandering about, wondering where he was, did that add to it? I was alone in his house, perfectly comfortable, and yet missing the home part. The him part. Perhaps that's why sleep couldn't even have been bought that night. If that is the case, then I feel weaker than ever.

In the meantime, I'm one of those people who walks out of restaurants still holding the plastic cup I was drinking out of. Right now I'm drinking root beer out of a cup from Fuddruckers. I used to have a collection of odd cups from different restaurants, but a lot of them got lost when my family moved. Ah, well. It's cold out, my excellent buddies.

Moaners, Composers, & Homicidal Thoughts

2009-12-01T14:37:00.000-08:00

At a party this weekend, a line of girls awaited excitedly for their turn in the face painting chair. Needless to say, there was a moaner in the line. A moaner is the equivalent of Kristen Wiig's SNL character, Sue, who gets so excited she just can't keep it in. Moaners, while nothing is wrong with them mentally, must keep making moaning sounds in order to show their excitement. They pace back and forth, moaning, smiling, with a fixed stare at your face. When it was finally the moaner's turn, she asked politely for me to make her a kitty. So I painted her face like a pink kitty and when she saw it in the mirror she released the biggest moan of all and immediately began meowing. A little later on, when it was time for balloons, she was unfortunately near the back of the line. Therefore, I twisted balloons for 20 minutes listening to her meow over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over until it was finally her turn again.
As I twisted a balloon into a ladybug for her, she did not stop meowing. She even meowed her thanks. I did not stop hearing meows, in other words her meows strongly persisted, until she went out of the room. Some people just have to moan and meow I guess.

I was chatting with Steef, the rascal over at Conversations with myself, and came to the realization that we always say funny things in a chat but never in our blogs. As might be expected, I don't remember any of the funny things that were said. I do remember my mentioning how obsessed I currently am with listening to Mozart radio on pandora, and that now I know way more about composers than I ever have before and I'm so besotted with them that I literally can't stop listening to them. Also, I found out I have quite the affinity for Johann Bach, and I had no idea who the hoot that was before. Also also, there are a lot of composers with the first name Johann. Johann Bach, Johann Pachelbel, Johann Hummel. If I name my first child Johann, will he/she be a famous composer? I really think about this stuff.

"I feel I'm somehow being made smarter," I told Steef. "I heard long ago that people who play classical music for their babies end up rearing smarter kids, so maybe it also works with 22 year olds who suck at life."
This was funny during the chat, it isn't now. Don't hold it against me. I don't even know what's going on right now.

But I did just acquire a wonderful red scarf that I crocheted myself. Last year & the year before, I made everyone scarves for Christmas. This year, I made myself one as I sat at The Living Room cafe [sweet-awesome cafe that resembles a living room] and re-read Deathly Hallows [sweet-awesome book that I want to marry illegally]. I've never owned an apple red scarf before, and I feel it's symbolic somehow. I dunno. Maybe I'm gonna kill somebody or something.

Oh yeah, happy December. "I'm gonna give ya the count of 10 to get your lousy, yella, no good keister off my property before I pump your guts fulla lead. One... two... TEN!" What movie, kids. You know it.

A Biased Sass Toward Bro Culture (and Enough Stereotyping to Last You Through 2010)

2009-11-25T14:22:00.000-08:00

Here's how I know I'm mildy OCD. On hurrying into a bathroom stall at Disneyland, pee angrily and nearly fighting its way out of me, I stood in a left-side stall for at least a few seconds deliberating whether or not I should go into a stall on the right side of the bathroom instead. Right is better, my mind argued. But I must pee now, my body bit back. I finally had to force myself not to think and drop my pants like an eager pastor's daughter. It feels so nice to pee, don't you agree?

The truth sucks sometimes, but I can no longer handle bros. Urbandictionary defines the term bro as

a usually white young male, found commonly in places like san bernadino county in california, as well as orange county. always, without exception, drive big lifted trucks, often white. has the name of their crew or whatever in big white letters on their back window (ie, "skin", "metal mulisha"). wear: trucker hats off center, plug earrings, sunglasses, wife beaters or no shirt, sagging dickies shorts, high black socks, skater shoes or those black corduroy slipper things, have a lot of tattoos of things like stars.

"My neighbor is a bro. He's got the lifted loud truck, wears the stuff, and even has a confederate flag hanging from his rearview mirror."

Also:

White trash guys, shitty music (usually the most popular rap, hardcore, and nowadays emo), ugly girlfriends, ugly hair, mouths constantly open, think it's cool to park half on the curb and half off, put Flowmaster exhausts on Nissan hardbodies and Toyota longbeds.

My mother's side of the family consists largely of bros, which is fine since they're my cousins and I'm genetically formatted to love them. There's a bro that frequents my bro-cousin's house, and with an intoxicated red face the other night he tried to make me hug him. Nothing a swift slap in the face won't fix, but then he had the grit to try and make an intelligent statement. "Y'know what I think?" he gurgled, "I think you're scared of people."

"I think I hate people like you," I replied. "Daaaaamn what is wrong with this chick," he said, affronted. My cousins, laughing, responded, "HA HA HA she's always like that, don't worry about it."

So bros aren't the only ones to appear stereotyped, I suppose. A couple weeks ago I went to In & Out with my friend and his friend (who I nicknamed Nate Archibald for looking exactly like a New York prepster.. hi judgmental world) looked at me for a minute before asking, "You're like, an art major, aren't you?" I'm not an art major, but he got his point across. My friend just burst out laughing, which is why I then made him buy my lunch. If people are making fun of you, oftentimes you can get stuff free. Try it sometime.

That same night, a WoW player I had just met sat observing me in a bar. Before long he asked me, "So you're one of those girls who watches anime and reads a lot, huh." WoW players may be introverts, but they sure know how to spot asian-influenced young women. It's also a known fact that WoWers can tell other WoWers simply by looking at them (stereotype #5,437).

Stare-sation

2009-11-14T16:31:00.000-08:00

As classic would have it, I ran into my older brother's ex girlfriend at Forever 21. Y'know, the crazy one. The really crazy one. Browsing through blouses, there she stood in the corner of my eye. Being one of those insufferable people who must consider every possible outcome of saying hello until it's too late, out of my mouth came her name in a loud whisper. Why did I whisper? Cause I'm dim and out of ideas. She looked at me, just looked, with her overlarge insect eyes. I know I'm being mean. Let's allow it for now since it's always been my specialty. Anywho, she's one of those people that doesn't make facial expressions. I tried to make conversation in your typical bullcrap way ("I really like your hat!"). "I got it here..." she mumbled, her words becoming one with the boppy music of consumerism. As I proceeded to explain my reason for being there (to return a vest I wore on Halloween so I could get store credit - guilty as charged), she stared at me with her inactive insect eyes: the blankest stare I had ever encountered in twenty two years. She could win an award for blank stares. I, the freak who normally has rubbish to say spilling out of my pie-hole, was so appalled at this godawful stare that I'm pretty sure I just stared right back for at least four seconds. "Best Blank Stare of 2009."

Since nothing of interest or consequence came out of that conversation, I'll move on to the next thing, which is Halloween. Yes, I'm well aware it's already Thanksgiving time. I ended up at a Beatles Rock Band party with my boyfriend and some of his buddies. We were the young'uns of the party, which was good because that made it look like we were all exceptional rock band players. It was a dress 60's/70's type thing, so we were forced to adhere but the highlight was when Harry Potter showed up. Harry Potter, among a sea of middle-aged people dressed as hippies. Naturally, there was some elation in seeing this Harry Potter, so naturally I made him take a picture with me.

Yes, Halloween was fun. For abysmal footage of me singing Just a Girl, click here.

In other news, my cousin Jones and I were bombarded by two male senior citizens leaving the movie The Fourth Kind. As we entered the theater, they were waddling out and verbally giving the movie a D+. Jones mistakenly asked if it was any good, and from there we stood eating our snacks while the senior citizens educated us for 15 minutes about the three types of aliens, top-secret government videos we'd never see, and how one of them used to work at Area 51. They were those kind of people that stand too close to you when you're talking. No matter how many times you step back without trying to draw attention to it, they're somehow 2 inches away from you again, breathing on your face. For people like me, thoughts like "how many times am I going to have to wash my face tonight?" and "did I remember my antibacterial gel?" take flight at this point. It was sort of like a pre-show, though. No complaints here.

Whose Monkey Arms? My Monkey Arms.

2009-10-21T03:50:00.000-07:00

It's often when we are utterly alone that our true selves come out. This is the thought that blossomed in my head last night after it had been knocked silly by the corner of my computer case, skewing my glasses and stinging my eye in the process. How, you might ask, did this computer case charm its way into my eye and a resulting headache? Because, dummy, I was holding it. Frequently, objects left in my grip will somehow find a way to harm me physically, and it's always my own body that betrays me to these injuries. My arms, for instance. My clumsy, swinging, monkey arms.

Now we've gotten that out of the way, I'll just tell you what's happening now. I'm in the kitchen because this is where the food is normally stashed, and my mother is in the other room watching Glee. She's hollering the plot at me as it happens, although I don't watch that show. It's like we have our own television discussion group, but no one is a part of it. What?

So what are you guys going to be for Halloween? It's one of my favorite holidays but I still don't know. I demand original costumes but so far I don't have any planned. Also known as: it's too late. I might as well be a white sheet ghost. Or like years 1-11 of my life: put on an Easter dress and call myself a princess. Torture.

My excuse for those years is, of course, that it was primarily about candy back then. Well, candy is still a substantial part of it. If there's no candy at the party, I'm outta there.

Some of my previous Hallowenic (not a word) exploits have been fun. But that was when I less clumsy, spacey and negligent.

Here is me as Dora the Explorer last year. Yes, I know all the songs. Yes, including the one that goes, "Backpack, backpack. Backpack, backpack... YEAAAAH!" Yes, I did return the Dora Backpack I bought for a full refund after the party. Yes, I'm a bad person.

My friend D and me as the Tweedles (obviously I was Tweedle Dee):

Here I am at my 20th Disney-themed birthday party. Had to have one at some point, y'know.

This was for my friend's superhero birthday party. I was Jubilee from X-Men.

And then here is a picture of me as Link from Zelda. Just kidding, it's my face on Link's body. You would never have figured it out, I know. My cousin Chris did it for me because he knows what types of thing make me really happy. Things that are really, really dumb.

I'm Just a Girl. Lucky Me.

2009-10-01T01:29:00.000-07:00

It's my birthday.

I was peed on by my gramsie’s new Japanese chin a couple days back. I went with her to pick it up and as I held it on the way back it kindly wet my t-shirt, warm and sudden.

Walking mindlessly around the kitchen this morning, I discovered the fridge. I discovered the pantry. I discovered incessant eating, for the millionth time. It's my goddamn birthday, why shouldn't I eat?

Depression has always been on-again/off-again with me. I'll date it for a while, then it breaks up with me. It's a subtle break up, but a wonderful one. Eventually it'll slide right back in like the scummy villain of a 1980's teen film. Birthdays have not always signified a depressed state, but they have recently started to. It began in 2006. I woke up in my little bed in NY, looked out my window onto the fire escape and the gorgeous solid wall beyond it, and I realized I was truly glad to be there. I did not, however, understand why sadness overtook me when I knew I wouldn't be happy in California either. I went to Bloomie to get a manicure. I repeatedly stole quick glances to my right, where Carla Gugino was also enjoying an elder asian woman's soft touch. The family I lived with took me to breakfast at 202. I then took the liberty of meandering round the city with little or no thoughts until I felt so inclined to eat again. And again. And then again at my favorite Thai place, where the waiters wore kilts with china-flats and called me, "hun."

