Fuck you 2008!

Most of the time it has always sucked to have my birthday on New Year’s Eve. But this year I am so glad of it. I have heard that 29 is the worst year of your life so that you can look forward to 30, dear god I hope that’s true. Twenty nine, or the entire year of 2008, has sucked some huge donkey balls, and because I’m in a whiny mood I will go through it just so I can get it out.

I’ll start off with wrecking my lovely little Mini Cooper (I loved that car). I was going about 75 when I hit a wet spot and spun the shit out of it. Thankfully the wall dividing the two lines of freeway was kind enough to stop me. I had to take the train home and I could barely walk the next day. OK this happened in 2007 but was so close to 2008 that I’m throwing it in there.

I had to drive my dad’s convertible Saturn roadster that screams midlife crisis.

So I bought a used Honda Civic, those are reliable cars that can go for years with no problems. The next day the check engine light goes on, and I swear the guys at the dealership just started laughing.

My brother in-law came down with a very rare case of leukemia, we still don’t know if he is going to be OK.

I dumped my super-sweet boyfriend of eight years on the day he proposed.

I followed that up with two of the most soul draining, pathetic excuses for relationships in the existence of mankind (OK, they weren’t that bad but you get the drift).

Some guy in Chili stole $600 out of my account.

I got stranded on the freeway with no cell phone, and had to dodge traffic to get to the emergency phone. Later while waiting for the tow truck a police officer mistook me for a prostitute (I was wearing business casual the bastard).

I had to move back in with my mom. (Thankfully I was able to move out two months later, but it still sucked, and to be honest she does feed me so that’s always a plus.)

I almost burned my new apartment down due to a misunderstanding between me, the stove and a carton of free-range chicken eggs.

My car got rear-ended. Nearly took the bumper off, and of course there was no note.

I locked myself out of my apartment twice. The first time I had to call the very expensive locksmith, then I made copies of my keys and handed them out to everyone I ever knew.

My phone got turned off due to lack of funds.

Guy I went on three dates with, 6 months ago, won’t stop calling.

I still haven’t finished my thesis (totally my fault I just don’t want to do it anymore).

I threw my back out the day before my birthday/New Years/trip to Vegas.

Though I’ve bitched I had a lot of fun this year they just weren’t a memorable as the bad times.

But there is a bottle of champagne waiting to ease me through the last little bit of this year and into what will hopefully be a much better next one. It's weird but I really am looking forward to 30. Oh wait I am officially 30, this sucks.

Damn I'm getting old

Ah only one day until I turn thirty and my body has already decided to give up on me. Stupid body.

Since the holidays are almost over I decided to get a jump start on the exercising so I could give up on it earlier this year. So Sunday night I went for a run. Thankfully it was super cold so I was able to keep running because all I wanted to do was get back into my nice warm apartment. About a block from house was a little silver Chevy Cavalier sitting in the middle of the intersection, the idiot driver had run out of gas — thirty feet from a Chevron.

No one was stopping so I said I would help push (I’m 5’7” and a staggering 107 lbs so I don’t know what I thought I could do). But I think people began to feel bad when they saw me doing my best impression of a broom trying to move a car, and so some strapping lads came over and actually got the car moving and into the gas station. (Ok, I moved it a bit but then we hit a small incline and lost all momentum and the dumb chick could not figure out how to steer and push at the same time.)

Anywho, the next day I was a little stiff but nothing too bad. Today I can barely move. My back is in so much pain I’m almost in tears. I didn’t even run that far, it had to be that stupid Chevy, see if I’m ever a good Samaritan again (on a side note I did play the Good Samaritan in the school play in high school, also the Wise Virgin, of which I am neither).

Why body would you do this to me? Couldn’t you wait until I got back from celebrating my birthday and New Years in Las Vegas?

No matter I will have a good time in Vegas even if I have to drink my weight in alcohol to numb the pain.

Of course this is kind of a fitting ending to what has had to be the worst year of my life. I really can’t wait to kiss it goodbye.

Sick

I guess my life has become rather pathetic. I was moved to tears the other day because I got a little space heater — and it worked. Seriously, just the act of warming up my room 10 degrees above freezing has made this a stellar week for me. If anything else goes right I’ll probably have to kill myself because I’ll know I’ve reached my peak and it just can’t get any better.

Last week I got sick. I hate being sick and living by myself in a freezing little closet of an apartment. There’s no one there to whine too and when you open the fridge and realize that all you have is a can of tuna fish but no can opener (why I bought this can without this all-important accessory in my possession is still a mystery to me) and some mustard, you have no one to go get food but yourself.

I bundled myself up and headed out the door. Sure, I looked like I had ebola and I’m pretty sure that fluids were dripping out of not only my nose but my eyes and mouth as well, but I was on my way. The market was only two blocks from my apartment so not too bad. Except I went when I was starving so I bought way too much and overestimated my arm strength. I had to stop and rest about five times on the lengthy two-block return trip. By the time I had returned home I was so exhausted that I had to take a nap before I was able to make any food.

But I wised up. Not wanting to go through this rigmarole again I headed to my mom’s place for the weekend where she fed me and turned her heater on.

Hanging out with other bloggers

Well I hung out with Ms. Puddin on Saturday night and I was highly amused. I was also offered $1,000 to give a blow job so I can definitely say things were interesting. (No, I didn’t take the offer, I’m a lady I’ll have you know. Anyways I’m pretty sure I could have gotten more.)

I swear I was planning on having only a couple of beers and then heading home. But one thing lead to another and I ended up scraping up my palms and bashing up my knees on the sidewalk when the girl who was giving me a piggy back ride took a nose dive. I wasn’t hurt but the other poor girl got a little cut up. Probably didn’t help that I was rolling on the ground laughing.

I was a little sad that there was no fence jumping, and when I left Ms. P’s panties were (I think) still firmly on her ass. But I realize I am just a pathetic drinker who can’t actually keep up with a five-year-old. Well at least I’m a cheap date.

Useless talent 52

I’ve been super busy with work and school so therefore I haven’t been posting much. Oh also I’ve been incredibly boring and having nothing interesting to tell. So this is me trying to pull something together to try and keep up with the writing.

So the building I live in is a little over a hundred years old, and I’m pretty sure the carpets in the hallway have not been cleaned in that amount of time.

But anyways I was coming home late one night with a big basket of laundry. On the second flight of stairs I manage to twist my ankle and then fall up the stairs and then rolled down the stairs. All my clean clothes fell out onto the disease-infested floor and I think that I got covered in the ebola virus.

So after throwing up a bit in my mouth, I collected my now dirty clothes and limped into my apartment.

That will teach me to try and get all my laundry done at my mom’s place and save $2.25 — it’s just not worth it.

City Hall shenanigens

I skipped over to City Hall. I was in a good mood. I had just registered to vote and after I bought my downtown parking permit, I would have no more bills to pay for at least two days.

But sadly, City Hall was aware of my euphoria and ready to crush my spirit with the weight of bureaucracy.

I walked through the glass doors of this fairly new building that screamed efficiency, but whispered, "but not for you." And I was hit with a wall of sage, which I think is the new beige.

A plasma screen told fellow citizens what was going on and a soft female voice randomly came over the P.A. saying that everything would be OK. Well, that's not what she said. She was usually looking for someone, but I felt that the subliminal message was that everything was fine.

For some reason, City Hall feels like some futuristic bus station. I could imagine the soft-voiced woman telling everyone the next train was arriving: "Southbound bullet train with a final destination of hell with stopovers in purgatory and limbo leaves in five minutes."

Crap, that's my train.

Anyway, there was no line for turning in my parking pass, and after about three minutes, I was approved to park three blocks from where I live.

But I had to go to a completely different line to pay for my sparkly parking pass - the cashier line.

Now, this was a line. It snaked past the cubicles and into an open area. Finally, I felt like I was in a building staffed by public servants.

For this gargantuan line there was one harried-looking man trying to appease everyone. Sadly, judging from the growing volume level of the woman at his window, he wasn't accomplishing this goal.

But still I was in a pretty good mood, just growing increasingly bored. Thankfully, the woman in front of me talked for a good 20 minutes about different friends of hers and how they were horrible people. She then went into great detail about their faults, their horrible style (this from a woman in an orange-and-yellow-striped, blue turtleneck) and about how her friend Mandy (names have been changed to protect the badly dressed) was pretty but not really pretty.

The harried man was still with the loud woman, 15 minutes had gone by and the friendly city workers behind lineless windows I swear were laughing at us in line.

Another five minutes crawled by. I started imagining my escape route in case there was some catastrophe I kind of wished would have occurred.

After staring at the harried public servant, I realized that there was a good chance he had a slight case of OCD. All of the objects on his desk were precisely lined up, and with this information, I started plotting my revenge. I had big plans to move around all of his stuff once I made my way to his window.

I finally got to the front of the line, my petty revenge in the forefront of my thoughts, when a woman sat down in the seat next to my nemesis and said, "Next please."

Oh hell no, I waited in that long ass line so that I could mess with this man, and she would not take away my one little shining light of joy.

"Next please."

Damn it, could I play off the deaf thing?

I felt a tap on my shoulder; I turned and glared at the impatient soul behind me who also let me know there was a window open.

I moped over to the lady who had foiled my plans, hating her for making the line go faster. But, City Hall beat me again because this was obviously her first time at this window as my quick transaction took another 10 minutes as she asked everyone around her how to take my money for my parking permit.

I guess you really can't fight City Hall.

Exercising and other lame stuff

Well for the last two months I’ve been working out a lot more. This is the first time since high school that I have actively tried to get in shape. And I’m really proud of myself because I’ve been pretty consistent about it.

