everything must go

Last Saturday Alex and I participated in the annual University Village yard sale. We got a flyer in our mailbox last Tuesday telling us that we could just show up on the big lawn at the Village entrance and sell our stuff. As luck would have it not only did we have lots of stuff to sell, but we were free that day.

About a month ago Alex and I had actually gone through a lot of our old boxes of junk and put a box together of things we wanted to sell... figuring we would sell it with our furniture when we move out of the Village next year. But that box was just the tip of the iceberg. Upon receiving the flyer I transformed into a madwoman stumbling from room to room finding everything which could earn the title "clutter". I opened cabinets, I searched the bottom of closets, I contemplated letting some of the furniture go, you know, like the couch. I even broke a few things in my frenzied search, which I didn't mind too much, because then I was able to throw those broken things away. An even quicker (but not as lucrative) way to get rid of the junk. I calmed down after I broke a glass and had to confess to a chuckling Alex all about my reign of terror over the clutter.

By the end of the week I had a nice pile going and I was ready to SELL. The night before the yard sale I made a desperate attempt to find anything else to get rid of. I heard a lot of "we're going to sell that?", and the answer was always yes. There was no turning back.

On Saturday morning at 8:00am we thought about carrying our things less than a mile to the location of righteous selling but after packing 2 bags and 3 boxes we ended up loading the car. The seats had to be pushed down, the entire hatchback was full. We were ready to roll with a trusty change box and wad of ones.

Before we were even halfway through with unloading the car people started asking us how much certain items were. Most interest in the very early morning went to a portable CD radio and CD walkman. As I was taking the last few items out of the car Alex was taking our first 10 bucks. An awesome sight to behold.

We had a lot of questions to answer for the first hour because Alex and I didn't think ahead of time to actually get stickers so we started pricing everything up with sharpie marked sticky notes, which conveniently blew off in the morning breeze. I had to run back home and get tape. I am not a good runner.

We ended up making around $200, which is more than I expected, considering our highest priced item was 15$. That was a telescope, which I had forgotten how to use and Alex had never used. The weird thing about that telescope is we couldn't sell it for the first few hours because we didn't know how to work it. But Alex spent a little quality time with it, figured out how to get it working around 10:30am and it was sold at 10:45am. The power of knowledge is quite useful when selling things.

to sum up my experience here are some things I learned while at my very first yard sale:
* I am terrible at practical math
* it's probably a good idea to have a price determined before beginning haggling
* people will pay for a 7 dollar item with nickels
* whenever a kid asks "how many cents is this?" you should just let them have it for as many cents as they have in their hand minus a dime
* sunblock... it's not just for the beach
* people will ask you to break a hundred dollar bill when purchasing a one dollar item.
* price all items at home, and use something with adhesive
* don't count your money in the wind

tgifants

Today I woke up with a vision of reading the paper while sipping my coffee and eating a nice breakfast. I even got up early to accomplish this. However, as I noticed the throbbing black line on the stove all my plans were shattered; I had an Argentine ant problem of epic proportions.

Unfortunately Alex and I had left a dirty pan on the stove overnight, and apparently these ants fucking loooove egg. It was so bad that I could actually lift a layer of ants with a spatula. That's how many there were. Picking up the spatula might not have been the best idea, because as I touched it the ants started to crawl up the spatula and onto me. not okay. Of course I did the usual squirm and holler dance while twitching wildly across the kitchen with a spatula in my hand. Because when the volume of ants is overwhelming I have trouble remembering that they are really only 2 millimeters long. I finally got my wits about me and got all ant covered items in a sink full of hot water. Then I realized I would have to put my hand in this sink full of water topped off with floating dead ants to drain it. Maybe this could wait until Alex gets home?

I walked back to the stove to figure out where they were coming from. The ants were coming from inside the stove top. That's right... from within the oven, the thing we cook in. I grabbed my trusty stick of boric acid chalk and started going to town. Until I realized that neither my fingers or the chalk were small enough to get to the ant access. I tried to pull the oven out from it's built in cubby hole. I ended up with a blood blister, a shirt full of ants and the oven in the same spot. I was getting very frustrated and wondered why it is that Alex always is at school when these ant invasions happen. But that was not important, I had to focus my rage, I had to get into the stove. I got out 3 different screwdrivers, flung open the oven door and examined everything while ants covered in boric acid fell on my head. It took me awhile, I had to take all the burner knobs off and release a bunch of greasy screws, but I got in. And there it was... the colony.

The next dumb idea I had (after the spatula) was to not kill the ants straight away, but instead to trap them in a small area between the oven and the countertop. This bad move resulted in panicking ants fleeing and covering a built in cutting board, a drawer of utensils and a small area of the floor piled up with confused ants in a frenzied circle. I had done it again, made more work for myself. I started blotting all the ants up with wet paper towels until I thought about the powerful weapon I like to call Windex.

done and done.

I left the sink full of floating ants for Alex.

movie angst

Last night Alex and I watched the Summer of Sam, which I thought was terrible. It was one of Alex's Netflix choices, and it's been sitting around the house since November. I gave him a lot of grief about it when it was over. He agreed that it was awful.