The next year I woke up in my Gramsie's house in my mother's old bedroom, having no desire to enter the world where I knew there would be people waiting, despite the smell wafting toward me from the kitchen. My gramsie had made blueberry pancakes; I ate them slow and fixed. I stared at things. I knew I was staring at stupid stuff, like little canisters of salt, but I couldn't stop.

This year, I'm going to Disneyland with my dad the minute I wake up in 7 or 8 hours. I'm not sure how this'll affect me. But that's the plan and it won't change, though I'm already sensing a morbid irony. It'll be interesting, if absolutely nothing else. Since I'm a season passholder, I get a gift card on my birthday! Hello, sweet deals for 2009.

A couple minutes ago I arrived home from my boyfriend's house where we ate snacks and he gave me HP years 1-5 on blu-ray disc. He cheerfully handed the parcel over to my rotten, depressed looking face. I don't deserve him. I don't deserve to be handed blu-ray sets of any kind, not even if it was something awful like The Hills.

But listen. I've got Haribo Sour S'getti, SoBe Green Tea, Pokemon Pearl Edition, 5 entire blu-ray HPs to watch (all of which was provided by the supernice boyfriend), and a psychiatric appointment coming right up. Who the hell can be sad after all that treasure?

On Weekend Work & Spiders

2009-09-22T02:05:00.000-07:00

Spiders. Why do they exist? If solely to scare the crepes out of me the second I spot one, shame on the earth. But really, in recent years I have become so afraid of spiders that I can't rest after I've seen one until I see someone kill it or I am over 20 feet away. Leaving Teep's house the other night, there was a giant black widow near the front door. I freaked out and a small conversation followed.

teep: "Have you ever seen a sun spider, though? They're so big they'll make your dick fall off."

j: "I don't have a dick, teep."

teep: "Yeah, because you saw a sun spider."

There's a reason Samwise Gamgee hates Shelob. There's a reason HP and Ron Weasley hate Aragog. It's because Shelob and Aragog are spiders.

Erratic/perfect message of the week: The Supernice Boyfriend texts terribly. The other day he sent, "i mis i" and then "moss u i meant". So I just told him I mossed him too. He is the best in the best ways.

The past couple weekends have been especially interesting in a work related sense. At my 'hula girl' party a week ago, in the middle of my balloon-crafting, one of the little

customers stuck around to watch me at work. I had crafted a turtle balloon for her a little earlier on, so she held it and watched silently for some minutes. After being ignored for a while, she just started poking me with the turtle balloon anywhere she could, saying "nom, nom, nom. nom nom. nom, nom nom nom" repeatedly as if the turtle balloon were taking unrealistically sized turtle-bites out of my body. This did not end until I left the party. I suppose I enjoy being nom-nommed occasionally, but she was in her awkward stage. She didn't know when to stop.

A while back, I had a bubble party at one of those wealthy neighborhoods where you have to be on a special list to get inside the gate, and the mansions dot the mountainsides within the community. Therefore I was not surprised to be slapped in the face multiple times with a star shaped bubble wand drenched in bubble fluid; insanely wealthy children often think they can injure adults with little or no consequences.

There are, of course, times when a child is cool. Mostly, the cool ones are the smart ones. Yesterday I had a 'Princess Cindy' party, and the little girl realized, "....I don't think you're the real Cinderella 'cause the real Cinderella has blue eyes." to which I said, "Well, I think she only has blue eyes in the movie. In real life, they're brown! Just like yours." After this, she and I were best friends and she was sad to see me go.

I always claim that I hate children, but I guess there's a soft spot in there somewhere for the ones that are being raised correctly. The other day at the 'Princess Jasmina' party, all the girls would continually hug me and tell me how much they loved my sparkles, my hair, my outfit, and my earrings. One of them actually kissed me on the shoulder after saying simply, "I'm glad you are here." I love the ones that are innocent. The ones that have been disciplined and that appreciate people and things, and the ones that state things solid and true instead of using roundabout ways of communicating. It's almost like they're further along than most adults in their psyche.

I guess that must be a rule. When you're a child you know what's up. When you become an adult, you become a blithering idiot, to use Cruella's term.

Jeero-in-Glasses

The Pushies

2009-09-11T00:22:00.000-07:00

It's always astonished me how pushy people can actually be.

As a child, I was glad to run around in a bathing suit to be roasted slowly by the sun, burn my feet as a result of the sun, and dive back in the pool with delight. But as I grew older, I realized I didn't enjoy being half naked in front of that many people anymore. Not that there's anything wrong with being half naked in front of that many people, just that it doesn't exactly thrill me. This is the simple and logical explanation for my avoidance of pools. But some people are so pushy that they don't think it's a logical excuse; what's interesting is that I shouldn't need an excuse not to go swimming. It's swimming, for the love of string cheese. You know, one of those optional activities for people who actually like summer (which is not me)? It's not fantasy-genre novels. It's not breathing.

Then there are the kind of people who are so "summer-loungy" that they abbreviate the words swimsuit or bathing suit into just "suit."

"Hey, did you bring your suit? Gonna go swimmin'?" No, creepy man with hairy chest. I did not bring my suit. Sorry but I seem to have forgotten my suit. It's like something a middle-aged swinger would say to a naive under-aged girl. But thanks to paranoia, I don't remember the last time I've been naive nor will I ever be that foul trait that has never helped a living soul.

Someone actually told me today, "That's a bullshit excuse. Next time you'll swim." Oh, will I?

This is the point where I just have a laughter-fest inside my head and do not speak. These laughter-fests are primarily the reason why people think I'm crazy. They see this look on my face and they don't know whether to get as far away from me as possible or stay just to see what I might do.

But I'm glad to know that I have someone who really cares about these things. I mean, without these pushies, who would ever go swimming? Who would ever build sand castles? Who would ever have picnics? God forbid people stop having picnics. Who would the sun have to damage in that case, rodents? No, the sun needs human flesh to emit its deathly burning rays onto.

When, pray, did the mandatory swimming law come to pass and why didn't I get the memo? These pushies, they treat it as a.) a cult and b.) a crime if you don't join. "What, you don't SWIM???????? Ya don't like to SWIM??????? Do you even have a SUIT??!?!?!??" It's the kind of statement that, on its departure of your mouth, suddenly makes the pushie person deaf for five minutes while they stare at you incredulously. This person does not swim in pools, they think, horrified expression eclipsing their face, this person is a criminal.

Today, I passed the point of putting up with these pushies. I listen to a Harry Potter podcast. I read Lord of the Rings. I do not swim wearing a suit. While you're all out there welcoming sun damage with open arms in a world that is reducing me to ash every time I walk outside, I'll be in here watching Gurren Lagann, the anime the supernice boyfriend just introduced me to, and writing snail mail or something.

In other news, I recently received two text messages from an unknown number. One of them said, "Re deke in burrito en el refri" and the other said, "Y las haves del Carrol Negro estan abajo del tapete del carro." As you all know, my main language is Elvish. These text messages did not compute.

"That's S & M! That's my abbreviation for Super and Magical!" -Kenneth, from 30 Rock

Quoteth

2009-09-05T03:12:00.000-07:00

Since you're reading this, you're probably dying to hear about my most recent clumsy moment. I wish it was peanut butter 'n jelly time, but it's clumsy time. When I got home last night I felt my way through the living room and toward the fridge as usual. I refilled my water cup, snagged a straw from the pantry, and turned out the light. As I stumbled through the rest of the kitchen in search of the hall, my knees (both of them) collided with the biggest damn fan you have ever seen. Well, I couldn't see it at all.

As I plunked down on the floor in pain, chanting "ow. ow. ow. ow. ow," I wondered whether I would still have knees by the end of 2009. I ended up on my bed with ice packs on my knees and watching that documentary about the Harry Potter fandom, We Are Wizards, feeling as sorry for myself as that time I flung my avocado-topped bagel right atop the keyboard, mushy avocado sinking its way into the tiny gaps between keys.

So here's a first hand example of how much of a grammar snot I am. After my little brother Jesse's soccer game tonight, one of his friends came over for dinner. My mother had made pasta, and as he shoveled it down his throat with feeling, he said, "Spaghetti and pasta are like the best thing to eat before practice." to which I said, "Spaghetti and pasta, huh? Well isn't that great and cool."

But I think in other ways, I'm becoming a nicer person. I don't know how I feel about this yet, but I'm pretty sure it's disdain. I was clicking through someone's facebook photos when I came across one of those pictures where everyone looks hideous except the one person who somehow got lucky in the crappy lighting. So I commented, "Why does everyone in this photo look absolutely terrible except Renee?" and Renee commented later, "j, that's two genuine compliments you've given me in the last two days... tell me.... are you feeling alright?"

I am no longer a secret hermit. Maybe I never was. But my friends have been talking about it. My twitter message maybe a week ago was "It's time for my date with myself" to which one of my best friends, V, replied "That's silly. You're alone all the time."

Maybe that's why my friend Teep told me a couple weeks back, "Talking to you is sort of like talking to a semi-sentient radio." And maybe that's why I take pictures of my bed buddy, call it Jeero In Glasses, and get a serious albeit pathetic kick out of it. This is when I stop quoting, slap myself, shut my laptop, lie back and listen to the soundtrack to The Fellowship of the Ring. I'm going to crazy land. What?

Brennan Failed

2009-08-24T01:20:00.000-07:00

To start, I'll just go ahead and admit that on walking into the midnight showing of 'Inglorious Basterds' on thursday, I ran into a wall. You might recall my last post, when I ran into a door. I did not simply graze the wall, no no no. The wall met my face and knee with brazen impact. My knee and brain were on fire for the entirety of the Nazi-killing. If that alone did not make me feel like a fool, it happened because I was looking down at my borrowed Nintendo dsl. My eyes focused on the little screen, gathering force gems in order to open the next chamber & shooting phantoms in the back with my bow and arrow, I forgot that if you don't want to run into walls, you must look at where you walk. Not to say I don't run into things when I am looking at where I walk, but usually I can count rigid walls out of the picture when that's the case.

The most interesting part of this preposterous event is that I was asked by at least three people, when I told them what happened, "what'd ya do that for?"

Well I was merely most intrigued by the wall's solid nature and was wondering how it might feel to crush my kneecap and skull right against it to the point of seeing stars for numerous minutes. OBVIOUSLY.

More important than that atrocity, though, is a description of my new neighbor and what happened when we met.

I arrived home sometime in the middle of night. I saw him lingering out by his car. His spiked blonde hair shone among the midnight sky. Never a good sign after 1996. He had a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other, but he was one of the people who DO NOT look cool when smoking. Intending to walk straight into my house without a word, I strode confidently past his house and toward my own. Sensing his goal but dreading it, out it came desperate and disgusting. "Hi. I'm Brennan." And although multiple feet away, I give a sort of halfhearted "Oh hello... I'm j..." over my shoulder. "So how old are you?" came his inevitable reply. "I'm 21." No kindness was in my voice. Even when there IS kindness in my voice, most human beings cannot sense it (or so I'm told). But on he went, "So you are 21? That's cool, j... you like to go downtown, j? A bunch of my friends like that.. we like to go down there... do you ever go down there for bars or anything?" "I'm not much of a partier..." I said. "Yeah, me neither," he said, taking a gulp from his cup, the smoke from his cig drifting over the hedges. "But seriously," he continued, "would you wanna go downtown sometime?"

There was a point in my life when I decided that it was okay for me to be blunt, even though I'm simultaneously praised and despised for it (but mainly despised). At that point in the past, I discovered that there is no point in putting up with downright simpletons. I don't have to deal with idiotic children my age who do not understand what it means when someone doesn't want to speak to them and who wear oversized Bob Marley t-shirts that they probably bought in union square on their family trip to NY, sag their pants, hang out next to their car with the beat up fender, drive terribly, and prey on people who obviously don't give two cockroaches who they are or where they want to go because when it comes down to life in general, they want to go nowhere.