When a friend asked why I was all of the sudden so gung ho about getting in shape, after years of a happy sedentary life, I thought about all the answers, wanted to be healthier, sleep better, feel better, but I realized that although I would give those answers out that wasn’t the real reason.

Nope, as a newly (kind of) single gal I want to look good naked.

Yes, I realize that is kind of shallow but there you go. And I do get all those other benefits so that’s a plus.

Yuck … I’m mature.

Gang warfare

I got of work kind of late the other day. So I was walking downtown around 10:30, well past the hour when respectable people had already gone to bed (it was a school night). The only people out and about were hooligans, and other ne’er-do-wells, so obviously all my senses were on heightened alert.

When across the street headed toward me I saw them. The only label that fits for this group would be gang. That’s right, me, a lone woman confronted by her worst fear.

And this gang was obviously hardcore. The guys were wearing baggy jeans and either a wife beater, or the classier ones decided that no shirt was best. And you could just tell that these guys had had a hard life. They were giving stares to other guys across the street, I was getting nervous.

But the biggest give away that this was a group not to mess with was their rides. That’s right they were on razor scooters.

I had to duck behind a tree, because I could tell that they would just as soon kill you as look at you.

I mean there is nothing scarier than push, push glide. It’s mesmerizing in it’s deadly rhythm. Much like a shark one could say.

Thankfully that night they passed me by. But I don’t know if next time I’ll be as lucky — pray for me.

Braiiiinz

So today is starting out rather bad.

First off I had to exit my building the back way. Down, what I swear are, decaying stairs down to what can only be described as the bog of eternal stench. It’s like someone took a body rolled it in feces, added both Mexican food and sushi to it and then let it ripen a couple of weeks. I gag a little every time I go down there (I’m pretty sure other people did more than gag down there). Top it off with an impressive amount of used condoms and latex gloves and that’s my back alley. (On a side not I’m not really sure why but latex gloves give me the creeps. I always think whoever is using them has some nefarious plan running around their head.)

Then I have to wear full zombie makeup to work today because I lost a bet to my sadistic boss. (Yes, I would have made him wear it too but that is not the point.) But I don’t have any zombie makeup so I kind of look like a gay zombie because I had to use my own make up and my darker eye shadows apparently all have a shimmer to them. So I’m a kind of disco-esque zombie. And I have to play it straight all day too, so now I just look and sound like a deranged ass. The advertising dept already thinks the editorial dept is a bunch of freaks, glad that I could prove it.

And I meeting my friend downtown for lunch, and yes I will be shuffling through the streets screaming for brains, because that’s just funny.

At least I was able to scare the crap out of one coworker.

What not to do in the locker room

Old people in the locker room please put your pants on. Yes I’m very happy that you are so comfortable with yourself that you can walk around naked for hours and do squats (ewwww), but you’re making the rest of us uncomfortable.

I mean I understand that everyone has to get naked in the locker room, that’s fine we all do it. But lady if you had time to put your top on please put the rest of your clothes on. For some reason it’s worse than if you were wearing nothing at all.

Also no one appreciates it when you take off your clothes and then bend over and stick your ass in our face. I just threw up in my mouth a little.

Oh and to the mom in there that brought her kid in and then proceeds to go on a lecture about how little worms were going to crawl up through the dirty mat and get into her blood, burrowing through her feet if she didn’t wear shoes, what the hell is wrong with you? The little girl was like 4 years old, and now traumatized for life, I practically jumped on the bench as she was going into really graphic detail.

And what’s with that random chick eating her lunch in the locker room? I mean people are getting naked and you’re enjoying a pb&j? There’s a time and place lady, and this isn’t it. Way to creep out everyone here.

Perforated things blow

For some odd reason I can take even the most innocuous situation and make an ass out of myself. I think its part genetics, part awkwardness and a dash of obliviousness.

Take for example Friday. When it was my turn to bring in food to work for the editorial department. Well I completely forgot about it until halfway there, and already 30 minutes late, so I stop off at a local bakery. Even though there was no line they had a little number thing lit up, stating which number would be served next. So I go to the red number thingy and try to grab the next number. But instead of one number coming out, half the roll spits out at me.

I try to be smooth about it and hide the extra numbers. I look around to see if I got away with it and the guy behind me looks at me like I have a third nipple and I’m trying to get him to talk to it or something. And the woman behind the counter rolls her eyes and asks me what I want. Had she done that in the first place I wouldn’t have ruined numbers 91 through 168.

Then tonight at the supermarket I had a small issue with the bags in the produce section. I mean first of you can’t just rip those things off because it sends the whole reel into a spin and it never winds back up correctly. The old lady behind you tends to sigh really loud, a sigh that conveys both annoyance and a “those damn younger people” attitude. And second the freaking bags are welded shut. It takes me about 27 minutes to get one open so that I can buy all of three apples.

This is why I try not to go to the supermarket that often. Actually it might be best if I stay out of public places altogether.

Pool etiquette

I had grand plans to get in shape and get tan this summer. (I am usually a very impressive shade of clear.)

Well neither of those two things happened. But these last couple of weeks I have been going to the university pool more often, and actually swimming. And there are two things I learned today that I thought I already knew but apparently I was wrong.

First off, you really should tie your bathing suit on as tight as you can; being in a hurry is no excuse for missing this vital step. Yep half way down the lane I realized that my top was coming off and I had kind of slipped out. There is no graceful way to get out of this in a public pool. It didn’t help that I started laughing and then started drowning.

Thankfully I was able to right everything, I think the guys next to me might have seen something, but meh oh well.

I’m thinking I might have to go purchase a new bathing suit, this one seems to have lost some of its elasticity, maybe three years is too long with the same suit.

And the second thing is: remove your makeup before getting in the pool. Because the makeup will run, but it will stay on your face, just not where you originally put it and you will look like a sad tranny.

So those guys might have gotten a free look but if they saw my face it would have scared the previous image from their mind. So I win.

Also as I was almost done the usually crowded pool seemed to clear of all other swimmers. There was no one to my left or my right. So naturally, I rationally assumed that somehow a freshwater, chlorine-adaptable shark had gotten loose in the pool and everyone else had gotten out and now I was the only one left to be eaten. Bastards could have at least screamed a warning at me.

I hit the wall and quickly turned around scanning the pool for a tell tale fin. But apparently I was wrong, there was no freak shark in the pool at all, instead all the swimmers were just lazy and hanging out on the other wall.

A shark would have been cool.

Ingredients for insanity...

Well hell I’ve been kind of lazy these last couple of weeks, and now I feel bad because Ms. Puddin gave me a shout out. So I guess I’ll have to step up my game. Well I’ll try but sadly I’ve been incredibly boring and all I do is work.

But thankfully I have horrible neighbors so they always give me something to talk about. Like these last two weeks I think a few of them have gotten together and tried to think up the most effective ways to drive me insane.

And they have come up with a few good ones.

The first is creative assault from a neighbor (I haven’t figured out who he is yet) is the fire alarm. Not the normal pulling of it, like some freshman dorm prank which leaves you out in the Arizona freezing desert nights wearing a very thin tank top and shorts, but where he has let the batteries run down and now every minute and thirty-two seconds there is a loud chirp.

It’s been going on for over a week. I toss and turn a rip out more and more hair every time that happy little fuck chirps. How this doesn’t bother anyone else in the building is beyond me. I’ve called the landlord, the maintenance man and I’ve screamed out my window, all to no avail.

Soon I’m going to have to buy some batteries and go door to door. And then I will have the reputation of the insane neighbor, which might be a good thing.

The other thing is that my neighbors all play different music. Most of which I can live with, it’s mainly rap and mariachi music, which I think meshes quite nicely. But the other morning as I was getting ready for work I hear, from somewhere beneath me, a techno Frosty the Snowman. It’s freaking September, and it’s Frosty the Snowman. What is wrong with these people?

They were also kind enough to repeat the song 37,000 times, so that when I finally left for work I was ready to grab a butcher knife and kill just about anyone. (Maybe there was a subliminal message in that evil song.)

Other than that my neighbors are just your run of the mill, weird looking, creepy old men. Sadly about three apartments have a direct view into my apartment, so I keep my blinds shut all the time. Which is sad because I so enjoy my view of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit calendar on my neighbor’s fridge. Those chicks are hot.

Ageless

OK so I’m 29, and four months away from the big three oh. What I’ve come to realize is that most people seem to think that 30 years-olds (and those hovering around that age) in general have aged very badly or have been disfigured in some freak accident.

I come to this conclusion because every time I mention my age I get, “really? You don’t look 30.” But I hang out with a bunch of 30 years old and they get the same thing. So I think that most people just think that after 27 people get a shit load of wrinkles, age-spots and grey hairs.

Well I’m here to tell you that this is not true. We look just like everyone else. We’ve integrated seamlessly within society and now you can’t tell us apart. I think I look my age. And I’ve earned my age, many times I probably shouldn’t have lived (mainly stupid decisions while inebriated, because oceans and alcohol really don’t go well together, throw fire into the mix and you realize you’re probably slightly retarded), so I’m proud to have made it to 29.

I blame TV. You get high school shows with 30 year olds playing teenagers and people get a warped since of age. Which is good for me, but I’m always like, well what did you expect, some evil hag with a hairy mole on her chin?

Then next statement I hear is, “You look really good for 29.”

But what, I look like ass for a 25 year old?