Last Tuesday night Sean took me to his usual Tuesday "movie night" as a guest. I have to admit I was a little nervous going into the whole thing, especially when Sean told me that it's a pretty big group of invitees. It wasn't that I was scared of any of the people, because I didn't know anyone except Sean, but there were just so many people... and if you attend you are encouraged to participate in a discussion about the movie afterwards. When it comes to expressing my opinion, especially around strangers, I get a little anxious. Did I mention that Sean is a film/video editor and most of the people who usually go to movie night are linked to the film industry?

Why these sort of things make me nervous is beyond me. I am smart. I know how to watch a movie. I am able to form opinions and sentences. Sometimes I crack a pretty decent joke.

Maybe some of my fears stem from my childhood, where I learned pretty early that it's probably best to keep your opinion to yourself and privately grumble about what's really on your mind at a later date. Because putting your abstract ideas out there is a little risky... what if someone (gasp) DISAGREES?
**Please note that this rule does not apply if you are backed by a large group who feels the same way you do, then by all means, speak up. safety in numbers.**

So while watching the movie, which happened to be The General, I got myself all worked up about what I would say afterwards and hope that it would sound smart enough. Questions ran through my head like: how can I comment on a classic silent film? can I get away with sitting silently and saying it's in homage to the silent film? who am I to comment on this? I think there might have been a good 20 minutes where I completely zoned out and stopped watching the movie so I could think about what I was going to say. Then when I realized I wasn't paying attention I started watching the movie more intensely than I have ever watched a movie, to make up for lost time. I felt crazy by the time the movie ended.

As it turns out I had some pretty decent idea to share with the group, which actually turned out to be pretty small. And of course, realized that my neurosis was completely uncalled for and irrational.
I'm not going to say that this kind of behavior won't come into play again, because we all know that I have the tendency to get a little antsy in a large group of people. I'm just hoping that I can walk away from these kind of nights (where everything turned out okay) with a feeling of security instead of feeling like I have to pee my pants.

low self esteem

I've been suffering from low self esteem, and for any fellow sufferers I'm sure you know how it can take it's toll on everything you do. From tap dancing to filling out a purchase order I've been second guessing my every move I make and wondering what am I good at, anyways?

I'm sure this condition will turn itself around as quickly and as unexpectedly as it hit, and I'll look in the mirror sometime next week and say "oh, okay, I don't look like a troll". Or show up in tap class without the idea that everyone had a meeting after the last class regarding what a terrible dancer I am. But until then I have to rely on outside forces to get me through the day, I have to actively look for the positive things around me to remind me why I get out of bed everyday.

So far today I've depended on:
* the fact that I trained my cat to do a trick
* my fabulous sunroof
* the awesome power of Justin Timberlake's human beat box
* the man who opened the door for me today and said "Do drop in, won't you?"
* salad

Beyond those things I'm on my own, so hopefully this low self esteem business will blow over soon, because there's only so much salad a girl can eat.

bathroom behavior

Let me start by saying: The Mystery of Irma Vep at Berkeley Rep - if you're in the Bay Area, a must see.
And I'm not just saying that because I used to work there.

Today I had to wonder what was up with the ladies room at work. It was like a lounge in there. Occasionally there's a conversation by the sink, which in my book is acceptable, but loitering in there is not okay.
I drink a lot of water, so I can really rack up the visits, and I have my favorite stall. Now I don't get bent out of shape when I can't get in there, but it does bug me when over the din of pee and toilet paper unraveling I am forced to listen to women in the stalls on either side of me chatting it up about driving their kids to sporting events. It's just not right. I can't explain it, but I somehow felt violated. Trapped in a stall subjected to minivan discourse. Perhaps I'm being prudish, but I just don't find a public restroom in the workplace to be the best place to shoot the breeze.
Later in the day I came across two women who seemed to be exchanging recipes right outside the stalls. I thought that my entrance may have some effect on the location of the conversation, but they remained right outside of the stalls, exchanging items from their purses, giggling and writing things down. The worst part is the obligatory greeting, and if the conversation is long enough, goodbye wave. Maybe it wouldn't bother me if I didn't actually know who these people were, but I see them everyday in the lunchroom, the parking lot, the stairwell. And I know that everyone needs to use the bathroom, so I'm not ashamed... I'm just looking for a peaceful pee.

tuf

Alex just got home from a short trip to Walgreens to pick up some much needed sherbet. Along with the sherbet he made a purchase of some paper towels... we usually buy our paper towels from Costco, you know the plain white ones that come in a 60 lb. package? Walgreens paper towels just aren't the same. First of all the name brand is Tuf. Then you must consider the prints. There are 3 in this particular pack. One is light yellow tulips with some pink and blue blobs thrown in for good measure. The second is a rendering of a light green bow holding some sparse stems accompanied by the words parsley, sage, oregano, tarragon and thyme. On the last roll you will find pictures of pies which look like upside down baskets next to bright pink apples and cherries. As if that weren't bad enough it says "home is where the pie is" surrounded by hearts.

Who's idea was this? what's wrong with plain white? and how did we run out of a 4 month supply of paper towels and not notice?

oh Jesus

oh no, I shouldn't have had so much shrimp at dim sum.

our vacation, day 2 into day 3

In May 2000 Alex and were married in Las Vegas, which is what made it an appealing stop off on our road trip. However, every time I go there I forget how sick I get of that place after about 3 hours. The Strip is a lot longer than I think it is, every time, and I always wear the wrong shoes. And the people, so many people. People who need to stop and look at something, people who can't chew gum and walk at the same time. I know that's what Vegas is all about, but for some reason I like to picture it differently in my imagination and then feel a sad, sad let down when it's the way it always was.