So I said

"No. I hate downtown." which was entirely true, and as he stood there speechless I went inside.

On a fabulous note, I got to hang out with my accomplice the other day. I call her my accomplice because she's my right hand lady cousin. We rip up the mall with our dweeby antics, and we stay in victoria's secret dressing rooms for far too long.

PS. I'm sorry if anyone likes Bob Marley... for some reason the oversized Marley shirt is too much for me to handle. It may also be because my older brother's hippie moron of a girlfriend always wore one... the same one... every day while she was living in his twin bed and feeding out of our refrigerator like a parasite. Sometimes explanations are important.

Will They Ever Believe Me?

2009-08-14T04:29:00.000-07:00

Last night, upon arriving back home from the midnight showing of District 9 (Remarkable. Get thee to a movie theater to witness a new chapter in history of most original films ever), my second-rate vision failed me once again. Through the hallway I stumbled, blinded by darkness and my seemingly outdated eyewear prescription, until I thought myself to be in/around my doorway. Believing it to be open, I strode right in, or at least as "in" as you can get when the solid oak door is shut.

It's finally time for me to take action and do my homework from Hannah-the-NY-Wonder. We're supposed to invite our bloggy friends over for a virtual dinner party! Here are the rules:

"If you were going to allow us to spend a night at your home, we'd like to know the following:

1. What books are on your favorite shelf?

2. What DVDs are on your favorite shelf?

3. What are your two favorite cookbooks?

4. Select 1-3 recipes you will cook for your special guests.

5. What will we be drinking that's available?

Feel free to add pictures/descriptions of anything else you want. I think we'll be able to learn a lot about each other simply by seeing what we like to read, eat, drink, etc.."

What a swell idea!!

I will start with the book I just read, the ones I am currently reading, and The One.

I recently finished Revolutionary Road by David Yates. I hope you enjoy my ghetto picture taking. Since my camera is STILL missing in action I decided to get real resourceful and use a mirror with my webcam so the words would not be backward. I now invite you to (besides come to my virtual dinner party) revel in my substandard photography. Anyway, the book was a HORRIFIC delight.

Since I just finished watching the anime series, which came out first, I felt I needed to eat everything Eva-related that studio Gainax produced. So on with the manga, I said: I'm currently on Neon Genesis Evangelion: Volume 6. If you like giant robots piloted by sexy 14 year-olds who have to beat the living innards out of these monsters called Angels who repeatedly invade Tokyo-3, the eva series is for you.

Tennessee Williams collection. Pretty sure I don't need to say anything else here, except that I

like reading plays aloud in my bedroom. With accents. Hopefully I'm giving the gods of Barnes & Noble a right old laugh 'n a half. (Did you catch that rhyme?)

The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien. Comfort food for your soul. I am so obsessed with Samwise Gamgee, by the way, that I a.) wrote a post named after him, and b.) named my dog after him.

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. This is my favorite book. My car's name is Scout Finch. She is the ultimate badass of american literature, and my attachment to the book produces tears every time.

The One - The book that started it all: Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh. Harriet is the one who told me I needed to write things down. She was the notebook-crazy loner inside of me, ultimately making me the same. She's also hilarious, and if you haven't read it you probably can in an easy and jovial hour. If you regret it, please let me know.

Which brings me to:

All of my loves. My notebook loves by the guiding light of Harriet. My favorite "shelf" would probably be these babies, my treasures, although they are not on a traditional shelf and are more likely hidden so other people won't ever find out about some of the ridiculous/embarrassing tripe I've written about in the past. That one on top is not yet filled, so it hasn't yet been tossed in the hiding place with all the others, to be rifled through with disgust/wonder later in life. You probably expected me to include Harry Potter. That's a given.

As for DVDs, my moving box containing them hasn't been opened yet so I'll just explain some things. My comfort movies are: Extended Lord of the Rings trilogy. Harry Potter and the all of them (you know it). The Little Mermaid (I've watched this movie probably over 60 times. All after I turned 19). Mirrormask. Dummy. Love Actually. Amelie. King of California. Mansfield Park. Batman: The Animated Series. The A&E version of Pride and Prejudice. I could watch any of them, at any time, however many times.

For those of you wondering, I do have a Disney DVD shelf.

My favorite cookbooks. Well, like Hannah and Cool As Folk, I cannot cook to save my life. Therefore, we'd probably end up in some hip area of town where all there is to eat is Pho noodle soup, and all there is to drink is milk tea with boba. Yes, I'm one of those people. What can I say, there's asian in my blood and it needs to be satisfied.

Now for a couple of last minute touches: Let's listen to The Smiths, The Queen is Dead or Louder Than Bombs. I'm still not over them. And if you wanted we could play The Legend of Zelda: The Phantom Hourglass, which is the game I'm presently trying to beat, or we could just wave our wands around.

Did I even need to tell you that I own a Harry Potter wand? Don't be surprised when you see my Golden Snitch 20 Questions, either.

I now nominate 1. Emily 2. Brian 3. Chelsea 4. Toothfairynotes and 5. Sarah!!! HURRAH.

Mean & Sentimental Things

2009-08-10T02:05:00.000-07:00

Please excuse my terrible photoshop job; when it comes to artsy applications I'm certifiably daft. Anyway, since I can't yet do my assignment from Hannah because of an unexplained absence of camera, I figured I would simply show you how much of a vile person I actually am. Here's something I posted on my little cousin Dani's facebook wall:

Wow, I feel like a bad person.

And here are the glasses Jeero (remember - from the Honest Scrap Award post) chose to wear today. He likes glasses, you see. The best part is that all glasses look good on him.

They're Calling You The Barmaid Now

2009-08-01T14:20:00.001-07:00

I am inclined to blame everything on dehydration. You're dizzy? It's dehydration. You're hungry? Dehydration. Your left wrist hurts? Dehydration. You just dumped out the entire box of cat litter into the dustbin and poured in a new bag because you didn't feel like scooping through the old stuff? Not an ultimate showcase of my laziness, but dehydration at its worst.
You might wonder why I have to deal with cat litter at all. That's because I'm housesitting at my cousin's house. This is the only house I ever really housesit. It's actually more like pet sitting, since there's a dog, two siamese cats, a bird, a tarantula, a tortoise, and two fish tanks. This time around, however, the dog went with them and the bird is being watched by professional bird watchers.... wha..? Anyway, that's no pity because it probably would have ended up like the bird from Dumb & Dumber if I had to care for it once more. All that meaning I would have beheaded it myself upon hearing it squak. I have a lot of anger right now, you see.
One of the catz, though, is one of the only felines I've ever actually loved. His name is Pierre but everyone calls him Fatty.

So I thought I'd just use this post as a bulletin for certain things I've realized over the past few days.

The first thing I realized is that I hate jazz music. [UPDATE: okay, maybe just free-form jazz is what I hate. Nevertheless, everything was irritating that night!] A bunch of you are probably cursing my lowly refinement in musical preference, but jazz is no good if you're pissed off and trying to sleep after a day where you found out you owed a lot of nonexistent cash. I blame it on the saxophone. There I am, lying in a weirdly shaped U and trying to close my mind, but the unrelenting sax blasting from the other room is impaling my eardrums with rows and rows of pointless and obnoxious notes that blur together to end up sounding like some sort of laser gun from a kitschy 90's video game. This increased my hate for the person blasting it, along with the music itself. I doubt he will ever know who he is, so I won't say "you know who you are."

The second thing I realized is that when I'm getting paid for something, most of the time I'm not doing what I'm getting paid for. An instance would be last Saturday when I was to attend a 5 year old's party dressed as a "hula-girl" to make balloons, orchestrate the limbo, and teach a terrible and probably offensive fake hula dance to twenty small children. However, the larger part of my allotted time had me serving the sunglass-ed/white shorts-ed parents small cups of frozen margarita and seafood appetizers. "Oh, you're getting us drinks now, are you? Can I get another margarita, then?" and "It's so funny.. they're all calling you 'The Barmaid' now!" are both sentences I heard at this party. 'Children's Party Character' is my title, serving alcoholic beverages and getting chummy with the cook is apparently my game. Yes, I finally taught the dance at the very end when the children were out of the pool, but when I got in my car to leave I laughed for a solid 6 minutes before I could actually drive.

The third thing I realized (which is something I must re-realize every time I'm in some sort of Harry Potter line) is that even annoying people enjoy Harry Potter. On Sunday, I saw Half Blood Prince for the fifth time, and four seats away from my air-conditioned movie throne sat a woman with that type of giggle everyone hates. That kind that sounds like a sort of cross between a Furby and a demented Pilsbury Doughboy (not that the Pilsbury Doughboy isn't already demented).

Fourthly, I really do have a twin that was separated from me at birth. One of my besties, Teep, was walking into Target with me. We were in that sort of Target Purgatory, in between both sets of automatic sliding doors. Without so much as a glance toward each other, we both raised our arms, pointed at the doors, and shouted "Alohomora!" Need I say more?

In closing, one of the reasons I love my boyfriend is because he sends me text messages that say things like this:

"zankoku na tenshi no you ni
shounen yo shinwa ni nare!"

In other words, Evangelion theme song lyrics. Bein' a geek gets you points with me.

Hannah, I can't wait to do my assignment! End.

I Don't Think Ibuprofen Helps, But I Always Take It Anyway

2009-07-30T18:33:00.000-07:00

Someone gave me an Honest Scrap Award. How very nice in a week that's been predominately unpleasant! Some evil little gnomes have stolen my sanity. I don't know how to get it back yet, but my natural inclination to break porcelain dishes is swelling dangerously. Anyway,

The Honest Scrap Award rules are as follows:

1. “The Honest Scrap” award is not one to hold all to your self but it must be shared!
2. The recipient has to tell 10 true things about themselves in their blog that no one else knows.
3. The recipient has to pass along this prestigious award to 10 more bloggers.
4. Those 10 bloggers all have to be notified they have been given this award.
5. Those 10 bloggers should link back to the blog that awarded them.

Thanks ASIF! for awarding me as sweet number 8! Like you, this is the first award I remember receiving in at least ten years. On we go with the riff raff. Keep in mind that these are things some may know and some may not, but are all random as necessary. I think the main people who actually read this won't know much of it.

1. I have an UGLYDOLL named Jeero that I cannot sleep without. I also collect some of the other ones, including Moxy, Toodee, Bop 'n Beep, Target, and special editions of Jeero himself.

2. I have The Little Mermaid sheets. My friend Mikie bought them for me as a present off ebay. They're one of the reasons I think about going to sleep on an hour by hour basis.

3. I don't have my own netflix account, I just use my cousin's because he signed in on my computer once. Sneaky, cheatsy, hobbitses (these are words you're probably, or deserve to be, thinking about me)

4. This year was supposed to be my Year of Enlightenment. That's a term I made up so I would learn, read, listen to music and watch as many movies as possible. So far I've read 10 books (including 6 Harry Potters that I re-read), 5 graphic novels, and 4 plays. I've bought 11 books. I've seen 27 movies in theaters, watched 41 movies somewhere besides the theaters, and listened to 14 albums. I'm almost done with two more graphic novels and one more book. All this makes me want to kick myself, but also be glad.

5. I've hand written maniacally ever since I was 14. I usually keep my current notebook with me and hide the rest. I'm on my 24th beloved notebook. Oh yeah, and I talk to them like they're a real live pal. It's sickening, I know.

6. I am obsessed with making lists and crossing them off. You should check out listography.com and get a listography yourself! It's the best site I've found all year.