No pants

The worst part about living in a glorified shoebox is that when someone knocks on your door, and you take five minutes to answer said door, they know its because you walk around your place in your underwear and can't remember where you threw your pants an hour ago, was it in the kitchen or the bathroom?

Thankfully it was just a neighbor, my oh-so-smart self managed to leave my keys in the lock, again. But at least I didn't lock myself out again thats a hefty bill.

And also whats with the awkwardly standing at the door? Ok thanks for letting me know I left my keys in the door, now move along. Oh you wanted to make small talk? Um I can't draw "thanks for letting me know I'm a dumb ass" out more than 30 seconds so say bye and take off. Oh you wanted to stand around a little longer?

What's a good conversation ender? I never know how to get away from someone. I think I should have something prepared for those awkward conversations that are going nowhere but you can't seem to get out of. So that when we're just standing there I can whip out, "Yeah I gotta go, I'm a secret agent and have to go save the world from mutant ninjas right now. Oh shit I shouldn't have told you that, now I have to kill you." But I'm not sure that is believable.

I got crabs!

I went to the Giants game on Friday. I love AT&T Park. There are no bad seats, only bad players.

Anyways a friend had been talking up the crab cakes, (and I wanted the excuse to yell “I have crabs” really loud over and over) so we walked all the way around the park to go get some. Come to find out the damn things were $15. I mean I know park food is obscenely priced but come on. But after much bitching I bought one. And that plus a beer and ice cream and it came in a little over an economy car (obviously not a kia those things are pieces of shit).

And I have to admit it was damn tasty, I will never get one ever again but still very good.

And the thing made a complete mess, I had crabs all over me (still isn’t old). So I brushed off all the crabs and accidentally brushed them all onto the guy in front of me. (We were in the front row of our section so he was a little below us, in perfect drop something on the guy position.) I said I was sorry but I felt bad, and I was proud of myself for not telling everyone that I gave that guy crabs, ok I told a few people that. Everyone around me laughed their asses off, but at least I didn’t spill my beer, that would have been worse.

Because I'm lazy

Ok I'm cheating and just putting my column in here (its for school I'm not actually a cool columnist or anything, because that would be too good). So I'm a little lazy what of it?


I've always thought of myself as a pretty independent person. I mean, I'm almost 30 and I haven't died yet, so there's a plus.

But I have recently realized that maybe I wasn't as independent as I thought I was. I went from living at home to living with roommates to living with a boyfriend. Well, two months ago, I went to living alone.

Living by yourself is a lot different than living with someone else. You pay all the bills, you have to do all the cleaning and you don't have to argue about what to watch. But there are some things that I've come to realize about living alone that I might not have otherwise ever known. So here are some things that I've learned in the last two months:

The refrigerator doesn't magically restock with food; you have to actually go to the market and buy food. Also, no matter how many times you look in the fridge, that chocolate cake you've been dreaming of isn't going to be there.

The stupid pasta sauce jar is obscenely hard to open. And often when I thought I wanted pasta what I really wanted to do was scream in frustration while trying to twist off a now fused-to-the-top lid, eventually giving up and getting Chinese food. Mmm, chow mein.

Finding a good Chinese food place is the key to happiness, but a mediocre Chinese food place will get you by.

I could live without an oven, but the microwave is my master, and I will do whatever it says so that it will never leave me. But you should not run the microwave and the toaster at the same time. Your apartment will get mad at you and throw you into complete darkness, and then you will have to wander the halls looking for the fuse box.

When you're sick, you still have to feed yourself, and making ramen while almost dead really sucks. And when sick, you should take your friend's advice and get some medicine so that you can actually function for the day.

I've realized that if I suddenly die, it would take a few days for anyone to notice. Thankfully, my apartment gets unbearably hot, so the smell should alert the neighbors before too long.

If you live on the third floor and only have windows that look into a light shaft, your apartment will turn into an Easy-Bake Oven every day. But if you lay on the floor, you can actually see blue skies.

Egg cartons burn incredibly easily, especially when left on a gas burner that you mistakenly lit. They smell rather sweet and make a prodigious amount of smoke.

The smoke alarm is really loud.

It's probably best not to make friends with your neighbors when your walls are paper-thin. You get funny looks sometimes, and some of those noises you hear you really don't want to associate with other people. (I'm mainly talking about those people that crank up Nickelback; I don't want to give them a face.)

You shouldn't try to "eyeball" shelves. Sure, it's not like they're perpendicular, but I definitely can't put anything even kind of rolly on them.

Crooked pictures rock.

If you can't figure out how the IKEA table goes together, go get a beer and try again later. Repeat until said table looks kind of like the picture.

An old television set with a built-in VHS is really heavy, and there's a good chance you will throw out your back trying to carry it up three flights of stairs before the cable guy finally helps you out eight feet from your door.

You can fall in love with a guy just because he was able to hook up your DVD player. (Admittedly it was fleeting, but for a few minutes I worshipped the ground he walked on.)

Having only two outlets in an apartment (none in the bathroom) will make you homicidal.

No matter how much you scream, that spider isn't going anywhere unless you actually do something about it.

Even though nobody is around to hear me, I'm still going to scream at spiders.

I can go almost 48 hours without actually saying a single word.

It's not drinking alone if you are talking to a friend online.

Sometimes you have to ask for help. There are just some things that you can't do alone.

Although I've almost burned down my apartment, felt like I broke my toe and smacked my head rather hard on the counter, I love living alone. I love that the crooked pictures on the wall are mine and that I put them up. I love the sink with the overflowing pile of dirty, mismatched plates. I love my tiny, cramped apartment that could double as a phone booth because it's mine.

My favorite thing is that when I turn the key in my lock and open the door, I walk into my apartment, and it hits me that I can survive on my own, and it makes me smile.

I'll take an S

Today is the first day of school. And I have been dreading it like I was on the sixth grade. I guess I'm not a real student, no instead I'm a graduate student going for a rather pointless degree in a dieing field, so that was smart of me. See what 7 extra years of school can do? I know lots of people go to school for 7 years, and no I'm not a doctor.

But as I was walking across campus at way to early in the morning I saw the coolest celebrity sighting ever. If there is one person everyone would want to run into it's this guy. Yep that's right I saw Pat Sajak.

I wanted to run up to him and scream, "I'd like to buy a vowel!" But I held myself back. Sure I stalked him across the campus, trying to think up something witty to say like, "So are you taking a spin around the campus?" or "Can I show you some Before & After pics of me, I used to have a different face?" ok that one was stretching it but I still think its a good conversation starter.

I used to have the Wheel of Fortune board game when I was little, and I wanted to be Vanna White (best job ever). But I grew up and realized that Vanna had sold her soul to the devil so that she would never age and therefore the position would never be open. Oh and I'm not a tall, beautiful blonde, dammit!

But sadly after getting closer to him it wasn't Mr. Sajak at all and instead an uncanny doppelganger. Oh well I think it was probably for the best.

Fun with power tools

I have puny arms. I mean they are proportionate to the rest of my body so I’m not complaining. But I am rather weak. I admit it. It seems to be the trade off for never gaining weight, so it’s one that I can live with. My sister is really weak as well so we are guessing it’s a genetic thing (although weirdly our mom is freakishly strong).

But it was rather frustrating trying to put together one stupid little ikea table. I could not get the screws in for the life of me. For a week the Swedish, wooden puzzle pieces mocked me from their jumbled heap on the floor. Everyday I would try to get the screws a little farther in, like maybe today I was a tad bit stronger or that the wood maybe would have given up its vice like hold, but to no avail.

But yesterday I brought back with me the great equalizer — power tools. Suddenly what was a week’s worth of frustration turned into ten, fun-filled, minutes of me just hitting a button and bam, it’s put together. And not even the tiniest bit of sweat was involved.

Now I’m thinking of putting up shelves and building a small ark. Thanks to electricity and tiny motors I have the ability to make anything.

So thank you power tools and fire arms for evening out the playing field.

I can feel you judging me

I met some friends downtown last evening. It was going to be a chill night as we started late and I was kind of tired.

As I first left my building I ran into a coworker. We talked for a few minutes and then said bye. I headed to the bar and forgot about him.

Fast forward about 9 hours. When I walked into work with only 3 hours of sleep under my belt, no makeup, hair kind of messy (I was just hoping everyone would think I was trying something new), no purse and wearing the clothes I was wearing the night before. No problem they weren’t wrinkly, I took a shower so I didn’t smell, but dammit, I forgot about the coworker.

The minute he sees me he breaks into a huge knowing smile and starts kind of giggling to himself. My boss walks over so I shake my head at my coworker and go over to talk to my boss.

Later he comes over, “I can’t help but notice that you are wearing the same clothes you wore last night. And you are looking a little haggard — have a good night?”

I have to go do an interview with him so I get mocked for a bit in the car, but at least he stopped by my place so I could brush my teeth.

Damn, for a big freakin city I seem to run into everyone just when I don’t want to.

I'm not hungry, thanks

It was another weird day; I seem to have a lot of them.

I went with one of the photographers to this quaint little grocery store so he could photograph the owner for a profile we’re doing. When we get there the owner doesn’t want to be photographed because “he’s still in hiding.” Dude has owned this place for like fifty years and his name is everywhere. Sir, you are doing it wrong.

Then (profile has already been written) he proceeds to take us around his store, and goes on a fifteen-minute lecture about how he disposes of his fruits and vegetables. As he takes us over to the bin of discarded stuff, he starts throwing, a smidge-past-ripe fruit at us, telling us it’s tasty. Do I look like I haven’t showered in weeks? Are there funny stains that can’t be identified anywhere on my outfit? Am I wearing a tinfoil hat? No! So stop throwing food at me that comes from the garbage, I am not going to eat it.