We stayed at the Tropicana by default. There was some sort of convention in town and all the nice hotels were all booked up. We were supposed to be staying in the Garden Room section of the "original" (a.k.a. two floors that look out onto the parking lot) hotel, but the woman at the front desk did a good job of convincing me that the for 10 bucks more we would be better off in one of the towers. 16th floor, here we come. The room was absolutely hideous. The bed had a headboard of mirrors that continued up and onto the ceiling. There was also a wall of mirror on the right side of the bed. and a giant mirror on the dresser directly across from the bed. Let us not forget that I was faced with all these reflections of me after the bathing suit debacle. how unfortunate.

After resting up in the magical mirror room for a bit we walked down the strip to the Aladdin. Alex heard that the dinner buffet was pretty good there and the hotel wasn't complete the last time we were there, so we thought we should check it out. We strolled down the Strip, smashing into other tourists and refusing cards with numbers of call girls. By the time we got to the Aladdin I had a big ol' blister on my right foot, all because I wanted to wear cute shoes. When will I learn; you can't wear cute shoes in Vegas unless you're planning to park yourself at a slot machine all night. We did have to wait in line for the buffet, about a half hour, not too bad. The other people in line were entertaining though. The man behind us in line was with his family of 5 and never uttered a word. He did, however, amuse himself by feeling up the 4 inch "jewels" which were embedded in the walls of the casino. I couldn't help but notice how he was fondling them and it was actually kind of creepy. He did it for awhile, until he noticed that I noticed him doing it. He then immediately stopped and started tapping and knocking on each jewel as if to indicate how sturdy each one was. He nodded in my direction and I smiled, in approval of the sturdy jewels. Alex asked me what was so funny and I said "keep your eyes on the jewels" and then he laughed, so I assumed he noticed, too. We finally made our way through the line, down an escalator and into another line where we could finally see food and a hostess. Jewel groper continued to tap, not fondle, all surfaces as he passed them. Alex and I were pretty quiet during our wait, but we were both chuckling. As we finally sat down to eat Alex asked me if I was laughing about the man in front of us, so I explain the groper guy, who Alex didn't notice at all, and then I asked what he had been laughing about. As it turns out when I said keep your eyes on the jewels Alex looked at the dude in front of us who apparently was playing with his crotch the entire time we were in line, while his whole family watched. I guess jewels would be correct term for that as well.

The buffet was pretty good, the best part was the dessert, but isn't that always the best part? After dinner we walked down to Treasure Island. Four years ago our extremely klassie wedding package included a video of our wedding, complete with a clip at end of pirates (from the free pirate show in front of the hotel) cheering our union. We thought it would be fun to watch the pirate show again. Luckily, a show was starting as we got there. Sadly, the show has changed. Treasure Island has changed. If you go the website you will notice how desperate they are to change their image. The show was so bad that we actually left half way through. What used to be a wholesome show with the British navy and a rowdy group of pirates is now a show with a gaggle of Sirens (who clearly worship Christina Aguilera) going up against a bevy of shirtless, oiled pirates who sail in on ship boldly called The Bull. The Sirens tempt the pirates and the pirates fight back, blah, blah, blah. The show is complete with horrible songs that sound like sorry rip-offs of Britney Spears' masterpieces and plenty of jokes about blow the man down, it's so wet, your ship is going down, etc. Although it was funny to watch, it was crowded and Alex and I were a little disappointed to see our beloved pirates tossed aside for these slutty Sirens, so we walked away. I'm assuming at the end of the show there's a big dance party and everyone hooks up.
This Japanese site has some pictures (click on the colored text to see more pics) to give you a better idea of the trashiness I can't quite put to words. I miss the Bucaneer Bay show. I guess I'm getting old. sigh.

It was a long walk back to the Tropicana, especially with cute shoe blisters, so we stopped off at the Bellagio to check out the water show and to play nickel slots and video poker for awhile. We lost 30 bucks and then headed back to our hotel. I think it might be a long, long time before we visit Vegas again.

dim sum sunday

it's been 11 days since I've updated ... alas I leave my blog behind too often. And I was on such a roll at the beginning of the month.
I don't want to get into details about why I haven't been writing, so I'll sum it up like this: on Monday my doctor and his unsteady disposable scalpel (accompanied by a pack of gauze pads) ended my bout with throbbing pain that ailed me for about 8 days.

So there you have it, with that out of the way, I will continue with my life.

On the Sunday before Easter RM treated me and Alex to our first dim sum. We went to Gold Mountain in Chinatown and I do believe we were the only white people there. I don't think I would have noticed right away, but the hostess was calling out numbers in Chinese and we were the only people looking around in confusion. It was pretty obvious to all around us that we hadn't a clue, because everyone who knew the drill (take a number and wait for the hostess to call it) was pushing us aside. And I'm not just saying that, I was literally pushed aside, a two handed push, one on my shoulder and the other on my hip, by a very hungry man who proceeded to get his number and seating before us. But not to worry because before I was even done quietly complaining about him the hostess called out our number in English (realizing we were the group who didn't understand the number that sounded like "Jose White" in Chinese) and we were on our way to deliciousness.