7. I became a live-in nanny for a year when I was 18. Ha ha. That was fun. Since then I have been an Abercrombie & Fitch worker (GAG ME!), a production assistant, a toddler's movement instructor, a waitress, a camp counselor, and a costume character.

8. The homepage for my computer is Mugglenet. I. Love. Mugglenet.

9. I have anxiety. Very, very bad anxiety that includes OCD and panic. I also cry a lot. One of my best friends has suggested that I submit a video to crying while eating.

10. I failed every single one of my classes this year. So much for my Year of Enlightenment. But HAY: at least I'm trying again in a month. Cancel it out, right? Riiiight?

ALRIGHT, here are the people I'm awarding.
1. EMILY!
2. alicia!
3. cool as folk!
4. mydodsmother!
5. hannah!
6. mary beth!
7. dylan!
8. wheezy!
9. amy!
10. CHELSEEE!

No Spoilers Here (I swear this is not exclusively about Harry Potter!)

2009-07-15T15:50:00.000-07:00

A primitive pleasure gripped my insides this morning on discovering that Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince outdid both The Dark Knight and Star Wars III: Revenge of the Sith in midnight ticket sales, pulling in a new midnight release gross record of $22.2 million (despite the fact that none of that money belongs to me... well, no money if I stop to think about that one). What IS in my possession is the unnatural pride spewing from my being as a fan, something I'm sure is mightily annoying to anyone who doesn't care as much. I didn't order my tickets a month and a half ago for nothing. I didn't stand in line in front of two borderline ancient women wearing Gryffindor robes when, let's face it, they were clearly either Hufflepuff or Slytherin according to what they were saying and the fact that they kept trying to push their way past my house elf and I, as though that were a feasible thing to do when manic fandom practically spurts itself from my ears any chance it gets.
Let's just say I adored the film. I understand not much can be done about creating something exactly like the book, which is why I've always come to regard the films with a different pleasure. To understand why David Yates succeeded with this film and the last requires a movie-watcher's pleasure, not a book-reader's, though I am a book-reader first and foremost. This is the reason for the word 'creation'. It's a new creation using an opposite medium. If it weren't, people who are angry about the films would have no other choice but to be satisfied with someone sitting on film, reading everything the book says and acting out each character. What they actually have done was bloody brilliant, I believe.
In other news, I've set up my desk in the new house, against my vivid purple wall, and I've hung up three things (only three? astounding for a hanger upper like me!) so far if you care to have a looksie at this mediocre photo taken with my 'puter's camera:

On the far left is a small hand drawing of an Angry Woebot that my cousin Cissifer had drawn for me from the artist himself, Aaron Martin. In the middle is a picture of Kate Winslet, who is one of the sole reasons I wish to act in life. On the right is my receipt from when I bought Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows at its midnight release those two long years ago. If you're thinking about de-friending me now, I understand. Who else do you know that saves a book receipt for that long?
Notwithstanding, these are things that mean something paramount to me, and I am happy to have hung them up as the first additions to my new favorite wall.
PS: there is no irritating-man-standing-on-his-back-porch-smoking when I look out my windows these days. Thought I'd just give you an update, for those of you who knew about that little travesty from a while back!

Who's Afraid of the Clumsy-Wolf

2009-07-08T17:02:00.000-07:00

It's 2009 already. I'm twenty one years old. I've got to stop pretending I'm not a clumsy nutcase.
Swaying when I stand up is normal. Falling over my own feet is normal. Knocking over the edge of the rolled taco tray so that the mini plastic pot of red hot sauce makes a beeline for my t-shirt (with the addition of some stray splashes dotting my favorite trousers, followed by a burning sensation as the spiciness sneaks its way through them to my skin underneath) is normal. Somehow losing my grip on toast i've just spread jam onto and watching it, in jeeringly slow motion, fall to the floor face down with a soft slam - these are things I must accept.
I write notes to myself on my hands routinely with sharpie. And so seeing myself in the mirror, long after i've been reading with my hands supporting my head, I hardly wince at the recognition that my face has met with the same fate as my hand when I attacked it with sharpie earlier. I wipe it. Most of it remains. I give up.

With dawning realization, I figure out that none of this matters. Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince will be released in exactly one week, and I'm in the middle of re-reading every one of the books that made me a geek. That fix it ticket? Later. That address change? Later. Linner-time? Well... now.
But everything else: later, and take me to Hogwarts via glorious paper and ink as my clumsiness fades away.

those ones

2009-06-13T13:57:00.000-07:00

as i mentioned to a loved one earlier this week, staying at my gramsie and grampy's house is having an abundantly medicinal effect on me. they are wholesome people, the type that lack nothing. you are in the room with them, and they quench you.

my gramps, always dignified yet somehow slack, has been in a wheelchair for a couple years now due to numerous hospital stays from MRSA. this morning, i stood at the counter fixing my tea. my eyes landed on grampy sitting at his usual spot at the head of the table, his spectacles halfway down his nose, thumbing through the paper, looking exactly the same as how he has always looked to me except that his bottom half rested in the wheelchair. briefly i recalled his gaunt state of nearly a year ago, in and out of the hospital too many times to count, all of us trying to accept the fact that our indestructible man had finally become vulnerable.
and here he has proven rationality wrong by coming back to himself full force, scruffy hair included, reminding me of the gramps i always knew with only the addition of a discreet black wheelchair. my grammy has gained her healthy weight back, the constant worry no longer eating at her insides.

i couldn't be happier to stand there and stare at someone.

Putting the Fun Back in Complaining

2009-05-13T19:46:00.001-07:00

As there is nothing I can do to end the tyranny of the toll road, it'll have to suffice to complain about it. I'll start with the tagline of this particular toll road, which is "Putting the fun back in driving."

When and for whom, oh Mister Toll Man, did driving lose all its fun, except when there was a toll to pay? Now i'll tell you about the office I had to drive to with the desperate wish of avoiding the multiple hundreds of dollars I owed in evading their "fun toll road" like a first rate ignoramus.

Upon finally reaching this office, after some brief and paltry anxiety sessions at being unable to find its conveniently obscure location, I noticed the flags waving out front like a beacon of freedom and hope. For some reason, the words "toll road" and "freedom and hope" confront each other with some discord. There stood an American flag. A California flag. And in the middle, as though reigning over the masses, stood a white flag with the company's title printed purely upon it, mocking me completely with its relentless waving. "You're here because you must beg. You're here because you're an idiot" the flag told me. I gathered my limited courage and made my way inside the briskly aired building, a wave of it greeting me as I threw open the door.

Once inside the cramped apartment devoted to customer relations, my eye targeted a framed, enlarged photo of a customer service representative looking at the camera with a fake smile and - brace yourself - a thumb's up. I wondered at the direction of this photo shoot, and the kind of life its director led. I wondered at the designer of this office, and what struck him to believe that photo would bring anyone glee. I sat down in the only available station, with the only woman in the building, who dared my patience by sporting chippy pink nail polish. As I said in an entry from last year, "if there is one thing I hate worse than a screaming baby, it's chippy pink nail polish. Not only is it pink, it's chippy." Her chippy pink nailed hands typed away at her computer, the deciding factor in my punishment for driving. All the while I stared at the glass bowl of candies, imagining myself unwrapping one and consuming it. My mad laugh probably frightened this woman. I imagined her going home that night, telling her husband about the psychotic girl she dealt with today as she made a box of mac 'n cheese for her 4 year old son, who would probably never evade a toll road.

The moral of this entry is this: do not listen to me when I'm angry about things that can't be helped. Soon enough we'll be forced to pay to walk outside. We'll be forced to pay to pee, like in 'Urinetown'. We'll be forced to pay to say hello to our mothers.

It all started with toll roads, folks.

What Happened When I Wore My Least Favorite Color

2009-04-25T14:08:00.000-07:00

People ask me what happened, I have no idea. I'll try to recount while I'm still drowning in the idiocy of it.

Some of you (excluding Emily) may not know that I'm a costume character for work. On this hectic, fair-weathered day I'm dressed up as Sleeping Beauty. Well, "Sleepy Princess" if you want to get technical with the patents. On my way to _______'s seventh birthday party, I (Sleepy Princess) get pulled over by the dear old fuzz. Are you getting a decent visual now?

"Where're ya headed?"

"Work..."

Mr. Police procures a smirk. My mind's eye taunts me with visions of the Grinch. That part where he gets a wonderful, awful idea. Time code: 1:00 minute in. Check it.

"Where do you work?"

I proceed to explain why I am wearing a wig the opposite color of my eyebrows and license photo, a gold sequined crown, excessive pink blush, and an outright hideous carnation-pink dress that billows around my torso and the seat belt containing it.

And here I thought princesses transcended the force. Idiot me.

I somehow escaped with a fix-it ticket in place of a speeding ticket. Well, not 'somehow' really. If you were a cop, why in the name of xbox would you ever give a pathetic excuse for a princess a speeding ticket? Anyway, apparently you're not supposed to have tinted windows. APPARENTLY! And APPARENTLY, my registration is overdue. Trifles!

The party, if you wonder, consists of me painting princess crowns on many a cake-covered face, sculpting horses/ladybugs out of balloons (until someone wanted a ladybug riding a horse, which I end up making for the whole party. Who knew a ladybug could own a horse), painting a total of one hundred grungy little nails, and answering questions about my prince (he's at home.... studying..?) and other people in my life.

"Do you have parents?"

Yes I do!

"What're their names?"

...Mum & Dad.

"Do you have fairies?"

Yes.

"What're their names?"

Flora, Fauna, & Merriweather! (Thank you, inner Disney-freak).

On the way home, I was angry. When I'm angry I need food. When I need food, I can't wait. I can't even get out of my car. Hence, drive-through mexican is a godsend. He hands me my shrimp burrito, his eyes rest on my messy princess appearance for an ounce longer than is appropriate, and he says "Extra red sauce for you, sunshine."

I guess wearing pink once in a while does have its perks.

ps: You asked for a picture and this is the only one I have in that outfit. Apologies for the J-like-face on what appears to be a dark-skinned princess who dyed her hair blond.

The Wide Window

2009-04-10T14:44:00.000-07:00

When you read my posts, do you realize you're reading the words of a total zealot for childish, bright and colorful things? That's why my desk looks like this,

and that's why a window above it would be such a joy, if only...

What happens above that psychedelic cluster of crayons, cap gun bullets, atomic fireballs, mermaid figurines, and gluesticks? That wide window that so graciously shines its energy upon my monkey shaped scissors and various white power adapters has a downside only I must suffer.

Did you look closely at this photo? If you did, you will have noticed a man standing on his back porch.

This man, or "neighbor" if anyone is ignorant enough to call him so, is the fiasco spoiling my wide window.

I must tell you I named it The Wide Window because it's the title of a Series of Unfortunate Events book that I love. The one with Uncle Ike and the Lachrymose Leeches. Most things I think are nice concern books, which is why this "nay-bur" is ruining my entire bookish fantasy by lounging around smoking on his back porch day in and day out as if he wants to die now instead of in ten years. At the rate he's going, I cannot see why he must exit the house to smoke because he is probably so drenched in the smell that he drags it into the house when he's done anyway. Woooooo wee, someone's bitter.

I don't care if people smoke. I dated a heavy smoker, I'm used to it. I care about my Wide Window being absolutely ruined by a lurker to the point where I have to check and see whether he's out there before I open my drapes to the robin's egg sky and the lush flora lining the edges. In the time it's taken me to type this so far, he's been out four times. FOUR! The movie watcher in me already took a picture (which I provided for you) and pretended to shoot him as a sniper. Now what does the paranoid potential-victim in me do when I feel like he's always staring? Perhaps I should just eliminate that me and stick with the movie watcher me. It's a much cooler me. Spy shit (E. Ring, 4/9/09).