But apparently everyone was obsessed with feeding me today.

After work I went to get a manicure, because I can be girly damnit. While the manicurist had one of my hands gripped tightly and the other soaking in tepid water, another worker lady came in with a plate of sushi from next door. She comes and sits by us and while talking to the other worker crams a deep fried rainbow roll in my mouth. I have to swallow or choke, so I choose the former. I guess it’s a full service kind of place.

Kind of awkward.

Thankfully I know the restaurant she got them from isn’t sketchy.

Must learn to not talk to strangers

Last week I had to go to the mall. I hate the mall. But I bravely entered the fourth circle of hell and tried to go about my errand.

Sadly I got stopped at one of the makeup counters. A very perky girl with shiny hair asked me if she could put some makeup on me. She looked so earnest and eager that I just didn’t have the heart to say no.

Twenty minutes and five pounds of glitter later I emerge looking like I got hit in the face by two bedazzled baseballs. She had a penchant for black and purple eye shadow that was used heavily to circle both of my eyes.

I dutifully told her it looked lovely and that this would be my look for forever more.

Now I have to walk around the mall looking like a rabid raccoon.

The day continued in this lovely way, when as I was walking home (right past city hall) this rusty green, Chevy Astro Van jumps the curb next to me and comes to a stop. The driver rolls down his window.

“Look what you made me do … cause you’re so purty.”

“Gee thanks.” Vehicular manslaughter is such a turn on.

Now I’m quickly backing away because I’m pretty sure that at any minute the side door is going to roll open and ninjas are going to jump out and attack me and then pull me into the van. Because I know that ninjas drive around San Jose in old beat up vans looking for random people to accost, that’s just what they do.

This doesn’t happen.

Instead he yells after me, “Where you going?”

I run across the street and into my building, locking the door behind me.

Mulligan

Yesterday was just one of those days where you wish you could have a do over.

First off my boss calls me at 8 a.m. OK I’m not usually up by then, so I have to pretend to be awake and that I understand what he was saying. I know you corporate types are already in the office, blah blah blah. But I don’t roll in to work until 10 and that means I usually wake up at 9:30 and don’t actually get to work until almost 11 (very understanding boss).

Anyhoo he wanted to me to go with some of the advertisers to a meeting in Mt. View so I could then interview the person they were talking to. Good times.

I get to their office (in a different building then ours) and there they are, we’ll call them Advertiser B and Advertiser K because I’m not that creative, sucking down cigarettes like soon they would be illegal (which in our city I wouldn’t be that surprised), and they had to get as many into their atrophied lungs as possible in a five minute period. Anyway the old guy, Advertiser B, tries to tell me how I should write my little profile so that they could sell more advertising, and I was like, “Excuse me, but this is my story and I will write it as I see fit without any interference from the advertising department.”

Or that’s what I would have said if I had integrity. Instead I more or less mumble, “Thanks for the suggestion.”

So we head over to the clients which is twenty minutes away and the two guys get into the world’s most boring conversation about their large sells last week. We get there and they both suck down another cigarette before lighting another one up for the 500-yard hike to the office.

To make a really great impression we were 30 minutes late. Which then advertiser K gets in an argument with the client about how no they weren’t late and she must have had the time wrong. She says no I called and emailed you, he then pulls out his phone to prove she didn’t. About five minutes of this going back and forth, good times.

Finally we get in to the presentation where Advertiser K is told he has only 10 minutes to make his spiel and so he flies through it (it actually wasn’t too bad). And I find I was basically brought along as a selling point (mistaken for a whore again). But then after all that hard work we find that this woman is not the woman to talk to and instead they needed to talk to her boss who was not available right now. And she had to go and she was definitely not the person to talk to me. Lovely.

So I wasted two hours of my day, when I’m on deadline, 40 minutes of those spent in a car that smelled like old salami and I got nothing. Yeah!

After that I went home, and got ready to meet up with the ex before he moves 300 miles away (that’s right chased a guy 300 miles away, I’ve got talent).

So I get to dinner and he’s looking good, the bastard. Lost weight, tanner, new clothes. Since I was the one that broke up with him I had decided that I shouldn’t try to dress up, because well I’m cute enough to begin with don’t need to rub it in (by cute I mean most guys don’t throw up when they see me).

So I sit down and we get to talking, everything is very amicable. When all of the sudden, “You got your hair cut, it looks like crap.”

Too long of a pause, “Just kidding. It’s not that bad.” Looks at my hair again, “Well its got a kind of funny poof to it on one side.”

Well played sir, well played. I’ll give you that round.

I now hate my haircut.

I went home and drank — heavily.

Sharp objects

Now I’ve been trawling the Internet for years. I love all the hate and snarkiness. One of my favorite comments on forums is about skinny girls and their sharp knees. Bag of antlers is another favorite. I don’t know who came up with it but it’s great, have you seen those scrawny bitches? They really do look like a big skin colored bag was pulled over a plethora of antlers.

I like making fun of people that probably have eating disorders.

And this makes me quite the hypocrite. Because I’m 5’7” and barely over 100 lbs. I’ve always been tiny, but never thought of myself as a bag of antlers.

That is until this last week when proof was given to me, beyond a shadow of a doubt that in fact I am not a human female and instead I truly am a bag of sharp, pointy antlers.

I came to this conclusion because I don’t have any furniture, so I’ve been sleeping on an air mattress (yep I’ve been basically camping in the new place) and every night it deflates at least four times. My coworker, sick of me bitching about it, dragged my lazy ass to the bike shop and made me buy a patch kit. That was last Tuesday.

The mattress is now so covered with black patches it looks like it has the bubonic plague. And I’ve used up all the glue. I think I might have to switch to silvery, magical duct tape, because that fixes everything.

And still every night there has been a new freaking hole. So that means that at night some needle sharp appendage of mine punctures the mattress sending me slowly to the floor.

Every night.

Hence: bag of antlers. But I hear that look is hot so I’m good.

Mating habits of automobiles

For some reason I just haven’t been having the best of luck with cars this year. Maybe life is telling me I should ride a bike or take the bus. But within the last year I got stranded on the freeway at 2 a.m. (in complete zombie make up and no it wasn’t Halloween, why?) because something in the transmission sheared off and destroyed the drive shaft, killed the battery, I totaled my car (on the freeway yet again and they had to stop all four lanes of traffic too), bought a slightly sketchy used car, had the engine light turn on the next day, and got a flat on the freeway (for which I had no jack, I really seem to love these freeways).

So today as I’m headed to work I wasn’t totally shocked to see that my bumper was about three inches lower than it should be. It looked about ready to fall off; if I had some duct tape I would have used it. I’m guessing from the paint scratches on top of the bumper that some big truck or SUV tried to mount my little Honda in a fit of lust and proceeded to bang the bumper off.

So instead of buying shoes that fit I’m off to get my car repaired … again.

Who came up with line dancing anyways?

I went out with a couple of friends on Saturday night. They wanted to go country dancing and the only place even remotely in the area is the Saddle Rack (twenty minutes away, which means I have to drive, and can’t drink, much, which makes the country bar lame). It’s actually quite huge with two dance floors, a billiards room, two bars, a beer station and an oxygen bar (because when I think cowboy I think oxygen bar).

For about two years in high school I went through a country faze so I knew about every seventh song, but none of the synchronized dances. Although they did have the electric slide, which thanks to many weddings and school functions I still know. And the floor was packed, for some odd reason it was short person night so when I glanced around it was a sea of bad highlights and cheap cowboy hats. I got many glares because I have ADD and got bored with the electric slide about two steps in and just started twirling (towards freedom). This is not the thing to do, people their take their electric sliding very seriously.

The other thing about the bar was that they play slow songs, which sucks because then people ask you to dance. I had to turn down at least three AARP card carrying members, one of which I’m pretty sure was wheeling around his oxygen tank with him, as well as a guy that came up to my waist. A friend later said I was cold to do this, but I saw those guys going around to every girl in the joint with a pulse, I wasn’t special to them, and I’m looking for something meaningful not just once around the dance floor (total lie).

It did feel more like a high school dance than other clubs. When Footloose came on everyone ran onto the dance floor and proceeded to jump around all landing on my feet. Old Time Rock n' Roll was another favorite as was Ring of Fire, seriously people got extremely excited for badly sung Johnny Cash covers, I mean I think one guy was screaming and crying at one point. Everyone in there was part of a birthday/bachelorette/bachelor party, I have never seen so many sashes sans swim suit contest in one night.

The age range in the place was different than most places. There were people in their early 20s to late 80s (yep those were the bastards trawling for chicks too) there. I got ran over by some old man in his wheel chair on the dance floor. As I checked out the tread marks on my back I swear I heard him yell, “Get off my lawn!”

Tolerance and shoes

It’s official I have lost my once amazing alcohol tolerance. And by amazing I mean back in college I could put back a whole six pack (yep that’s right be amazed) within 6 hours and not feel ill the next day.

I recently found I couldn’t do that anymore. The other night I went out with a friend, I had one gin and tonic and another beer and a half, in the span of five hours and I was spinning. And the next morning I awoke to a pounding head and rolling stomach. What the hell?

But I’ve decided instead of getting upset about this and drinking myself into oblivion (half a beer), I will take this as my body’s way of trying to save money. No longer will I have to buy a bunch of beers to get a good buzz, nope instead I can just smell my friends’ beverage and be on my merry way.

Anyways on to the night of my pathetic showing. We started out at a rather trendy bar near my place, where a strong gin and tonic had me kind of wobbly (or it was the shoes that are smidge too big but super cute). We didn’t stay there long.