The food was swell and it's a good thing that all three of us like shrimp because we must have been there at the peak shrimp hour. I think we grabbed at least 5 shrimp dishes. It was hard to say, because we couldn't really understand what any of the people were shouting while pushing those carts around. We all agreed that the best item we consumed was the shrimp stuffed shrimp. Now before you think about how great that is let me add this, it was deep fried. That was the beauty of the whole thing; you have that crunchy shell in the shape of a shrimp, so you have a good idea of what you're about to eat, but you know there's something more... because no shrimp is that big. And that's the glory (and sometimes defeat) of fried items, what awaits inside that golden nugget. I don't know who thought to put shrimp within a shrimp, but it was freakin' brilliant.

RM was disappointed with the duck, because it was cold, but I thought it was all good. Except the black egg. I could have done without that.

our vacation, day 2

Problem #3 on our road trip was another oversight on my part. I forgot my bathing suit. Even though Alex had reminded me and asked me over 73 times if I had packed it. It actually became a running joke before we left. About an hour or two into the trip while watching the road and re-packing my bag in my mind I realized I had not packed my bathing suit. When I told Alex that I had honestly forgotten it he thought I was joking. ha ha ha.

The real reason this was a problem is because I hate shopping for bathing suits. And unless I wanted to forgo the spa at the Grand Canyon I was forced to get a new suit. I don't know any woman who looks forward to a trip to a department store to scrutinize her cellulite under fluorescent lighting in a cramped space with someone knocking on the door asking if things are "working out in there". I especially abhor it. I bought a bathing suit in 1996 that worked just fine until 2000, when the elastic in the shoulder straps gave way. I ordered the 2000 bathing suit from a catalogue, successfully avoiding the dressing room all together. The 2000 suit wasn't too bad, as a matter of fact it's quite practical and borderline middle-age-y. Anything that's advertised as "tug free" and "Kindest Cut" for the upper thigh/ass region is okay with me, although I'm pretty sure those kind of suits are more geared towards ladies who are 40 and over. Land's End doesn't mess around when it comes to comfort, and I'll take that over fashion any day, especially when it comes to exposing more skin than I think I should. But, alas, the Land's End comfort suit sat in my dresser drawer for this vacation and Alex and I were forced to stop at a mall of outlet stores in Las Vegas.

For a Sunday it wasn't as crowded as I thought an outlet mall should be, but then again, we were in the desert. I reluctantly went to a store with only swimsuits straight away to just get the whole thing over with. But it was just the beginning of a long day of ego squashing. The women working in the store were quite helpful, perhaps a bit too over zealous. One of the employees correctly guessed what size pants I wore and then proceeded to point me in the direction of what I was looking for. I brought 5 suits into the dressing room with me. None of them fit. I tried on the first one, couldn't pull it up past my knee. The next one barely made it over my thighs. Another one cut off the circulation in my armpits. All of them confirmed how doughy and pasty I thought I was. I neatly hung them all back up, thought about weeping, but instead forged on. I gathered some more suits, some larger suits. I thought if I went for the tankini I would be okay, you can't go wrong with a tank top and something that looks like granny underwear for the bottom, right? Once again I got into the dressing room and found myself struggling to get these overpriced pieces of spandex and nylon over my thighs or rib cage. I hung all the new failures up, this time not so neatly. Who needs to go in a hot tub, anyways? I left the all-suit store, gravely disappointing the perky sales staff. Alex and I made our way to another store and although Alex gave me nothing but words of support I entered the new dressing room with knots in my stomach as I started the whole process again. No success. We moved on to the next store, same story. I finally told Alex that I was done, because at this point I was just wasting valuable vacation time by trying on suits and hurting my self esteem. I started engraving invitations for my pity party. We decided to leave the mall and think about a bathing suit later. Our car was parked closest to the entrance of the Polo store so we decided to cut through. While passing through I noticed a rack of pretty good looking bathing suits, and Alex encouraged me to try one on. He picked out the orange one.
Here's some advice for any pale Irish gals out there: never, ever try on an orange bathing suit. Especially if you are already in a bad mood.
I was in too deep to quit now though, I was going to solve the suit problem... RIGHT NOW. There was no way I was going to start this process all over again, especially on the Strip in Vegas. I grabbed 4 different sizes of navy blue suits. I went into the dressing room and started with the biggest size. Victory was mine.

As it turns out, when buying a swimsuit simply follow this rule - if you wear a size 6 or 8 in pants then you should just take your pride directly to the dumpster and then grab a size 14 bathing suit. Because that's the one that's gonna fit you. I don't know what these fashion people are thinking, but give a girl a break. We are at our most vulnerable when looking for swimwear, how hard is it to boost a some spirits by just making your numbers a little smaller? Had I known it was as easy as grabbing something that's double my size I wouldn't have taken so long bruising my thighs and ego trying to fit into merchandise.

We finally made it to the Las Vegas Strip on Sunday afternoon. We checked in at the Tropicana. And after all the sweat and tears I put into getting that damn bathing suit I couldn't convince Alex to go down to the pool with me.

girls' night out

I love Survivor.
But I will admit I wasn't too excited about Survivor All Stars... until last night. I don't know if Mark Burnett rigged the "pick a new buff out of the urn" trick or if he just peed his pants and wept with joy when Amber and Rob (Survivor's first on air couple) got split up onto different teams. That show got me so damn excited that by the time I watched the Apprentice I felt like I had run a few miles. Alex was worried about my blood pressure. Who needs exercise when you're pathetic enough to get an adrenaline rush from reality TV? Now I'm wondering if Mark Burnett sold his soul to the Devil. If he did I think it's okay, because Thursdays now rock.