So you, lurker, in your hooded sweatshirt and Nascar-event tendencies, are the single thing i'll be happy to leave when my family moves (albeit 3 minutes away).

PS: scratch that... FIVE TIMES NOW he's leaned his (is it brown or blonde? I hate not being able to tell) limp head over the fence and infuriated me with his neverending presence in my should-be-delightful window.

You Won't Know the Subject Till You Read the End.

2009-03-26T12:23:00.000-07:00

I hate talkin' politics. Everyone thinks their outlook is smarter than the next kid, and that if they could JUST GET SOMEONE to listen to it, that someone would see the light. The truth of this matter is that no one listens to anyone when people are talking politics. Talking about politics, unless everyone is of the same affiliation, is like sitting in a room full of teens from different social classes. They are just as brutal as the teens. They are just as snobby.

Anywho, on the way to a party that had little or no allure to me and an obligatory/curious allure toward my friend Trevor, a subject was brought up that involved politics.

"I don't want this to turn into a political discussion," I said, "so I'm giving you one sentence to describe your views on the matter."

And at the exact time that I said, "and NO semicolons!" Trevor said, "Can I at least get a semicolon?"

At least I know there are other nerdy people in the world who think in grammatical terms, and who look exactly like me.

(PS- I know how to make balloon sculptures now. Just some news.)

On The Way To Silly City

2009-03-04T16:01:00.000-08:00

I passed a billboard on the way to my doctor's appointment this morning. There was a picture of a big dumb shaggy dog, and next to it were the words, "My owner is smart. She shops at Vons." I suppose we were supposed to assume that the dog was speaking. We were supposed to assume that the thousands of humans with decent eyesight who drive on that freeway every day care about whether their dog thinks they are smart.

I see a furry creature telling me how they feel about their master's IQ when the only furry creature I would ever trust with spoken/written words would be Chewbaca. So the absurd looking bearded collie staring down at the frogger field did not convince me to shop at Vons, and I learned that Vons needs a new marketing director.

In the hospital waiting area, there was a wide frame with an animated picture of perhaps 8 children all holding hands. Above the rough doodles of cartoon kids were the words, "Children Love Each Other - Children Love the World." Some 'artist' somewhere got paid some amount of money to come up with an incomplete sentence reminiscent of caveman-speak. God bless us, every one.

There's a starman waiting in the sky
He'd like to come and meet us
But he thinks he'd blow our minds
There's a starman waiting in the sky
He's told us not to blow it
Cause he knows it's all worthwhile
He told me:
Let the children lose it
Let the children use it
Let all the children boogie

-David Bowie

On a better note: I'm becoming more obsessed with PB&J sandwiches as the days progress... it started about a year ago and as of now I feel like I'm going to need intervention. But what a perfectly lovely thing to be addicted to.

Do Not Talk To Strangers

2009-03-03T20:11:00.000-08:00

I am a fan of talking to strangers when something about them catches my eye. A shirt of a band I love, an interesting hairstyle, et cetera. I have no problem when a stranger with the same motives says something to me. But sitting here at Starbeezy's with my buddy Angela, we were approached by a Creepy McCreeperson of the third kind. He sidled up to us like a shy cat, his yellow beanie almost glowing in the muted Starby-light. The idea was money, I thought. He's going to ask, and I'm going to deny him because I believe in providing food-not-money. But the question escaping his mouth was not about money. It was a faint muttering coming from somewhere within his drooping head, "do either of you have boyfriends?"

"HUH?" was the crackwhip that came right out of my mouth. If you read my last entry, you understand that HUH. So he repeats himself, only slightly louder this time, but I could tell it was the same by the way his chapped red and feeble lips formed the sentence.

While Angela sat staring, I answered for both of us with a general "Uh.... yes." I was going to add a flourish by saying I was married, but as I was not wearing my normal assemblage of rings I felt I'd be contradicted by my empty hands, which rested firmly on my 'puter's keyboard.

And so he stalked away without another word. We watched him at the table outside for a few minutes, the table where two seemingly 14 year olds sat and kissed each other on the necks while he sat frozen with his hands underneath his low chin as a result of his slouchy head.

Now I remember why I have anxiety about pulling up directly next to people when I stop at red lights, why I wear my huge metal rings, why I don't look at the floor when I walk so as to appear a victim. Because everyone is a F*CKING sinister ratsbane.

What About Their Legs? They Don't Need Those...

2009-02-22T16:03:00.000-08:00

I don't know I'm giving dirty looks until I'm already half way through them. My mum likes to tell me I'm scowling. She uses that term because she reads novels when most people who don't read novels would just use the words 'frown' or 'dirty look'. My mother doesn't read Potter, but JK Rowling uses the word a lot. Anyway, "Uh.. J, you're scowling". Why thank you. Thank you very much.

We're all sitting in Souplantation, aka The Nation, and I'm zoning out. Zoning out is just something I like to do, once I figure out that I'm doing it. It's like vacation. Anyway, I feel a microscopic voice travel toward my mind: "J, are you ever going to get married?" with 'married' being the most prominent, dreaded word of the whole sentence. The question does not register; as I said, I was on vacation, but I did hear that last word. I turn my head slowly, their stares confirming the direction of their speech. They're asking me something. I say, "huh?" doltishly, mouth open, realizing a moment later that my 'huh' was stuffed with disgust. I realize a moment later I was 'SCOWLING'.

The three of them share a titter at my mean and doltish HUH. "How incredibly J of her! How incredibly herSELF of her!" That's what the titters mean. The titters mean that they already knew the answer, but were asking for entertainment. There is no answer to something like that. As I turn my head, ready to resume my vaca, their voices blend into the general clatter and eventual low buzz of the restaurant. "I can't even imagine her being married.... can't imagine her being PREGnant! Blah blah blaah....."

I don't get offended at that sort of thing. If they read this, they'll want to apologize but they won't need to. The fact is, I can't make marriage my long term goal. You can't control that part of your life, you only have a say in half of it. Am I ever going to get married? Not young. Maybe. Maybe not. It does not depend on the act of marriage, it depends on another person. Maybe I'll be one of those "aunts" that travels all the time. Maybe by the time I'm ready, marriage to inanimate objects will be socially acceptable. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.

What I do know is that last night, I had one of the best peanut butter & jelly sandwiches of my entire life, and at this second right now, I'm not worried. When you ask me what I'm doing and I tell you 'I'm jumping off a cliff' when really you're watching me as I lazily stand and stir honey into a steaming cup, I'm just kidding. Obviously I'm stirring honey into a steaming cup and not jumping off anything. So don't you worry- grab a pb&j for now, and take this excerpt to decipher however you wish.

"'Then dig a hole in the ground,' said Legolas, 'if that is more after the fashion of your kind. But you must dig swift and deep, if you wish to hide from Orcs.'"

Them There Frivolous Rappers

2009-02-08T19:47:00.000-08:00

I named my new puppy Gamgee, after Samwise. Make fun of me if you want, but I'll have Gamgee on you like a three-headed dragon. (When she's a little older, of course...)

I want you to know something about my grampy. Even if he's sitting in a wheelchair and barely able to stand, he still says clever things. I don't know where he gets them. I'm not even related to him by blood, but I probably inherited his sarcasm. The other night, someone gave him a chocolate chip macadamia cookie and he said, "Thank you for this cookie. This cookie changed my life around". When everyone laughed, he maintained his deadpan expression. I don't know exactly what was funny about that, but the fondness I felt as I witnessed it almost made me drop the mug I was holding; a feeling on the border between fondness and idolization.

He also told me he found out about Lil Wayne while reading the paper. "They want to give him some award..." he said to me, "I looked at that face and I saw something evil in it. So I rebuked Lil Wayne. I said, 'ugly face, go away!'"

My Grampy is not racist (I don't think), but what he said had me running toward the powder room to pee. The man's a genius with his one-liners, like Tracy Morgan on 30 Rock. Have a nice day, my friends, and try to floss tonight.

J Full of Q's

2009-01-31T22:23:00.000-08:00

Now what can I sell to buy a pass for Coachella 2009?

Blanche Syndrome

2009-01-31T19:53:00.000-08:00

I had almost forgotten why school made me feel dumber.

After a much needed hiatus from the drab world of community college, I went back today for the orientation of my online literature class. As regulations and specifications oozed out of my professor, numerous questions were spat in her general direction. The one that made me feel the most like my good ole (?) preschool days was when a taller and dumber version of Dakota Fanning felt inclined to ask, "...what if I don't get it? Cause sometimes I read something and I just don't understand it!"

Uuuuuuhhhhhhh... what if you cough today? What if you blink? GREAT SCOT, whatever would you DO?

When I glanced at the teacher, expecting a twin reaction, I laid eyes on a face that has patiently been putting up with idiots for years. There was no rolling of the eyes. There was no sigh and look-away. There was solemn acceptance. She knew these people are stupid. She knew how to handle stupid people. That's when I understood, for the first time, I would never be able to be a teacher. Not that I've ever wanted to be a teacher, but I knew I just never could. Maybe for 3rd graders, but for college students? No, no. Most college students have forgotten how to drive/park/talk.

That reminds me... I had a sit-down at a fun/familiar sushi restaurant with my mother after the class. While I sipped my green tea and I finished up my miso, there to the right sat a choppy-blonde-haired girl that I had seen around school. Now don't get me wrong, I love choppy hair. But there on her face was the thickest layer of false skin colored foundation I had ever set eyes on. Who knew what she looked like without any! You can imagine my incredulity as she pulled out her compact and started to apply more: more false skin color and more spidery black substance to her eyelashes that already appeared to be mimicking tarantulas. Call me old fashioned, but why anyone would feel the need to apply more of whatever whale fat on their face inside a sparsely populated sushi restaurant simply astounds me. If you want to look pretty all the time, so be it. But what if it's a hot day? What if it rains? Your facade will swiftly be carried away to kill the fish in the ocean. I have nothing against makeup. What I have a problem with is everyone trying to hide their incompetence like Blanche in A Streetcar Named Desire. Sure, she had some pretty lame stuff happen to her, but she handled it pathetically because she wouldn't let go of the idea that she was above everyone else, even when she was crazy. The audience is supposed to have pity on her. Would you have someone look at you and have pity?

Ask questions, but not ones you can answer in your head. Look pretty if you want, but don't hide. If you want to wear orange lipstick you should do it, and if you want to wear a purple false eyelash on one eye, you should. If you want to wear the ugly sweater you found in your grandpa's closet, crammed with tiny holes, you should do that too. Even if you look uglier in it.

The Ones Who Ignore the Good Things

2009-01-21T20:04:00.000-08:00

Although I've been aware of the way [someone I know] handles forgiveness and love for a very long time, only today did I realize why. When this person wants to say they love you, [person] buys you something or acts overly cordial; whereas I am more of a blunt spear to the head most of the time: "You're pissing me off", "Thank you so much for doing this", "You are one of the only people who understands that about me". And this person is more of a "Do you want some more tea? I'll get it for you...", "Order whatever you want, don't worry about the money", "Let's see that movie tonight!" Exceptionally sweet, I know. Please know that was not sarcastic.

But as I said, I now know the reason why [person] likes to show and not say. It is because when you say it or you write it, plain as day, the receiver makes you feel foolish. They make you wish you had chosen the contrastive way of showing you care, because they themselves do not know how to react to something so nicely stated.