Then we were on to one of two decent English pubs in San Jose. The service there is horrible, but at least it’s consistently horrible every time we go and sadly I think it’s my favorite place in SJ. And I’m pissed because we saw what was the beginning of a good row, but had to move to the back because there was an open table and you can’t just pass up prime real estate at a crowded pub, and I’ve already mentioned that my shoes were too big.

Anyways we sat down and were joined by another friend, and then another and then by the band that didn’t open for the band that played music in the park but that was the second band to play, and then by the girl that goes around the country to different festivals doing henna tattoos, and finally by a really gay man that seemed to be hitting on every women there.

I was kind of stuck in the corner, and therefore couldn’t get away. Stuck in the corner across from the pseudo-gay man who kept talking about his art and how capitalism is ruining it for everyone and would I like to see pictures of some of his work? Dear God NO! I’d rather stick this hot-curry drenched fork in my eye and swirl it around.

“Um, OK” Wait what? That was not what I meant to say.

I mean who brings their portfolio to a bar anyways? So now I’m leafing through what seems to be a five year old’s finger paintings with wires stuck through them at random intervals.

“That one is a memorial to Sept. 11.” Pointing to what looks to be puked up blueberry jello and a butterfly. What the fuck was with the butterfly?

At this point I realize I’m about to start screaming, so I stand on the bench and vault over it just to get away. I give myself a 7.5 for creativity but I just couldn’t stick the landing (shoes again, not my balance). I’m not always that subtle. But realizing that might seem kind of mean I turn and say.

“Um, I need to find my friend.” Yes because that will fool him, what with the acrobatics and everything. Ok actually he’s an idiot and probably thought nothing of it.

Finally we left that den of retardedness and headed to more of a dive. Here there were a bunch of rockabilly chicks trying to look hard, hot and anti-establishment all at the same time while basically only pulling off the I-have-cleavage-please-stare-at-it look and the oh-so-popular no-that’s-not-a-tattoo-I-just-haven’t-showered-in-a-couple-of-days (yay hyphens!).

Then we headed home. At this part of the night I became very wobbly, I think my shoes were actually getting bigger. I finally made it home but I fell out of my shoes twice, I swear they basically fit when I left.

Downtown crazies

I’ve become crazy (ok a few of you might say the become part is redundant), but it’s out of necessity.

Living and working downtown I’ve gotten a lot more attention than I’m used to or that I want. It’s not that I’m anything special (no I’m special but it takes getting to know me to realize just how “special” I am), I think every woman that has stepped foot downtown gets it be she wearing a burlap sack or fishnet body suit. During the middle of the day I get catcalls or guys stopping their cars asking if I can join them. Ok that last one is only in a certain part of town where I was informed a lot of prostitutes hang out, but I mean what kind of prostitutes solicits guys on the street in business casual? Although yeah me on being mistaken for a whore!

The thing is I’m not really good at just ignoring people. If they talk to/email/call me I have to reply back, it’s this horrible need within me. So I’ll get a, “Hey gorgeous, how you doin?” and I’ll of course answer.

“I’m good, except I didn’t sleep so well last night because my air mattress keeps deflating so I have to wake up five times a night and refill it, but I haven’t found a bed yet and I don’t want to just go buy one because I’ll have it for awhile. How are you?” Wrong question to ask.

I had one guy say (in a deep rather disturbing voice, that sounded like he was about to have an orgasm) “Ooh yeah just keep talking, uh huh, oh yeah. Talk to me baby that’s right.” I had to go home and take a scalding shower I felt so dirty.

So I’ve finally found a way around this. I talk to myself. Whenever I see someone coming near I start to babble incoherently to myself, I also gesticulate wildly so it looks like I’m having a loud epileptic fit. Seems to work. I still get looks but now I find people walk a little faster to get past me and they don’t stop to chitchat.

Sure I’m now adding to the loonies found downtown but it’s kind of fun.

Snippets from the week

So this has been a rather weird week for me.

First off I learned that my x is moving back to Santa Barbara. This hit me a little harder than I thought it would and I ended up crying in the bathroom at work. But my eyes turn a bright green when I cry, much prettier than their normal hazel, although sadly people usually only notice the blotchy red face. And I ran into a wall on my way to the bathroom because I was trying to hide my face and I couldn’t see. Yelling “Aw fuck!” after making a banging noise against a brick wall does not lead to inconspicuousness.

Then, reunion boy who I haven’t spoken to in about two weeks asks me out. Feeling confused about everything I said yes. I got home late so we went to a brewery since that was the only place still serving food. Now when I get upset (I had been upset for a couple of days now) I can’t eat. Don’t know why I just can’t. So I tried to eat dinner but I mainly just pushed things around.

So when he suggested drinks afterwards I probably should have said no, but having had a few at the brewery I said sure. Once at the bar we switched to Patron and the night was basically over for me. I technically didn’t drink that much but mixing a few different beers and tequila on an empty stomach is never a bright move. Don’t think I made the best impression but meh, oh well. Previously I had thought he was rather boring, but on that night he was really fun and I had a good time.

Also I found that he subscribes to the Economist, one of my favorite magazines (I can’t afford it). I’m kind of a magazine snob so depending on what subscriptions you have kind of raises or lowers you in my opinion. He had a stack of different magazines on his coffee table and some were pretty decent.

Anyways I woke up with quite a hangover. Which was just dandy as I had to go over to A’s and remove the rest of my stuff. I think that’s basically karma: moving all the little pieces of a life you spent eight years building up (and which you knocked down in a day), feeling like you are going to puke at any second while thousands of tiny little men are banging away at railroad ties in your head, and the guy you hurt looks on. Ah good times.

The worst part is that it was so great hanging out with him. I didn’t want to leave. So yep I’m confused.

Monday I basically went bar hopping with a friend. We did quiz night and got 11 right out of 20 (shut up, highest score was only 15 so if you curve it we came out with a B), waited a good hour for food and decided that our bartender might just be the dumbest person in San Jose (and that is saying a lot).

We moved to another local bar to play some pool, but the table was taken so after a drink we moved on again. Now the third spot has a broken pool table so it’s free and PBR for only $2 (I know why didn’t we come here first?). But there is also always some drama going on. When we walk in the bartender, who’s smoking a cigar, immediately looks up and says “You guys aren’t cops right?”

Later in the evening two guys come in and start yelling at the obviously inebriated bartender, we guess they are management or something. Well it almost looks like something physical is about to happen, but sadly nothing does. But they kick everyone out of the bar anyways.

So since the night isn’t over we switch gears and head to the nearby “Ultra Lounge” which I’ve never been in. Karaoke was in full swing, and everyone looked like a tool. We stayed for a bit while every once in awhile every single patron in the place would join in on the chorus of some Shania Twain song or something equally lame.

I went home and fell asleep to the sounds of my neighbors’ loud, but very boring conversation about some party they had both attended, yay.

Morbid little thoughts

Oh the joys of being single. Basically what I’ve taken from it is that if I die, it will be the smell that eventually leads my neighbors to the reality of my demise. Oh sure I have some friends that might worry but they are out of town so it would take awhile. My editor (if you’re reading this then you suck Steve, and may you get stuck between a shark and an underwater zombie!) at work might wonder but he doesn’t have my address. And if it’s early in the week near deadline he’ll never even notice.

Thankfully my apartment thinks it’s in the Sahara so decomposition should happen pretty quickly. Yay for the little things. Oh crap what if I die in the winter?

I’m wondering if I should start some sort of phone tree just incase I die. Sure I talk to people online but I’ve been absent this past week (due to no internet in the new place) and no one has wondered if I’m dead yet. Ok I’ve been around during the day but still…

Sometimes you have to break a couple eggs

I’ve been in my place for about a week now but I hadn’t actually made any food there. So this morning I decided that it was time for me to make breakfast.

So I walked around the corner and headed in to some high-end market. It was one of those granola places where everything is a good 20 percent more than chain markets, but it’s so close and I wasn’t getting a lot.

I have only one frying pan and no baking sheet, so I decided to scramble up some eggs — even I can do that.

Well I also don’t have a bowl so I broke the eggs in the frying pan and put the rest on the back burner, as my counter is rather full of random stuff right now.

So I turned on the burner but noticed that nothing was happening. It sounded like the gas was going but I couldn’t see anything. I looked up and noticed bright orange flames working their way up the carton and starting to engulf my newly purchased eggs. Actually the eggs were starting to cook inside their shells so I mean, at least technically, I was cooking something.

Yep, I had turned on the wrong burner. After a lot of smoke and yelling I was able to get the fire out, and my neighbor was kind enough to give me a huge fan, (imagine the back of those Florida swamp airboat thingy) which was able to remove the smoke.

My first independent act in my new home and I’m a complete failure. I almost burned down my apartment of less than a week. There will be drinking tonight, thankfully I can open a bottle; I’ve had a shitload of practice at that.

Kickball

Although I have been going to school at SJSU for over a year I am still pretty new to the San Jose area. I have a couple of friends that I can bug but that's about it. So I decided it was high time for me to go out and meet some people. And where better to meet people than at a pickup kickball game?

The mixture of people was so random and the game itself was so fun. I met a bunch of cool people and there are even plans to go check out the free Flogging Molly show on Thursday. And really if you can't have fun playing kickball than you are dead inside.

We played at some elementary school, and one couple was kind enough to bring beers. Most of the people didn't know each other and it was just a great way to talk to people that are obviously as juvenile as I am. Although it was decided that next time more beer needs to be brought by all.