I actually did go out and do something last night, instead of just sitting on the couch pretending I'm friends with reality television participants. I went out to dinner at Nizza La Bella with my friend Rachel. I always forget how much fun it is to hang out with other women. Most of my friends are men. I should never underestimate the power of chatting it up with another gal. It's very liberating, there's so much to talk about. Not to get down on conversation with men, there's just a different vibe. And something about going out and getting dinner with a girlfriend makes me feel like a grown up.

Thanks, Rachel, for getting me out of my TV rut and making me feel like a full fledged 30-something kind of lady.

our vacation, day 1 into day 2

We drove a little more than halfway to Vegas on Saturday and spent the first night camping at Lake Success near Porterville. We arrived at the tail end of sunset and it was quite serene there; the sun had made it over the other side of the hills, a few boats were still in the water, a warm breeze... no sweater necessary. We started to set up our camp. Alex had the brilliant idea of bringing the Aerobed with us (because the Matrix has a 115 volt outlet) so after we set up the tent we pulled the car over, put the Aerobed in the tent, plugged it in to the Matrix and voila! Now were officially un-campers posing as campers. It was extremely comfortable and I don't ever want to camp without it, I guess I'm less outdoorsy than I've led on. (we were in a tent and did use sleeping bags on the Aerobed, doesn't that count for something?) We started a fire and were about to cook some hot dogs and that's when problem #2 arose (problem #1 being my temporarily lost, but actually washed wallet).

I was looking for the skewers and other camping gear and couldn't seem to find anything except the lantern and the single propane burner. I asked Alex where everything was and he told me I could find what I was looking for in the green backpack. What Alex had forgotten while packing the car was that at the end of last camping season we had re-packed all our gear into a handy waterproof Rubbermaid container. We decided to leave the green backpack for all things propane. I asked Alex where I could find the blue plastic container and he said "doh". Thus came the discovery that we were at a disadvantage, especially if we chose to do further camping on the trip. But we did have a cooler, a lantern, a tent, sleeping bags (and an Aerobed) and that was enough for now. So we used a Swiss Army knife to cook our hot dogs. We sat at the fire, split a Guinness and had a lot of fun melting some Oreos to see what would happen. They glow kind of purple if you leave them on the fire long enough. We also enjoyed watching the family across the road from us, there was a pre-teen girl who was working on some sort of pop and lock routine to a Britney Spears song which she mumbled under her breath.

As we watched the fire die down the serene lake setting came to a screeching halt. The campsite of hard core spring breakers who positioned themselves behind us began to blare bad music and crack open a bunch of cheap beer around 9:00pm. That continued until about 11:00, or longer, I'm not sure, because miraculously I was able to sleep. I woke up a few times around 2:00 or 3:00 due to the yelping of a young woman, but all in all it was pretty comfortable and warm there.

Alex and I woke up around 5:00am on Sunday and decided to pack up and hit the road. This was good for two reasons: 1. we now didn't have to pay for the campsite and 2. the motorboats started squealing around the lake at this time.
Off we went, stopping at a Denny's at around 7:00 for breakfast, finding ourselves under-dressed compared to the pre and post church crowds we encountered. Our waitress had gastric bypass surgery about a year ago. I know this because she openly discussed it with the perfumed woman sitting in the booth behind us. Perfume lady was only having a vanilla latte, while her husband and child ate eggs, sausage, bacon and toast. I felt sad for her. That Denny's had the best french toast.

my almost lost wallet

Alex and I returned from our vacation last week. I'm still trying to catch up with my daily life. Why it's taking me so long to do that? I may never know.

I have to admit that a 6 day road trip isn't my ideal get away, but it was inexpensive and it had it's moments. We made it all the way out to the Grand Canyon, stayed there for a couple days and then headed back. We thought that we could go home through Yosemite, but snow had the roads closed. Without using deductive reasoning we decided to head to Tahoe instead, where it was snowing. I guess we get less bright when we spend 5 or more hours in a car each day. We zoned out a lot while on the road, but the Matrix kicks the Saturn's ass when it comes to comfort, and if we hadn't bought that new car we probably wouldn't have even taken the trip in the first place.

We started our journey on Saturday the 20th. No vacation is complete without at least an hour of me freaking out either right before departure or directly afterwards. This year's freak out was brought to you by the stupidity of me washing my wallet which I had left in a pair of pants. Before I realized the actual fate of my wallet I thought I had lost it. Better yet, I jumped to the conclusion someone had picked my pocket the night before and I would never see my wallet again. Alex tried to help, but there's just no reasoning with me when I'm convinced that I was more than just a victim of my own carelessness. I had it all pictured in my mind; how some dude just reached into my back pocket without me even noticing. And now he was buying all sorts of electronics and pricey gas with my credit cards. At least he didn't get any cash. But my tap dance card... there were still 2 classes on that thing, I was certain that he had just thrown it out. I was so mad at that guy for about 40 minutes. Until I went to remove my clothes from the washer. Then all my angst was transferred to a poor 8 year old boy who was tired of waiting for a washer and was promptly removing all my clothes from the washer and trying to put them in a dryer. I say trying because most of my clothes were on the floor. The filthy, filthy floor in between the washer and the dryer. It really bugs me when I see my wet skivies on that floor. I think I might have been a little harsh with the boy, but no one likes muddy undies. I told him to stop what he was doing, because he was making all my clean laundry dirty again and he would just have to wait until I finished moving my own clothes. And as I reached into the washer there it was... the wallet. Sitting ever so neatly on a pile of wet clothes. Credit cards, license and even the tap dance card were all in their correct places. That's when my fear and anger for imaginary pick-pocketer (and all of society in general) subsided and I started to feel regret about how I had approached the young lad. I finished loading the dryer and said "okay, all set, it's all yours, sorry I took so long." What made me feel especially bad was when I looked over to address the boy I noticed that he had retreated to the corner to look at his shoes until I was done with the washer.