Now this person I've been talking of is a complex and intelligent character, and so is everyone else that has had a similar reaction. The reason why they show and don't say being answered, another enduring question flows to mind: Why can't they cope with some genteel statement when they are so intelligent? I am intelligent too, but I cannot fully explain their mind process. It's as though when you tell them how you feel toward them, even and especially when that feeling is positive, they think of it as some sort of mathematical equation that they don't recognize and then they become exasperated because they normally know math. As a result of this they blow the subject off, they turn the subject into something else, or they make light of something heavily said. The world is like one gigantic coop filled with wildlife that will scatter if you get near them.

Query?

2009-01-21T12:57:00.000-08:00

How is it that after months of thinking about waffles, I finally have one and it tastes bland as plain egg whites? How is it that after having dishwater spilled on me time after time, I finally take the caution of wearing a cover-up over my clothes and then no dishwater dares aim its staining power toward the clothing I don't mind getting stained? How is it that when you really need someone, they don't need you? Well, that's because you aren't supposed to count on people. You are supposed to count on yourself and/or divine providence, and it takes a million times to learn.

On a different note, how come whenever I see something I don't like in the house, my compulsion to toss it hard over the neighbor's fence becomes so fierce? How come I do it, as I did with the rotten apple I found on the counter today, and why does it feel fine? I actually know this too: it's because I can't stand them and their illegal cock-fighting tendencies, or the sound of the roosters as they crow. Hour upon hour, upon hour, upon hour, upon hour.

"It's just not cool to be a nazi anymore, baby" -Dan Dunn in Half Nelson

Somewhat of a Conversation

2009-01-14T02:26:00.000-08:00

As I stare down at Josi's sneakers, a thought pushes its way through my brain, rude and foreign: "what has the government done to my 13 year-old brother to make him believe in anarchy?"

Yes. He had, in fact, roughly scribbled with a grubby pre-teen hand the anarchy symbol on both the tips of his classic black and white Chuck Taylor all-stars. Some questions promptly followed.

Me: "Do you know what anarchy is?"

Josi: [indignantly] "Yes! It's the absence of government!"

Me: "What has the government done to you?"

Josi: [he mumbles something about tax rates and wishing there was no government]

Me: "Are you old enough to vote?"

Josi: "No..."

Me: "What do you think would happen if we had no government?"

Josi: "I'd be able to do whatever I want!"

Me: "What is the government particularly barring you from doing right now?"

To that he had no answer. This was the moment where my dad found out about it, instructing my kid brother to remove his shoes at once and scribble out the symbol. But I like things clean and neat (at least when Sharpie is involved). I therefore spent some time scrubbing the crude sharpie marks with acetone and my mum finished the job with magic eraser.

What exactly IS magic eraser? It looks like a block of packing foam, but it removes EVERYTHING. Even anarchy symbols from Chuck Taylors. I've been thinking about whether it might remove an actual person if I tried erasing them.

You know what is funny about my brother's beliefs? He had no problem giving them up. Once I proved him wrong, he obediently removed the shoes and hugged me goodnight. It's insane what some people might do for attention. I must remember that most kids need it like they need calcium, and crave it like they crave candy.

A sidenote: Stop trying to have more forks and spoons than knives. It's never going to happen. The knife side of the drawer will always be more heavy. There's a small demon at work, forcing unnecessary knives upon a fork-craved population.

a pattern

2009-01-04T21:30:00.000-08:00

J grabs an apple off the counter-top. She takes it to the sink to wash it off. She turns on the faucet, accidentally full force, and the pan that was already occupying the sink guides a stream of angry kitchen water straight toward her sweater.
She takes a paper towel and wraps the apple inside. She walks into her bedroom, drying the apple as she goes. Once her door is closed, she walks toward the bathroom to toss the paper towel. She slips on a tiny pool of rainwater on the floor, causing her body to slam into the side of the bathroom door frame.
As she rubs her bruising hipbone with too-familiar mastery, her elbow grazes the blow-dryer sitting atop the counter. The blow-dryer threatens a fall but she catches it just in time. She throws the crumpled paper towel toward the rubbish bin, but it hits the wrong side of a stiff piece of protruding paper. It falls to the left of the rubbish bin.
J bends to pick it up with a swinging hand but misses. She swings her had at the paper towel again, catching it this time but hitting the blow-dryer once again.
The blow-dryer will not be stopped. It topples to the tile with an unpleasant sound, an inanimate laugh. J bends for the third time to retrieve it; only, when she tries to rise, her head is met with the wooden underside of a counter-top.

Welcome to the everyday clumsiness of someone with the exact same name as me.

Sam Gamgee, Hero Extraodinaire

2008-12-25T12:59:00.000-08:00

FOR a reason I don't know, Lord of the Rings has always represented Christmas to me (I think you're the only one I've told, Emily... ha). Actually, I don't know if it always has or if it's just one of those things I think has always been constant but is really fairly new and I like to think of it as constant... regardless, it's a very important book. And it's a very important movie trilogy. A comfort movie if you will. I will never tire of watching any of them, I will never tire of talking about them, and I will never tire of applying circumstances from it to my own life, with or without to do with Christmas. In his second edition introduction, J.R.R. Tolkien said, "I think that many confuse 'applicability' with 'allegory'; but one resides in the freedom of the reader, and the other in the purposed domination of the author". The fact that he didn't want to force allegorical rubbish on anyone soothes me. It makes me feel like he knew me, and he wanted a reader to have a bit of freedom when it came to deciding what the story meant to them. Few authors actually pull this off, and I'm grateful for his ability to. It seems that the story I so adore includes every emotion I taste during Christmas season, and that may be why I feel emotionally bound to watch it during the holiday (even and especially during this one, which, as you may know, is melancholy for some reason). So thank you, J.R.R., and I hope you're satisfied up there at the flock that consume your intricately worked story of bravery, friendship and love.

In The Fellowship of the Ring, Frodo says,

"But i feel very small, and very uprooted, and well - desperate. the enemy is so strong and terrible."

This is, of course, at the beginning, quite before Samwise carries Frodo the rest of the way up Mount Doom to toss in the ring of power. If that isn't a picture of friendship, I don't know what is. Plus, in The Two Towers, Samwise has the best line in all three movies: "PO-TA-TOES! Boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em in a stew?!?"

Here he is, warding off Shelob (the giant spider) for Frodo:

And although I have a shirt that says Neville Longbottom is my hero, I should have one that says the same of Samwise.

Thank you, Sam. Thank you. And Happy Christmas to every fictional character that I'm in love with, plus the people in real life that understand the magnitude of what Tolkien did for us.

Notebook: Pages 81-83

2008-12-23T02:10:00.000-08:00

8:25pm: Where do you think I am but Starbucks? Oh DEAR, eggnog lattes do wonders for the warming of the soul, and here I am drinking it without so much as a like for coffee. I was fairly happy all day long. I think my mind is wary of happy days because I don't feel used to them, they're like these gems you find in the middle of a dirt heap. It's almost like I'm afraid to feel happy. It's as if I suddenly took some happy pill but I didn't. And even the really clumsy things that I do, bothersome things that happen, do not trouble me, I just shake my head and laugh because there's nothing I can do about it. It's the type of mood I should always be in. Of course, I'm not always in it. But I would like to know what differentiates my moods, the thing that sets them off, or if they're simply set to tick randomly to a different mood every such & such day or hours. Or if it's just me, creating my own moods because I'm bored or because I subconsciously want to think or feel a certain way. I daresay that I sometimes just want to be miserable, and although I am occasionally, I do not try to curb my misery and allow it to play out however it will. I think I have just allowed my mind to program itself on the misery mood, and since it has been so long, years in fact, I have just come to regard "miserable" as something that I always am. Something I cannot release because of baggage or because I'm simply so accustomed to feeling that way. And no matter how bipolar I am, the underlying misery attacks me persistently.

I think that everyone is a little afraid of not being wanted. Even people who don't say that, people who deny it. People who pride themselves in not caring whether people want them. There is a difference, of course, between caring what people think and caring about whether they want you, whether you are valuable to someone. Because as I do not care what people think, I care a great deal about being valuable. A person can think I am off-the-wall insane but still want me. That is what I mean... whereas there is a great percentage of the world that cares about being called crazy or ugly or stupid. I know that I am none of those things. But the way it affects my mind when someone makes me feel like I'm not important, well, someone I care about, is intensely painful. I don't always address it right away, I normally just feel it. It's like a pressure on my mind, eating thoughts at my conscience. Then later on I address the fact that part of the reason I feel like shit is because I feel like I don't matter to someone and that I won't matter to anyone, ever, as much as I want to matter. I guess it's just this thought that expands in my head, chanting to me, over and over, "that person doesn't exist. Maybe you aren't meant for that. You aren't meant to be loved by someone you love too. You aren't meant to be loved exclusively...."

But I also think about how good I am at loving. I think that I sacrifice a lot for people that I care about, but thinking about loving someone exclusively for the rest of my life seems impossible.

How He Came to his Senses

2008-12-20T03:58:00.000-08:00

On the Harry Potter books by J. K. Rowling:

"I went off and read the books after the audition and I read all four books in one sitting - you know - didn't wash, didn't eat, drove around with them on the steering wheel like a lunatic. I suddenly understood why my friends, who I'd thought where slightly backward, had been so addicted to these children's books. They're like crack."

-Jason Isaacs

The Coolest Taxpayers in America

2008-12-15T23:19:00.000-08:00

Dear every Who down in Whoville (and in the entire world):

i love my gramsie

Sometimes I text her. I know she gets 'em, but her mind is too genius to figure out how to text back. If you think you're classy, you're not. She is.

i love my grampy

He can eat anything. Just put it in front of him and it'll be gone, like magic. When I got him some pumpkin pie a few weeks ago, I didn't need to think twice about putting extra whipping cream on top.

The Very End of That.

A Process of Un-Christmased Mind

2008-12-12T13:08:00.000-08:00

Such is the supposed feeling of Christmas that everything should feel happy and christmasy no matter what happens. And I have no great reason to say that I am unhappy. I do, however, detect a loss of spirit when it comes to holiday proceedings, something that I normally have a surplus of. As every other Christmas I have raced with my dad to grab the perfect tree and deck it, cider in hand, that very night, the thought nearly made me sick this year. I imagined the stockings, mine bursting with Eeyore's frowny little head (yes, I have an Eeyore stocking), hanging on the shelf and those blasted glittery snowmen that litter all countertops with their cheap porcelain abdomens, and nausea promptly circled my insides.

Then there's the Cheermeister: a position I claim every year with pride but feigned irritation. The Cheermeister sees to everything Christmas. She shops for everyone. She decorates the house, the tree. She wraps everything. She crochets scarves with increasingly blistered fingers. She watches a myriad of Christmasy themed movies alone, with joy. But for 2008, the Cheermeister of legend resigned her job to her younger brother Josi, and thought nothing of it. Josi climbed the ladder into the ceiling to fetch the ornaments, Josi hung those Disney stockings, Josi saw to the tree that she did not choose or even attend the choosing of. Josi, her fellow middle child, picked up where she should not have left off just because Christmas means confusion to her this time.

Every Christmas-looking THING that I pass by has me walking with more and more weight at the bottoms of my feet, my head. My buddy Brian told me the reason is because we're grinches. That's true to an extent because I like to be mean sometimes, but there isn't an excuse on earth why it should make me sad. What's your answer to THAT, huh Brian?

Enough obscure and depressing rants. It is time for a solution, so here is mine:

Family, of course, cannot compete with confusion. At least there is that. Not to mention claymation Christmas classics, such as Santa Claus is Comin' to Town (hello, voice talents of Fred Astaire!) and Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Who says I can't still enjoy Christmasy themed movies alone, EVEN THOUGH the spirit has lost me completely? That's one of my favorite pastimes. Maybe I'll even watch with someone else for a change, someone who might force me into better moods. My dad is never opposed to A Christmas Carol, after all.