My kickball skills aren't up to par with what they were in the fourth grade but I got better as the afternoon progressed. I played pitcher, and my team one ... twice.

Afterwards we went to Aqui for some beers. I'm probably a little tipsy but oh well. It was fun and I would definitely recommend it to everyone. Where else are you going to meet a guy from Oklahoma who's twang only comes out after a few beers, a royally tatted up guy who teaches English to impoverished kids and a guy who is fanatical about kickball rules all in the same day?

And the best part was I met some cool girls who I can actually see hanging out with. I mean how can you not like a chick that's into kickball?

The whole time I was smiling and didn't think about the things that have been bringing me down lately. Maybe I'm starting to like San Jose?

Pampering

I got my first facial the other day. And it was great, but I also thought it was a tad bit on the odd side. It kind of seemed like the esthetician was trying to seduce me.

I mean I get there and they offer me a beverage. Then this woman with a sultry, low voice and perfectly coiffed hair leads me through a dimly lit labyrinth (which I became completely lost in), to an area in the back where I was told to strip and put on a robe.

After that I was led to another alcove where once again I was given a drink and then the lady (I forget her name so I'm going to call her Calliope because I like that name) came back and soaked my feet in some weird smelling bath.

Next we went into an even darker room, acoustic guitar music was piped in, where I was told to lose the robe and get under the covers. Calliope comes back in and starts talking in her hypnotic voice, I can't recall what she said but it lulled me into some sort of trance. Soon she started rubbing goo all over my face, before wrapping me up in a hot towel. She then gave me a neck, shoulder and arm massage before removing the goo and adding more goo but with a slightly different smell. I once again got a rub down (loved it), before she removed goo #2.

Finally she sprayed some mist on me and rubbed something else on my face. This was apparently the end of my session, and I must admit if she had been trying to seduce me I totally would have let her. Calliope, with sexy voice and magical hands, could have done whatever she wanted to me, I was so relaxed.

Of course when I left the spa and got into my car, my face was a scary, fire engine, splotchy red. But meh it was worth it. I will definitely have to do that again.

My castle

So I've got my shnazzy new place (shnazzy is defined as about the size of a closet but with a stove), and today I decided to clean it as my landlord's definition of clean and my definition didn't seem to match up. So I rented one of those lovely steam cleaners and dragged it up to the third floor, vowing to hit the gym so that I can carry slightly heavy items more than five feet without stopping and gasping for breath, when I finally got to my apartment I realized I had accidentally rented a place whose location randomly shifts to the surface of the sun.

After a few hours I think I lost 30 pounds of water weight and I get to repeat the process tomorrow. But at least now I can sit on the floor without feeling like I'm going to get hepatitis.

Now I just need to move all my furniture in, oh wait I don't have any furniture and I'm pretty sure when my friends see the stairs they are going to run for the hills (thankfully those are probably on fire so they will have no choice but to help me move).

Wireless

Sick of borrowing shoddy Internet from my neighbors I went out and purchased a wireless router yesterday. And I swear “tech” sales people are the most misogynistic guys around, I get more respect from mechanics. I get asked about 30 times if I was sure that I could do this myself, and if I was comfortable using computers? The manager highly suggested I get the inhome installation so that they could set up security, after all they were “certified.” He looked very skeptical that I could set it up without help.

After taking five minutes to set the whole thing up I’m pretty sure a retarded monkey could get certified. You plug a freakin cord in and then you run a CD. Why the hell would I pay $100 for some greasy-faced asshole to invade my home to do this?

But I now have Internet so I’m happy, no more websites crashing just as I’m paying a bill, no more gmail chat kicking me off just when a friend is about to say something interesting, and finally being able to quickly download porn, I must watch two girls one cup again with out it starting and stopping so often — I feel like I missed parts.

I'm ready for my close up

So Friday, after the debacle that was my flat tire, I came into work thoroughly wind blown and frazzled. Instead of getting to work I decided I needed some cookies and some Internet surfing time.

As I was sitting at my desk drinking a coke and munching on Oreos (no I did not dunk them in the coke and I don’t twist the tops off either) I saw the editor and the photographer talking. I heard my name come up and then they both turned to look at me.

“Colleen has a lot of hair,” this coming from my editor.

Now I was confused, the quantity of my hair has never come up in conversation with either of these two before, actually we’ve never discussed anything with regards to my hair before (which I think is for the best). Then I find out that they need a model for next week’s issue and the criterion is: a lot of hair.

Also I think they wanted cheap and easy, wait that doesn't sound good.

So I head down to the “studio” (a little nook by the break room where we have to move around a big table and chairs) and for the next hour the photographer (who is a really cool guy but I’m pretty sure he was laughing at me the whole time) had me flip my hair around while trying to stick out my hip, and curve my torso in a way that is physically impossible. Needless to say I almost fell down a half dozen times and afterwards I was very dizzy.

But Monday came and apparently the pictures just didn’t work. So off to the “studio” again, but this time not only was the photographer there but the editor and the art director joined as well. Good times.

Actually in the end it was quite fun, except for the slightly tweaked neck, and I’m officially a cover model.


OK so you can’t tell it’s me, but in general I think that’s for the best. And the story is about being in debt so it also kind of fits.

Eleven years and counting

Saturday was my high school reunion, my eleven-year high school reunion. Sure most schools do 10 years but our class couldn't get our act together last year so it was slightly delayed.

I guess our class was always a bunch of slackers. During rallies and football games barely anyone showed up. And as a class that started with about 500 students our freshman year we ended with a little over 250. Not the best matriculation rate.

I guess any reunion is weird. What do you have in common with these people anymore? I have to admit though that there were a lot of really cool people that I never talked to in high school that I really enjoyed hanging out with last night.

Basically we went to a local pizza parlor and had pizza and beers for a couple of hours out on the patio. I was surprised at how many people had kids. I was really surprised to learn that one couple (who got married right after school) was expecting their fifth child.

It was really interesting to see what people were doing now, and how you would never have thought that a decade ago. One classmate, whom I had attended elementary school with) had become a luchadore (masked Mexican wrestler) for eight years (or that’s what he said and if he made it up kudos for a great story), one of the artiest girls ever turned into an engineer and there was a guy who laid oil pipelines down in Peru.

Later in the night, the families took off and a bunch of us headed down the block to what I’m sure is California’s last saloon. Boots hung from the ceiling and there were a lot of wranglers packed onto the stools. The AC didn’t work but the beers were cold and the patio was pretty nice by then.

Outside poor Deb was hassled by an old classmate, and my two other compatriots were tired so they took off. I stayed until a little after midnight hanging out with people I hadn’t talked to since the ’90s.

As I drove home I got a text that asked, “One more drink?”

And there’s always room for one more, so I changed course and headed to a local bar. That last one definitely put me over and I woke in a bit of pain this morning, but I guess reunions should not be done sober anyways.

And so it continues

I was driving to work, almost obeying the posted speed limit, thinking about everything I needed to get done today when a car pulls up next to me and the woman in the passenger seat starts gesturing wildly. I stared blankly back at her until she rolled down her window and informs me I have a flat tire.

Excellent, so I moved into the slow lane looking for a turn off when I hear a loud pop and my car pulls to the left. Well shit, I pull over on to the shoulder and shake my head. There’s something about me and freeways — I just like to be stranded on them. And I was only about five minutes away from work.

To top it all off I left my cell phone at home, this is the second time I’ve forgotten my cell phone and I’ve been stuck on a major freeway. Last time the accident was decent enough that a couple of cars stopped and called the police, this time I had to hoof it to the nearest call box, about a half mile behind me, and there was an exit in my path so I had to do a little traffic dodging. It was also about a thousand degrees out with gale force winds (or that could have just been the semis hauling ass past me).

I got to the call box and I talked to the nice lady who I’m pretty sure thought I’m an idiot for forgetting my cell phone, not having AAA and not knowing anyone’s phone number that could come and help. In my defense I do know two numbers; one is my old roommate from college who lives in San Diego and the other is my old boyfriend who probably wouldn’t appreciate the call. Note to self: try to memorize work’s number and that of at least one person who lives in San Jose. But at least a tow truck was on its way.

So I start my trek back to my car when I hear a honk behind me, and the slowing down of a car. I look back and it’s an old, faded green Chevy Astro Van. Now as a horror movie aficionado I should know better than to get anywhere near this guy, instead I basically skip over there and ask him what’s up. He was just being nice and offering to help but I told him I had a tow coming. Right as he was about to take off, a cop (with lights on) pulls up in front of us. I keep walking and the cop get out of his car and tells me to stop right there.

At this point I’m a bit confused as to why I’ve been told to stop but I do it because I’m not completely retarded. He then looks at the van, which suddenly decides to take off, and back at me.

“Where are you coming from?”

I laugh and tell him the car behind him, then go on to explain that I had to walk to the call box and that the guy in the van had just pulled over to be nice. I don’t think he believed me.

He then says that he’ll drive me back to my car as it is safer (my car is a good 200 yards away) but there is AC in his car so I’m excited. As we are about to take off the radio blares a thousand different codes. The officer then speaks for about five minutes with maybe two intelligible words spoken, which I translate into meaning “I’m taking a girl to her car.”

When we get there he talks code into his walkie talkie again, which I assume means, “We got there.”

Afterwards he tells me that whenever an officer transports a female they have to report the exact mileage he takes her, and that there had been incidents in the past. That didn’t really make me feel better. After about 20 minutes of sporadic, awkward conversation (he felt bad about leaving me on the side of the road) the tow truck shows up.