I would like to take some time to publicly apologize to the following people:

The boy who would have rather been watching cartoons on Saturday morning instead of getting scolded by crazy wallet-washing woman while trying to do laundry for his family.

My Mom, for calling you just to tell you that I lost my wallet. For some reason I still think you should be able to fix these sort of things.

Alex, because I yelled at you for not looking hard enough for MY lost wallet. I know that's not your job, and I have no business yelling at you. ever.

And last, but not least, the imaginary pick-pocketer. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions.


more stories of our actual road trip to follow.....

the invented demise of Zachary

I've been spending a lot of time thinking about the death of my cat. Which is pretty pathetic, because he hasn't died yet, nor does he show signs of doing so anytime soon. For some reason I just wander to an ugly place in my mind about 4 to 5 times a day and think about how sad it will be when my cat does actually die. I know that he can't live forever, and he's getting kind of old, so I'm just trying to be realistic about it, because it will happen...someday. Sure he's healthy and acting normal, but I have to pick something to worry about on a daily/weekly/monthly basis and this is my new senseless anxiety for the month. I think the main reason I needlessly obsess about this future event is because I never had a pet as a child and I am somehow trying to prepare myself for the mental blow of losing a cat that I've grown so fond of. Somehow I feel that if I picture in my mind's eye what it's like to come home and find an ailing or dead cat I'll be able to deal with it better. When deep down inside I know that there is no preparation for dealing with death; it's just one of those things you can't practice for, but that hasn't changed my behavior.

Rational me, I'd like you to meet crazy me, hope you two can live together.

I give it another week and then I'll find something as equally as unintelligent to worry about.

And for the record, I don't want to be a liar. Technically, I did have pets as a kid... My sister and I had two goldfish that we kept in a giant brandy snifter. Their names were Tom and Miles (named after friends of our mother, one was heavy and the other thin, just like the real Tom and Miles) and they lived a long, and perhaps meaningful, life on the dining room table. I don't remember exactly how long we had them, but I do remember that we came home from school one day and there was the snifter, still in the middle of the dining room table, but empty. No water. Not even a note. I know that my sister and I each owned one of the fish, and to this day I wonder if only one of them died, but not wanting anyone to feel slighted, my mom flushed both. I also remember being a complete drama queen about not having the chance to say goodbye and give my fine finned friends a proper burial, even though we lived in an apartment and had no yard.
We also had gerbils. I don't remember too much about them, I don't even remember their names. I do however recall that they had a pretty kick ass habitral (though nothing compared to these)and that they ate their babies, or maybe they ate each other, it's a little blurry when it comes to who was eating who. And they escaped right before we left for Disneyland, raising some questions of if we would find them before we had to be at the airport. We sometimes would let them run around in the bathtub... lots of fun to watch them try to escape to freedom by attempting to scale the tub walls with those scratchy little claws. I don't even remember how or when we got rid of them. Maybe they just fought each other to the death.
During undergrad I went into my "I'm cool and alternative" phase which led to ownership of a pet snake, who I promptly gave away to a grade school when she got big enough to eat rats. And lets not forget the impulse purchase of fish and a 12 gallon tank. I moved 3 times with that damn tank, those fish just wouldn't give up. Eventually they all died within 3 days when two new diseased fish were introduced to the pristine tank.

I don't remember being too devastated while saying goodbye to any of the pets listed above. Except maybe No-Legs-McGraw, who was a cutie little orange fish who I had for about 5 years. I liked him a lot, but he was hard to hug or cuddle with on the couch, I can't say we ever bonded. When I think of how downhearted I got while flushing my old friend No-Legs I can't help but think how devistating this whole cat death thing is going to be.

So I suppose instead of wasting more of my time writing about how much I'll miss him one day I'll go squish that big-eyed cat and enjoy him while he's around. if only he would come out from underneath the bed.

back to the grind of the day to day work. The big ol' project is over and I can finally sit at my desk without grinding my teeth every time I hear the phone ring or the bing of an email alert. I actually opened my sunroof on the drive in today and enjoyed the smell as I drove past the bread factory.

Last week was all about four days in San Diego, one starting at 3am. We only saw the sun on the last day. Which we didn't much care about anyways because we were all working on about 4 hours of sleep. for the entire weekend.

Since the past two weeks were so consumed by work I can honestly say I didn't enjoy my birthday as much as I wanted to, but Alex had a small dinner party for me the Friday before my birthday and I had dinner at my favorite restaurant with other friends on my actual birthday. Even though thoughts of the work project kept gnawing in the back of my head I had a nice time at both events, I got to spend time with almost all my friends and eat some pretty great food. It was, however, a little frightening when I realized that the older I get the role of food on my birthday becomes more and more prominent and inevitable. Come to think of it, my coworkers took me out to lunch for my b-day as well, and while there we having lunch we discussed what food I would be partaking of that evening. I am having trouble buttoning some of my pants this week.