Notebook Entry, Page 84

2008-11-24T01:15:00.000-08:00

Here is what being a geek means to me. It means you don't rely on other people to fulfill any part of you. Instead, you use books, music, movies, video games or whatever geeks obsess over, and you eat your heart out that way. It means you don't look for mates, but for new reading material. It means you don't care if people watch you when you floss in public, crochet in public, sing in public or roller-skate in public.

Thinking about it in depth, geeks have the right idea. Their trust can be put in a book and the trust won't be broken. The book will be solace, the book will suffice. The book will not take the geek's heart away, her wall down, then demand she receive it back just as easily. For a book, she can let her wall down and not be torn apart.

'He held up the book then. "I'm reading it to you for relax."

"Has it got any sports in it?"

"Fencing. Fighting. Torture. Poison. True love. Hate. Revenge. Giants. Hunters. Bad men. Good men. Beautifulest ladies. Snakes. Spiders... Pain. Death. Brave men. Cowardly men. Strongest men. Chases. Escapes. Lies. Truths. Passion. Miracles."

"Sounds okay," I said, and I kind of closed my eyes.'

-WIlliam Goldman, The Princess Bride

Gaudy Pledges

2008-11-04T23:07:00.000-08:00

I was on podium today, organizing and seating residents. Mrs J walked in with her usual saunter, sporting a gauche sequined vest with American flags all over it. Sure. Rock the vest, it's made its way back into fashion and can be most agreeable when the need to complete an outfit arrives. But on her ears lurked the most garish pair of earrings I have ever seen. They were the size of small bottles of perfume. Seeming to be entirely constructed out of tiny fake jewels, the gigantic and glittering word VOTE jammed its way into my eyes and through to my brain, causing a most bilious feeling to churn it with the threat of headache. Not only did they command the population to VOTE, but the word rested on unending piles of American flags and other patriotic paraphernalia somehow assembled into earrings that hung from her ears like a stubborn fish bursting to be released back into the ocean. I questioned at this point whether it's possible to have artificial ears, because were I to don the earrings, my ears would be ripped apart straightaway. You think I'm done with this story. I'm not. She actually asked me, in a most childish-flirty, attention-seeking sort of way, "d'you like my earrings??" fanning them in front of my face to increase my building brainache. I screamed NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! in my head, very rudely. Aloud, I was ever so gracious in telling her I adored them, with a charming smile worthy of Harry Potter himself. I had a feeling I wasn't the only lucky one to be asked. She sauntered off in the direction I did not tell her to go, toward a table belonging to a server who was already busy, satisfied at convincing yet another pour soul to quench her hunger for flattering lies.

Hey, you know me. I have no problem with voting, I voted today, and I LOVE gaudy things. I just changed my profile picture to one of me in my leopard hat and heart sunglasses for gaudy's sake (I just arrived back from a late night bike ride and decided to wear my utmost freakish hat and my glasses of equal oddity). But not when it gives people headaches. I'm a firm believer in NO-HEADACHES=BRILLIANT. I'm a firm believer in UGLY and GAUDY CLOTHES/ACCESSORIES=INNER LAUGHS AT WHAT PEOPLE MUST BE THINKING.

Anywho, there was a birthday party in the PDR (private dining room) and I ended up taking it. The table in there is a gorgeous mahogany, stretching across toward both ends of the room. We don't use tablecloths in there... we use Pledge, and wipe it silly. So when they left (happy birthday, Mrs M!) I brought out the Pledge and I got to work. Whenever I'm alone I get the greatest and the dumbest ideas. And so, with orangey Pledge fumes occupying my nose, I sprayed a huge "F YOU TOO" to no one in particular. Then I adorned it with hearts. It pleased me a great deal to stand back and look at that beautiful table, innocent but majestic, with the words F YOU TOO tagged on top. The hearts gave it a certain charisma. When my laugh was over and it came time to wipe it off, there ended up being a slight white-ish outline of the words once wiped. This made me laugh even more, because my luck often tries clever tricks like this. Laughing and panicking, I sprayed more Pledge. I scrubbed it till it glowed with no more words, and the shiny table looked up at me with majesty once more. I wonder what other people have written with the Pledge, or if I'm the only imbecile who has done such a foolish thing?

Lonely Notions and The Nodders

2008-10-28T01:17:00.000-07:00

This is from July. But it was on my good ole space, so I thought I'd bring it over to good ole blogspot. I'll do an update afterward!

Alone in a house.

As a naturally contradicting person, this experience is both delightful and horrifying for me. After watching part of a tedious awards show followed by a friendly after party and a night of tp-ing with other friendly relations, coming home to an empty house I didn't expect is not encouraging. My feelings of being deserted, though stagnant, are slightly repressed with the revelation of noise. NOISE NOISE NOISE. I get to make it and I get to do whatever I want, which normally gratifies me.

Ah, well. We cannot always feel how we want to feel. And who am I to even say that I know how I want to feel? I certainly do not. Maybe.

Contradictions habitually pour out of me like melted ice coming out of one of those faded red ice chests. The ones with a little gnawing on the sides from when the dog got bored.

Is thousand island dressing just a mixture of all the world's debris? That's how it appears. And when Mrs G orders her tomato slices/avocado with thousand island dressing and "NO GREENS!" (God forbid any garden-greens nourish her body), my wretched glass-half-empty attitude tends to think about how fast it's killing her. I would rather die of mexican food or brownies.

ONTO BETTER THINGS:

I had The Nodders tonight. The F's. Their orders come swiftly but slow enough for me to write, and then they nod. They nod gracefully and they thank me with their syrupy Bronx-ish/Jewish speech. They nod every time I say anything. I'm not better than them and they're not better than me. We're on the same level, the F's and me.

UPDATE:

The Nodders commended me the other day because I remembered that Mr F usually has green tea with his meal. He orders a small skim milk and then the tea. He likes honey with it, as I do, unlike any other residents. As I have served The Nodders any number of times, it wasn't difficult to recall that he forgot to order it, so I simply brought it out. They both ooh-d and aah-d that I remembered, and I felt that tinge of satisfaction at having pleased them in the middle of their dinner. These minute things are fuel for existence.

SHEENA UPDATE:

Apparently Sheena's heart has been broken. So the other day, his cheesey song of choice was "My Heart Will Go On", but I hear he didn't look mischievous or happy when he was singing it. I'll take this time to say that your heart will go on, Sheena. And even though reading romantic vampire books when you feel alone is a difficult thing to do, know that if I can do it, so can you. Let's go to starbucks.

Janet is Very Efficient, Isn't She?

2008-10-12T15:36:00.001-07:00

Having a stare at a pan of jello is just like having a stare at a bobble head or one of those suction cups with a trinket on the end, meant to cling to windows. None of these things serve a purpose. When things that do not serve a purpose ordinarily entertain me, the jello pan became more of an annoyance yesterday. While I should have been adding extra iceberg, a tomato, and 2 packages of saltines to a plate of standard salad for Mrs C (a total poser, elder version), I stood staring at the large pan of jello, or otherwise spacing. At least it was red jello. Red jello is better to look at than, say, green or orange jello. Please don't get me wrong. Orange is alright as a color. But orange jello is like punishment. Anything orange flavored is always secondary or not included on the list at all. It's never anyone's favorite. Inform me of errors in judgement. (Let me include the fact that pumpkin-flavored is something altogether different. If everything orange colored was pumpkin flavored, we would hardly be having this conversation. If this is even a conversation. What am I saying?)
Moving on, my analytical mind began to think about the nutrients we need to survive. Staring at that jello, broken and slightly bubbly at the edge, I realized that there is virtually no good thing to come out of jello. There is no single atom in jello that would ever assist in the nourishment of our bodies. It doesn't even taste good. It just feels like you're eating slugs with somewhat fruity flavor. Sort of like eating those tiny rice noodles that come served at the bottom of the plate when you get the asian-food-urge, upon which your real meal sits. They don't taste like much, they're just there to offer some varying colors or something equally minor.
I've come to the conclusion that the only thing jello can possibly offer us is a fun thing to throw.

Meanwhile:
Mrs. I: "Did you hear what I said?"
Me: "No I didn't.."
Mrs I: "I'll say it again, then. I said, 'Janet is very efficient, isn't she?' And the rest of the table agreed!"

This flattered me. I thanked her liberally. That wasn't meant to be a pun, since she is liberal. TEE HEE HEE..... wha...?
I think they grow astounded sometimes at the swift and dodgy way with which I avoid the chairs, tables, or other servers. They take it as me rushing. Well, it IS me rushing, but it's also the small detail of their being old and unhurried, whereas for me to be unhurried is practically torture most of the time. When I am not efficient I feel useless or hopeless. When I feel useless or hopeless, I feel like I need to throw things. Maybe jello.

Metaphorical Prodigy In A House Dress

2008-09-25T00:45:00.000-07:00

If you have never met Mrs D, I'm so sorry.

If you're on of those people, like me, who appreciates cynicism on some level, you would love her. She is the most sarcastic old woman I have ever met (if we aren't counting me, the sarcastic old woman). This is the one resident who I am able to really speak to like a human being, besides the H's. I can act with the other ones, make them believe I care and suck up to them as is required. But Mrs D has that aura. The aura that makes everyone feel as though they're on the same level. She sees me as a person with a character, not that girl who brings us bacon. She is genuinely curious about our lives, still aching to learn more about the world instead of shutting off to modern ideas completely as most residents do. She has the same thing for breakfast every single day: a bowl of fruit "but only if it's good today", a glass of 1/3 orange, 1/3 cranberry, and 1/3 guava juices (aka a Nancy Juice), and a "nice big bowl" of oatmeal.

Whenever people order oatmeal, I like to write "OATS" on the ticket. It makes me think of a cockney carriage driver with a handkerchief. The nice ones, the kind that reward their horse at the end of the night with carrots or some sugar cubes. I like to picture them saying "OATS!" in that cockney accent, and the horse recognizing the word and being relieved that they're finally being fed.

That's not the point. The point is, we all know her order. How endearing.

Mrs D wears a colorful house dress every.... day. It's so tacky and yet I can't find it in my heart to criticize her for it, because 1.) My grammy wears the same type at her house and 2.) The dresses represent something to me that I don't have any other feelings for besides comfort and affection. Oh, and 3.) They are freaking rad! Only the Mrs D's of the world can pull off being gaudy and classy at the same time.

ME: How are you, Mrs D?

MRS D: Oh, I dunno. I mean look at it around here, it's depressing! That's why I like to associate myself with you guys because you're young and you're going places.

ME: You're also going places with those awesome dresses you wear!

MRS D: Yeah, to my bed!

Whenever she sits in my section and I bring out her food, she exclaims, "here she comes, Miss America" in her lovably sarcastic tone of voice. She imitates other residents with time tried ease: " 'Oooh, they're bringing in a gurney, I wonder who it's for... did you hear so and so's in the hospital? Did you hear what happened?...' Who cares? They're all so boring. I'd rather talk about education or who Donaven's been kissing." She told me she had a cerebral hemorrhage of some sort, and should have died.

ME: Well, you aren't dead! You're here now, which is awesome.

MRS D: Big deal! [with a flourish of her hand, reminiscent of that first time Harry picked up his first wand!!]

Nothing but awe can depict how I feel toward this woman.

She had a burrito for lunch one day. It was sitting in an assaulted heap atop her plate.

ME: Mrs D, you've ruined your burrito! Don't you like the tortilla?

MRS D: Well, I don't really need bread stuff. I don't really need anything! I'm too damn fat!

What would a fancy retirement home be if there were no happy hour? So I question D on the subject once.