Now I’m kind of living out of my car right now, so to get to my extra tire I have to move the contents of my trunk into my back seat and the Bruce (the tow truck driver) is not amused. So about ten minutes later he gets started. And $70 later he finishes.

And I’m off to work two hours late — again.

I am lame

The day didn’t start off that bad. Ok I was two hours late to work but I don’t think anyone noticed, but it was all downhill from there. I decided that I wanted a burrito for lunch, so I got one that had everything in it and brought it back to the office. I then managed to spill its entire contents (chicken, beans, rice, sour cream, cheese and guacamole) all down the front of my pants. Not a pretty look. So I head down to the bathroom and try to clean it all off in the sink, frantically rubbing at my crotch as some older lady walks in pauses, gives me an odd look, then scurries into one of the stalls and hides there until I leave. I then go back to my desk in noticeably soaking wet pants.

I had plans with some friends later in the day so to kill time after work I decided to walk around downtown. As I head back to my car around 6:30, I see one of my coworkers taking off and he mentions that he set the alarm. I get to my car and realize that I don’t have my keys. I dump my purse on to my trunk convinced that maybe the keys were hiding behind that empty pack of orbitz bubblemint gum, but to no avail. Yep, they are sitting on my desk, locked in the office and protected by an alarm that I don’t have the code to. Wonderful. I vow (and I'm pretty sure this isn't the first time I've made this promise) to have an extra set of keys surgically implanted in my arm.

So I wait around for another hour for my friend to pick me up, by this time I’m hot and sweaty, pretty sure I don’t smell that great and my shoes, which are not made for walking, are pinching the living shit out of my poor toes. I’m standing outside and about every 30 seconds some guy drives by in some '80s POS, sporting a wife beater and decides to boost my self esteem by yelling or whistling at me, good times (one guy was kind enough to drive by three times). Finally my friend picked me up and we headed to dinner.

The next day I actually caught a few breaks.

I took the bus to work and it was spare the air day so the bus ride was free (took about 40 minutes though). And I like taking the bus, people watching on the bus is fun, staring at all the carefully blank faces wondering if they actually have personalities under those facades. There didn’t seem to be any fellow walk of shamers, but as I took a shower that morning I don’t think I was that obvious either.

My shoes continued to torture my feet on my mile walk from the bus stop to the office but thankfully I’m a chick and can usually push through footwear pains as long as the shoes are kind of cute.

Of course I felt like everyone I passed knew that these were the clothes from yesterday, I could feel the judgment radiating off the homeless man at Market and Santa Clara Street. Walking in the office I just kept my head down and ran for my desk. Thankfully I think most people think the editorial group is kind of odd anyways so I doubt anyone gave me a second look.

When I got to my desk, there they were. My keys were sitting on my notepad, all shiny and unused. Also I found that my boss is out for the day so I didn’t have to explain how retarded I am to him, which is good since he would point and laugh all day because that’s just who he is.

And to top it all off I had a change of clothes in my car and I found $3 in the parking lot! Yay me!

Parking tickets

I have this thing with parking tickets, I seem to collect them. I have three outstanding ones in San Mateo, San Jose (ok two in San Jose) and now, as of tonight, one in Walnut Creek. That's three different sections of the Bay Area, some that are separated by a bridge. Sure I would pay them but the moment after I get said parking ticket the stub seems to disappear. And it's not like I'm trying to not park correctly, but 2 hours tends to just fly by and I run out to my car to find that stupid white little envelope there. I wonder what would happen if I never paid them? Would they stick one of those boots on my car? How many tickets do you have to get before that happens? Because technically I'm at four. And is it per city or do you think they team up? And who keeps a meter running til 11 p.m. anyways that is just ridiculous. I think I'll just keep them in a drawer with my rejection letters for those days when I get too full of myself. Maybe this is just my version of civil disobediance, yep I'm protesting the disillusionment of the x/y generation with big government and their need to control every aspect of our lives by not paying my parking ticket. It's either that, or I'm lazy.

A challenge

I was 16 or 17 and this guy pulled into the gas station where I was filling up my extremely beat up Honda (back then I would pay for gas in change from the tips I made as a barista from a little coffee shop called Mocha Lisa, which has long gone out of business). But behind his pickup on a flatbed was this beautiful orange car. Sure it was faded and dusty and the tires were flat but you could tell it had potential. It just looked like it would be so much fun to drive. It was a 1970 Challenger and they have been one of my favorite cars ever since.

The owner came up asked me if I liked muscle cars. I didn’t know too much about them but like every other American I was a fan of early model mustangs. We then stood around as he talked about muscle cars and I decided that sometime in the future I was sooo going to get me one.

I still love cars but I know basically nothing about what goes on under the hood. Sure I can change the oil and tires but that’s about it (and if given the chance I don’t do those things). So the newer model of muscle cars that pay homage to their loud, heavy and fast ancestors, but also come with warrantees, are very tempting. And when I heard that Dodge was coming out with a new Challenger I knew I would want one. But I was a little worried; the new Charger leaves a lot to be desired.

So I was both delighted and saddened when I first saw the 2008 Challenger. It looks beautiful, its can get to 60 in 5, has a SRT-8 6.1L Hemi and it corners extremely tight. But the 2008 only comes in an automatic and of course the gas mileage is a bitch.

I mean what the hell!?!

I thought GM was the only company that was douchey enough to make fun cars minus the stick (I’m looking at you corvette, and no tiptronic does not count).

Ok so Dodge is already addressing the manual issue by giving the 2009 Hemi version the option of a 6 speed manual transmission. And the top of the line 6.1L Hemi will have an impressive 425-horse power under the hood so you really can’t bitch too much at that. But do I really have to wait another year? Not that I can afford the $40,000 price tag now or in a year but who cares, that’s what loans are for.

And it just looks so freaking hot. I want one (of the 2009 anyways the 2008 were all preordered).

The bad guy

Do you ever wonder: If my life was a movie what type of character would I be? First you have to figure out what genre you are in. Scifi/horror? Sadly, although it's my favorite, my life doesn't fall into that category (no aliens or knife wielding maniacs). Drama? Nope, although if I started fainting more maybe. So probably comedy, I get a laugh out of it anyways.

Next you go through the lists of your accomplishments. And it's not like you've ever killed anyone, but you start to realize that you aren't the hero. No you aren't even her frazzled hair friend that always makes witty comments, nope there's a good chance that you are the bad guy.

You go through the events that have led you up to where you are now, and yep it's true. That if people were watching your life they are probably wishing bad things on you and laughing when you inadvertently fall down the stairs. And you're not even a good villain, you're more one of those ones that no one is scared of, the ones that are laughably pathetic (in, hopefully, a slightly funny way).

Which is sad because I used to always think that if I got a chance to pick any role in a movie I would be the bad guy. they always seemed to have way more fun and they got really cool death scenes.

But to this I say no more. I think it might be time to truly explore my evil side. That's right no more rinsing dishes before they go in the dishwasher and I'm never letting anyone merge in front of me again.

Children

I've heard that caring for other people's children is the best birth control and I must say it is totally true. After a weekend with my sister's kids, whom I love, I'm very sure that I am not quite ready to have my own. I do want kids but just not any time soon.

And right now I'm in Utah where I'm pretty sure everyone has five kids and is expecting the sixth to pop out any time soon. Everyone looks tired. Almost makes one never want to have sex ever again just to be on the safe side — almost.

But to be honest I do like her kids they can be so sweet and cute. And even when they are being evil I can't seem to get mad at them, of course this is probably just guilt because I rarely get to see them, because well they live in Utah and it scares me out here.

When everything sucks

Oops apparently I’m not in the best of moods and it's seeping into my job. I’m supposed to be writing up little blurbs about bands and I was told the one I wrote just will not do.

“Before you check out Flock what you really should do is eat a shit load of peyote because that is the only way this bunch of acoustically challenged morons could be entertaining. Just because you can do something doesn’t mean that you should. Mix in jazz saxophones, the av tech and a guy who just wants to be in a band, any band, and you get Flock, a visual and audio cluster fuck of epic proportions.”

So it’s back to the drawing board for me.

Curiosity

I’ve been looking for a room in San Jose and there are some disturbing ads on craigslist. In my short search I’ve seen two that wanted to fill a room with a “cute girl” for little or no rent with either some kind of compensation or massages. And one of the posts asked for a picture in all caps — twice.

And I’m so tempted to reply.

Not because I would ever live there but I want to see what these guys are like. What kind of person puts an ad out for that? Are they normal looking, are they the geekiest guys ever and thought that this was a genius idea, do they have weird growths that would actually impede them from getting sex in some normal way? I want to know!

Would they interview me and actually ask for sex? Do you need to bring references and possibly a clean bill of health? Are you the house bitch, and if so does that mean you can’t bring other people home? Would there be a schedule? Is there a list of dos and don’ts? Would there be a uniform of any type?

Not sure yet if I want to go to this place by myself. But if I’ll leave a note where I'm going it should be fine.

Stupid driving

I drove home last night, well I guess morning, at 3:30 a.m. it takes me an hour to get there. And while I was sober I was not awake. About twenty minutes into the drive I started dreaming. It was weird because I was still awake but for some reason I just couldn’t process the images coming into my head.

The reflectors ahead in the distance coupled with taillights became a two-headed serpent that writhed about in the road just ahead of me. A couple of blinks later and it was gone. A bush became a fat lumberjack that had no knees, and a shadow in the car became a weird pig-faced werewolf thing in my backseat (that one freaked me out a bit).