I also had a life changing experience; I received TiVo as a gift. TV will never be the same for me. Alex knew exactly what I wanted (because I told him everyday for about a month) and now he is officially an enabler to my addiction. I could go on and on about my new pal TiVo and all the fun we're having, but I think I can sum it up like this: pair my brazen love for TV with my enthusiasm for efficiency. Words cannot describe the bliss. Coaxed by TiVo and it's ability to CHOOSE SHOWS FOR ME I may confront some bad decisions as far as reality TV is concerned, but I somehow feel justified in my zeal because I can skip over commercials.

please don't judge us. TiVo and I think we can make this thing last.

my confession

oh no. now where am I going to get 7oz. of fries?

I've been working on the project from Hell for the past 3 weeks, which turned into the micro-managed project from Hell yesterday. So when I get home at night I don't really feel like doing anything constructive because I'm spending most of my time in a fetal position in the corner rocking myself back to a calm state. This project will be over in just 2 more excruciating weeks and I will be able to continue with my life, return phone calls, enjoy a meal, frolic through fields...

I have, however, managed to squeeze some reality TV in there though. Isn't there always time for that? And now here's the part where I confess.

Please forgive me. I watched the first episode of Forever Eden. A reality show without an end. 11 people who I would never want to meet. 11 idiots hanging out on a beach, at a pool, in a private resort... never without a drink on hand. I should have been tipped off by the bad logo they use of the snake with gigantic fangs twisting around the apple. Even the theme song that opens the show is terrible. There is no reason for anyone to watch this show, ever. If you feel compelled to read about it, this is pretty good.

So to save anyone else the pain of watching this show - Forever Eden is boring, slow, poorly edited and the cast is so dumb that when bad things start a-brewin' someone actually said "...and that's just the tip of the cherry." yeah.

Old Navy whore

I get to wear jeans to work everyday, which I think is pretty rad, but right now my three pairs are in a sad state. One pair has a ripped belt loop, an unfortunate by-product of me pulling them up with too much gusto. Another pair ripped at the seams right near the calf, no explanation for that one. And the last pair has a hole in the back pocket from my manly wallet. After summing all that up and realizing that I look like a big ol' slob I figured it was time to do some shopping. And since I've been called the official Old Navy whore more than once I gave in; there's nothing like a trip to the ON when cash flow is low.

The problem with Old Navy is the same reason that it's so swell... it's friggin cheap. Not just inexpensive, but also not the best quality. Mom always said you get what you pay for, that's why I'm never surprised when that thread I pull on actually makes the hem in the sleeve fall out, or when I realize the side seam actually does make the shirt twist in unflattering ways, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. The problem that always irks me though is the size of the pants, so inconsistent. My sister had a good point; they cut all the jeans in a stack, so inevitably the top pair will be a much more snug fit than the one in the bottom of the pile of 20. (Now I'm starting to feel morally obligated to consider the slave labor it probably took to make these pants and I feel a little guilty for shopping there.)
At Old Navy I can be as thin or as fat as I want to be... depending on the luck of the draw... I can fit into jeans that range 4 sizes. And once I find a pair I like I know it's impossible to buy more than one of the same thing, because the next pair I pick up of the same size probably won't even get over my thighs. And, yes, I know that this should not even be a consideration, because apparently it is very un-hip to buy in bulk. If buying two of the same kind of jeans in one purchase is wrong, then I don't want to be right.
I recently had an extremely unsuccessful trip to Old Navy, maybe the first time I've left empty handed. I must have tried on 12 pairs of jeans, none of which fit me. What was even more annoying than the jeans, however, was this eight year old boy who was clearly not in his element, being ignored by his mother and older sister. To clarify, the boy was not annoying, the ignoring of the boy is what got to me. I can't blame the boy, even I get bored in Old Navy, and I have a mission when I get in there. He just kept popping up wherever I wanted to go. I tried on a jacket and when I found a mirror to see how it looked, there he was, against the mirror as if the cops were ready to frisk him. He was looking at himself with one eye right up against the mirror and then began to lick it. Disturbing. Apparently I was the only one who noticed this. I went to grab more jeans that I had no chance of fitting into, and there he was again, thrusting his arms into a stack of denim and imitating a fork lift. Only I noticed when the pile of jeans ended up on the floor. He ran. I was waiting in line for the dressing room, there he was yet again, running in circles with an unopened bag of Cheetos. Who was he with anyways? Then the answer was clear...
He was with the woman who couldn't find her daughter, and in her quest thought it appropriate to jam her head over the top of every changing stall to see which one contained her offspring. I was not amused. Every time she violated someone's privacy she would cackle and say "oh, yooooou're nooooot her!" I luckily made it in after she had done her rounds.
I finally got in there and as I wondered why I even bother to try on any of these clothes, I heard the pitter-patter of the wayward eight year old followed by a loud POP. It was the bag of Cheetos... the time had come, he was hungry. Unfortunately the luck of the bag was not with him tonight, because right after the pop came a shower of Cheetos, right underneath my dressing room stall door. I looked down and saw the floor littered with his delicious fried snack. I felt sad for the little guy, because, gosh darn it, these were his Cheetos, his last chance to chase away the boredom. What happened next made me realize that there is nothing that can come between an eight year old and his Cheetos. No sooner had those crispy orange bits landed under my door than a tiny hand began to search for them, feeling his way from Cheeto to Cheeto. He didn't try to scoop them all up at once, what he did was downright dainty. First he got the ones closest to him, clearly a little shy about reaching under the stall, using only his thumb and pointer finger. One at a time, a Cheeto would disappear, immediately followed by some crunching. He got a little more bold with each morsel, it wasn't long before he almost reached my feet. It was as if the floor of my stall had become a buffet table. I first thought that I should grab his hand and say "gotcha! You shouldn't have your hands in other people's stalls. And by the way this floor is filthy, don't eat those" But then I realized that he had probably witnessed his mother feeling free and easy to look into any stall she felt like, so why should he stop? I also realized I was sans pants at this moment, so that probably wasn't the best time to address the boy. Then I figured that I might help him out a little and scoot all the tasty bits a little closer to his hands, but that would just make me an enabler. So instead I just pushed all the Cheetos to the furthest corner of the stall because he really shouldn't eat those things off the floor. He grabbed as many as he could, and finally gave up. I heard him root around the almost empty bag for any remaining tidbits.
When I exited the stall there he was just sitting there, like a prisoner of Old Navy, defeated, Cheetoless. As I gave the attendant the mound of clothes that would never fit me, I looked back. Just as I suspected, he lost no time getting into the deserted stall, foraging in the corners, desperate to find all the orange stragglers. His mother and sister down the end of the dressing room, fighting about how tight those pants looked.
See, Old Navy clothes don't really fit anyone.