ME: Hey, Mrs D, you goin' to happy hour?

MRS D: No, not if I eat all this! [Gestures to her usually assaulted-looking meal]

ME: Why not? C'mon, it's free alcohol for you!

MRS D: Oh yeah, I would if I could. But everyone is just too NICE here. But I used to have fun! I liked VODKA and CIGARETTES! And now here I am, eating this debris....

Though D's face is engraved with frown-lines, I feel she has had a happy life. I sometimes get the impression that she has used the frowns as a shield against the idiots of the world, laughing at them all underneath her firm shell of scorn. She probably has the most lively soiree grooving within her head.

Throughout the day, she'll see me serving other tables and give me secret winks until she shuffles out of the dining room in her flowery house dress, white sandals, and priceless frown upon her face.

Some Thoughts On THE SCENE

2008-09-22T17:44:00.000-07:00

September 19 & 20 - Street Scene, San Diego. Let's just take a moment here to reflect on Street Scene and thank the gods for the lineup.

The justice show on friday. Justice is ____. Whatever you want it to be. I feel like there may be a cult dedicated to Justice, and thought briefly about joining. Ha ha.

There was a lot of dancing involved. My cousin Cissifer, his girlfriend O'Shanny, and our friend Marco had a very sweaty and exciting dance party in the midst of other sweaty bodies, everyone's sweaty bodies moving in mismatched but rhythmic unison. That itself was worth the entire ticket price.

Saturday's show of note was Ghostland Observatory. I'll tell you this right now: Ghostland Observatory is like your favorite kind of gum, your favorite disney classic platinum edition dvd, and your favorite tea all in the same room. In other words: just like heaven. It's a two-man band. The drummer/ producer/Dj always wears a vamp-worthy cape, and the lead singer/guitarist has pigtail braids and crawls or dances around the stage while commanding the audience with laser lights. If that doesn't sound sensational to you, you must be dehydrated. There was a lot of sweaty dancing there, too.

I also saw Diplo, TV on the Radio, Spoon, Beck, DeVotchKa, Cold War Kids, Tokyo Police Club, Does It Offend You Yeah, and The Hives, most of which were extraordinary.

But the best part of Street Scene? Alright, fine, I'll just show you.

Oh, praise the Lord on high! NOW WE KNOW!

My Boy, Sheena

2008-09-18T23:17:00.000-07:00

There are people in the morning shifts at work who make my days irritating, but the same people could also make my days funnier, as things often are when scrutinized. One of these people is my adoptive little brother, Sheena. Here's why I love Sheena.

When I go through depressive conditions and show up to work looking disgusting, he verses the dumbest, most brainless jokes to make me laugh. He prances around the kitchen singing vulgar rap songs or songs from the 90's that I occasionally join in on. When Sheena isn't pouring his heart out in a song that sucks/rocks in a way I loved when I was thirteen and, I admit, still love IF it's N*Sync, the world has ended. On Cinco de Mayo, he went around serving the residents with a huge sombrero on his head, a feat that got him in trouble but didn't stop him from wearing it. He is the face of FUCKYOU to THE-MAN (in the mornings, the man is normally ____, whose screechy voice is perfectly impersonated by, well, Sheena). He grabs me butter packets when I need them for my multigrain toast. Of course, I must tell him to do it, but the fact that he complies is profound.

"Sheena, get me some butter. Get me some strawberries. Make me some earl grey tea with one honey."

Then he stomps off, whining about how bossy I am and when he returns, he tosses me my butter packet, tells me where he stored my goods or lets me know my tea is ready.

Sheena's graces are many if you stop to examine them. At first glance, he may seem like your everyday clumsy homeboy, but the way he walks around actually commands commendation because of its fluid carelessness. Slice up a banana, TOSS it into the trash with a flick of his hand. Grab a mug and fill it, but only after spinning it around a few times by the handle. He routinely flings mini trays up into the air, only to watch them come back down to the floor instead of his hands the majority of the time.

Sheena says the funniest hogwash. Concerning myspace, he says to me

Sheena: "j-dawg, why am I not on your top?"

Me: "why am I not on yours? You don't even have a top friends list, Sheena.

Sheena: "Yeah, but you're still on it!"

One morning, he was picking up a fresh juice cup rack from the dishwashing area. The kitchen floors: wet. The weight of the juice rack: hefty. We foresaw this. Sheena trips on some interference in the soaked floor and the juice rack slams onto it with Sheena crashing on top of it like a cherry being plopped onto a sundae. Everyone laughs. But nothing phases Sheena; well, except for "...AND these are slip-free shoes, what the F*CK?!?"

After work, coworkers often mingle in the parking lot. Some of us change, most of us are on our way somewhere. Donaven, the burn spray crusader, was in his white tank one night because he was going to the gym. the final reason I appreciate Sheena is his composed yet crude broadcast of all things true. So, he says what everyone else is thinking.

"Donaven, your nipples are f*cking hard as Mount Rushmore."

He's got heart. Who doesn't appreciate someone like Sheena?

French Oniony Deathtrap

2008-09-15T04:21:00.001-07:00

Here's some trivia for you: What is the worst thing to hear when you're sweltering, weary and taking an order?
Fine, here it is: "I'll have the french onion soup."
I'll tell you what that means for me. It means a soup plate, a soup bowl, side crackers. It means pouring blazing french-oniony liquid into the diminutive soup cup with a ladle twice the size of the cup (irony - for the sick bitches who like that), frantically spooning mozerella into the brown oniony water (I keep using the word 'oniony', what is 'oniony'?), and clutching croutons with a half-working crouton-clutcher to drop into the swelling monster blob of a soup. It means the abrupt contact of blazing oniony liquid with my skin when I must halt, soup-in-hand, to let an ill-mannered coworker pass me by in a huff.
Soon after this burning contact, "I'll have the french onion soup" means me hopping around the kitchen frustratedly with my fingers clenched together, sort of squealing in burning pain, and Donaven spraying my fingers calmly with anti-burn spray. There is something incredibly vexing about others being as calm as church mass when you are in a state. It then means me adding the soup to my already overflowing tray, kicking the door wide to reveal a non-chaotic dining room, and setting the unextraordinary piece of work in front of a resident who has no idea what went into their measly cup of soup so ignorantly ordered.
Thank you, Mr. H, for finishing your entire soup. You make me smile.

Now for a little something peculiar about jealousy. Mrs. M, who was was NOT sitting in my section today, complained to her server and then to one of my main managers about my hair. My ponytailed head, for a reason unbeknownst to me since every single other female serving had the same hairstyle, was too much for her. "I don't want that girl's hair in my food. She needs to pull it back immediately," she complained to her server, then to ____, the manager. Oh, silly hair. You've got a mind of your own, haven't you? I focused on keeping my strands of hair BEHIND my head and not allowing any of them to sneak their way over my shoulders. Because it DOES have a mind of its own. It is schizophrenic. I'm sorry my hair is schizophrenic. Someone's inability to grow pleasant hair is no reason to make unnecessary protests about mine. But all is well in OZ. Perhaps I'll come to work tomorrow with a tight bun, 18th century english teacher-worthy. That could be hot. The odd bit comes in here: when I passed her and I saw the faintly yearning look in her squinty & domineering eyes. I felt sad for her. I felt sad for the hordes, myself included, that want something they cannot have, and I hoped they could find a way to or around it. Even if that meant just FEELING young. Being young is not something to take for granted, for you could conceivably end up with hair that resembles a glob of glue, as hers does. Take utmost care of your youthful hair, and the other youthful parts of yourself. I want you to remember that, my darling coworkers. The ones who know I love them.

Lastly, I walked in the fridge yesterday and in the middle of trays of salads and carrot cakes, Sheena turned around with a mouthful of donut. "You want a donut?" he asked me. Of course, it sounded muffled from the baked crumbs crawling down his throat, but I felt joy nonetheless. Watching you eat a donut is enough for me, Sheena. I love you buddy.

The Aroma of Original Cable TV Movies

2008-09-06T01:02:00.000-07:00

"Dear me, what is that unpleasant aroma?"

It's the T's, of course. Have you ever seen Newsies? I asked someone this once, and they replied, "Oh, you mean that movie Christian Bale is ashamed he ever did?"

Sure. If you hate sexy batman cowboys with new york accents. Any movie Christian Bale decided to associate himself with is a movie I have no problem with. Besides, Newsies is satisfying in the most dancy, dirty, twirly, singy, accenty approach. ANYWHO, that line up top is from Newsies. Imagine it with a NY accent. Swell.

Accordingly, that line edges its way into my brain whenever the T's come to dinner. They smile. They order. Mrs T usually has fish. I smile. I write things down expertly, all the while holding fast to my dizzying senses, trying to keep them from falling down the rabbit hole that is the horrendous odor flowing straight out of the T's like honey dropping thick but rapid into a cup of tea, directly toward my nose in an effort to water my eyes with its linger. But they're nice to me. They say thank you over and over again. What more could a server ask for? Their accent, while we've been talking about accents here, sticks in my head with its severity and makes me grin. Mr T's pouty bottom lip does not affect me negatively. It's simply that WAY. It means he is pleased that I've brought his tapioca pudding out in a timely manner.

Let's talk about Disney Channel Original movies for a minute. Okay, Simsim, the one we couldn't figure out the name of is Horse Sense. That one with the young Lawrence brother. The series goes from a farm and a chubby little boy to the sequel, Jumping Ship, which includes an island with evil asian agents, suitcases full of money, and shirtless Lawrence brothers pretending to be cousins. My time watching Disney Channel Originals is a memory I am reluctant to release. I know YOU know what I mean when I say that finding other people who share the common telly-knowledge of your younger years is a startling fulfillment. So thank you D. Thank you, Simsim. You both make work better for me. But no, I'm afraid I can't marry either of you. I've already said yes to Christian Bale. Do you remember the theme song? "Let's watch a disney channel movie! WE WANNA WATCH a disney channel movie!" with all those multi-racial kids doing russians in the air? Never forget the D.C.O.'s.

Mrs O set a record tonight, I believe, entering the dining room a total of around 6 times, the peppermint basket becoming emptier and emptier.

Euphoria Equals ________.

2008-08-07T01:56:00.000-07:00

I am in control of my own jubilation.

This is a fact i've been chummy with for years now, and only now has it been so easy to believe. yesterday i bought new nail lacquer. should I be buying new nail lacquer; do I have the money? No. But it was purple, and it made me happy to look at it. It's called "divinely deranged". Don't ask me how that title pertains to purple, but i'll deal. My nails are divinely deranged today, an occurrence that describes the paradoxical nature of my existence.

If there is one thing I hate worse than a screaming baby, it's chippy pink nail polish. Not only is it pink, it's chippy. This woman from work, so and so, had chippy pink nail polish on today. She's an idiot. She's one of those people who lie about unworthy things, like whether or not she stocked the jelly racks for her tables. Why would anyone lie about that? It takes around a minute and a half to do. Anyway, I saw G asking her about it. Then I saw her lie unreservedly to G with her chippy-pink-nailed-hands shaking guiltily behind her back. Then I saw G lose her patience, which happens rarely. If imagined correctly, this can be funny. Especially when I tell you that so and so is like, 45. Fascinating.

Walking out to my car, the sweat erupting across my body started to feel like warm pudding and/or hot urine. But I let the infrequent wind caress my face, and I allowed myself a memory that pleases me. I forgot the heat, which I never do because it's my enemy.

I miss Gramsie and Grampy. I love darjeeling. I love my dog. I love to laugh when I don't have that great a reason to, and then keep laughing in a fake way to make people feel uncomfortable.

Light a fricken rad-smelling candle. Make your room smell smashing.