I turned the music up and the AC on but it didn’t really help. I know the road so well as I drive it everyday, but last night there were whole stretches that I can’t remember.

Thankfully there were no other cars on the road or I would have been screwed. I remember swerving a couple of times because I thought there was something in the road that wasn’t there. On the last stretch about a mile before home I screeched to a halt so I wouldn’t hit the tollgate. There’s no tollgate, but it took me a couple of seconds to realize it.

My head bobbed again and I knew I probably should have pulled over but a nice warm bed was only minutes up the road and I didn’t want to stop. I made it home and kind of sat dazed in the car for about five minutes before stumbling up to my room.

Next time I need to stop and get some coffee or something, that was just dumb.

Jobs

I used to get excited when school was over. Yeah the summer! But now when school is out it means I have to get a second job, give up my weekends and try to smile nicely at the world’s most retarded people.

I’ve had a crap load of jobs in my short life, some really mundane while some were pretty interesting. I kind of miss those stupid little jobs I had during high school and college, the ones that didn’t matter and that even while I hated the jobs I had fun while I was there. so here's an incomplete list of some of my working past.

I got my first job at 14 doing data inputting in a warehouse in Oakland, I crashed their system — twice.

I then worked at a lovely coffee house where I would come home smelling like double lattes and would use the nickels and dimes I got for tips to pay for gas, the attendant hated me.

I then moved on to a Pumpkin Farm (which my friend still owns), that was the best. All of my friends and I had really buff arms from throwing and catching pumpkins for two months.

This was followed by a few summers of waitressing where I learned humility, and that my old teachers were good tippers.

After that I was off to college and I graduated to bartending, where I gave alcoholics more alcohol. But they tipped really well and I had creepy guys always hitting on me so that was fun.

I then moved on to filing at a defense contractor, Sept. 11 hit and that job became no fun. Actually filing in general blows, and I love how managers feel the need to explain filing in great depth. I know the freakin alphabet lady back off.

After college I got a real job in marketing, which sucked, and was there for almost three years (I got hired by another company 3 months before my old job would have matched my 401k, how stupid am I?).

That last job was the only one I got fired from. I should have known better than to yell at my boss, but what a bitch. I can only hold my tongue for so long. So after three months I was jobless again.

I came up to the bay area and got a job working part time at a cemetery. This had to be the world’s most boring job. I spent most of my time forming escape scenarios in case the dead suddenly popped up and started trying to eat my brains. Because you need a few escape routes just in case, I mean you don’t know if they are going to be the slow shuffling zombies or that fast as all hell ones.

Now I’m at the Metro. Which I really like, but one of these days I’m going to have to get myself a real job again, and I don’t think I’m looking forward to that.

Kind of

It was later in the night and I just walked through the door to the bar. I was putting my I.D. away when this guy comes up to me grabs my arm and drags me in closer. His warm, alcohol-infused breath fans over my face, as he looks deeply into my eyes and says, “You’re kind of pretty.”

He then abruptly lets go and walks away.

What the hell? You’re drunk and you couldn’t commit to pretty? Was that supposed to be a compliment? Wow, well I don’t retch when I see you so that’s a good thing, right?

Were your beer goggles askew? I’m not some freaking gargoyle. Next time just commit to pretty, it’s not that strong a word. Or at least if you are going to insult me buy me a drink first.

Time, what's that?

The majority of my days I try to wake up at 8:30 a.m., shower get ready and out the door by 9:30 (this often doesn't happen). At work by 10 then leave at 1 p.m. and off to the daily at 1:30. These last few weeks I've been at the daily til about 2 a.m. I then drive a half hour home to tiptoe through the house and try not to wake up A.

I'm a little tired but lately have found it difficult to go to bed any earlier than two. It sucks because in general I still wake up around 9 a.m. So I really want to go to sleep but I can't, and if I try to go to sleep now I'll murder A because of the snoring (my temper gets really short when I can't sleep).

But usually I have a few friends that I can talk to online until the wee hours of the morning but tonight they have all left me. So instead I sit here, not enjoying, the Chronicles of Riddick, hoping a little more alcohol might quiet a restless spirit. It's not working but hopefully it will at least quell any dreams I might have, because lately they have gone places I truly wish they hadn't.

Little Annoyances

So Thursday I went on saw the Sharks play during the playoffs. It was great, we won and I had a really fun time. There was just one little kink in the night's joyousness.

The most obnoxious lady was sitting behind us yelling the whole night long. Now don't get me wring I love yelling during sporting events, cheering on my favorite players and screaming at the opposition, but she went above and beyond. Every second she yelled advice, pass it to blank, now man up, ok head down the ice. Holy crap lady they have a coach, do you really think that during the game they are like "holy crap I have the puck, but what should I do now? wait I hear a grating voice from the stands, what did she say? That was brilliant, yes I will shoot. Why didn't I think of that?"

I looked back and she looked like a slightly younger version of the villain from Goonies, with a voice that was a smidge deeper than Fran Drescher's. I really wanted to drop my beer on her but since she was behind me it would have been rather obvious, so I restrained myself.

Of course they lost tonight. But they were in Calgary, so maybe her yelling really did help.

Songs of the pathetically sad

So I live in the land of preppies. There is only one bar within walking distance (a must for stumbling home, I hate taking cabs), and it is the saddest thing ever. I went with a girlfriend last week and we started a count of all the old people versus the young people. I was surprised because throughout the night it stayed pretty even.

But I think the big draw, for other people, was the karaoke. The bar was kind of fun, people talking, you could hear laughter, and then the karaoke guy got there. And that's when things took a turn for the worse. It was painful, apparently the only songs you could choose from were old whiny ones that most people have never heard of. I just wanted to put some of these pathetic souls out of their misery, they weren't bad singers but the subject of the songs were painful.

The worst part is I'll go back because it's only four blocks away, and they have a pool table.

More work

So I've been trying to be good about writing for other publications than just the schools. And by trying to be good I mean hoping someone will contact me out of the blue because I haven't sent out a query letter in ages.

Well I guess I should be careful for what I wish for because I now have two articles due in a week for two different places and I really don't have time to do them. Wonderful.

So I will have to pretend to be a journalist for the next week and actually get my shit together.

Also note to self: learn to say no.

Perks

Finally being a journalist has paid off. I got to see the movie "21" a whole day before it came out. The movie was ok but what was really cool was that my name was on a list, I didn't have to wait in line, and I got to sit in a roped off area. But the best thing was that when someone asked why I was so special, I got to give them a haughty look and tell them it was because I was with the press. Which I'm a little pissed at myself for because two seconds after she left I would have told her it was because of the blow jobs, but oh well.

A man's role

After getting a few drinks with some of the reporters from the Daily I headed back to my car (ok it was after getting a hot dog, after sitting around the newsroom sobering up, after getting drinks) I found myself walking in front of this big guy talking loudly on his cell phone. I loved his conversation so much that I slowed down so that I could follow him around for a few minutes.

This is basically what I heard:

"I know you love to cook but that's not the point."
"You just can't do it."
"Listen, even if you love to cook, you're going to train her to expect you to cook for her, and you don't want that."
"You can't have her expecting you to be in the kitchen. That's not the man's role that's the woman's."

Sure I had to walk a little farther but I was so entertained. The guy was so irate. I kind of wondered if he had a girlfriend, and maybe he secretly loved to sew but didn't tell anyone because once again that falls into women's work.

If your friend loves to cook, let him cook. And make sure to invite yourself over all the time so that he can cook for you. There are a shortage of people who love to cook that I'm friends with so I try to encourage them as much as possible.

Sniff...

On Saturday A and I headed into San Francisco to check out the Chinese New Year parade. OK I just really wanted sparklers and thankfully some nice lady we were standing next to gave me one (they weren't as super-amazing as in my childhood memories).

To get to the parade we decided to take public transportation so we drove to Milbrae to catch the BART. I've taken public transportation throughout my life and the smells I usually associate with it are stale sweat, bad breath and B.O. so I was surprised at the scent wafting around the Milbrae BART station. It smelled like freshly baked cookies.

On our way back out we again smelled the delicious smell of chocolate chip cookies. We looked around but the only restaurant we saw was an In-N-Out, and to my knowledge they don't bake a lot of cookies.

Four days later and I'm still wondering where the smell came from. Will it be there next time? And where can I get some?

Opinions

Damn I've been slacking. But I've been busy doing stuff, no seriously.

With working on the Daily and a job and trying to get my thesis OK'd my food intake has suffered. Lately I've been living off of nutterbutters, coke and noodles, tasty tasty microwavable noodles. I get so much crap from my boss for my eating habits but he's a pseudo vegetarian (I feel vegetarians and health food eaters are weak and can't survive off the stuff that I eat) so I think I eat worse when I'm around him just to get him mad. Oh the things I do to entertain myself.

Anyways I've been trying to think of things that I feel strongly about so that I can write an opinion piece and I've come to the realization that I'm a shallow person that doesn't care about anything.

The first thing I thought about was those damn Helio commercials, "don't call it a phone." If I paid $100 bucks for something and another $50 a month I will call it whatever I want.

Next one I thought of was the left arrow turn light. OK in some places it makes sense but it seems like they are popping up everywhere, if I can see 500 feet down the road can't I just go when I see that it's safe?

And finally I thought of those stupid forwards about the good ol' days. They were better because you were younger and had no awareness about the world around you, things change that's life. I loved the smurfs too but at the same time the American Embassy in Iran was overrun and people were taken hostage. Does that really sound so peachy to you?

Oh well I'll have to work on the opinion thing, some how I have to come up with a coherent idea for it too, so many damn rules.