a day trip to San Diego for work does not a vacation make

I started my day with a healthy sized panic attack so my head would hurt just right for an hour flight and an all day outing at a beach (scouting a location). It ended pretty well, with a sunburn on my nose and a seat in first class, compliments of my "feeling sorry for me" boss. Usually work doesn't stress me out this much, but today just pushed me over the edge and I kind of lost it. Phone calls to my sister and mother, pre-boarding the migraine flight, helped to take the edge off, but on a scale of 1 - 10 I give this day a 2.
I guess not having control over where I want to live or what I want to do for a living have worn me down to an emotional pulp that led to a sob fest in the ladies room at SFO... at 7:23am. It's been a long time coming and putting on a happy face just didn't fit into my repertoire today, come to think of it, it hasn't fit any time in the past 2 weeks.
By the end of the day I gained some sort of control over my private emotional outbursts and I was able to be quite productive. I never shed a tear or shouted at any of my co-workers, but now I'm left wondering when my next breakdown will be and how I will handle it. Chances are I'll take it out on Alex, which is the worst because he was really the coolest today. He gave me rides to and from the airport, when he really should have been studying for a mid-term. He also got me dinner and understands that I'm going to have to watch crappy reality TV without him tonight and that I'll probably blab about it before he even gets a chance to watch the tapes.
So now I will go and eat my fatty-fatty-fat-fat burger and fries and numb my brain with the wonders of television. I also got a package from my sister (I get one every month) with lots of fun things, including my tiara that she borrowed. I think will put my tiara on and pretend I am princess of my couch.
There, I feel better already.

10 things that made me look like an ass

Stress from my job is setting in, the insomnia caused by the stress is catching up with me. And while I know I'm not supposed to lie in bed thinking about why I can't sleep I lack the energy to actually get up and do stuff. When it's 3am nothing really seems appealing. Reading isn't fun and cooking is just out of the question. Knitting is okay, but then I have to turn the TV on. Before I know it, one crappy Lifetime movie rolls into something equally as mind numbing on the Oxygen network and I can't seem to surrender to the exhaustion within. So between the hours of 3am and 5am I've resorted to thinking of how I would design my dream home . I have had some very excellent ideas, most of which I forgot immediately.
Since I've been kind of like a walking zombie for the past week I've done some interesting things during the hours that I am supposed to be "functional":

* used the key fob for my car to open a door in the office, then walked into door, perplexed at why it didn't open.
* spilled coffee from travel mug down both sides of my mouth. while the coffee was running down my face onto my shirt I was thinking "Why won't that stop?", without ever moving the cup.
* attempted to spit chewed gum into a wrapper while driving. Missed. Then, while still driving, tried to clean gum off seats of new car, only making it worse.
* listened to an entire song by Hootie and the Blowfish
* got out of the shower, realized I forgot to wash my hair, got back in the shower to wash my hair, then couldn't remember why I was in the shower again.
* put wallet in back pocket and then spent the next 25 minutes freaking out about where I could have lost my wallet.
* carved a face on my lunch kiwi with a plastic knife and then became attached to it, vowing I would never eat it.
* had overwhelming and inexplicable paranoia that every car in the lane to the right of me was about to swerve into my lane.
* sang along with a Sugar Ray song.
* realized that the pen I was holding in my teeth was the one I picked up in the conference room.

Because of all the things listed above (and you bet there were more) I was deathly afraid of my tap class last night. If I was as bad as I was last week (as you can read below) - pre Hootie and the Blowfish episode - what would happen this week? Then when I walked in and realized I was half the class I almost had an anxiety attack. As it turns out I do much better in a smaller group and no one had to fear the return of Frankentap (name courtesy of Wil).

frankentap

I thought a lot about the whole boob thing yesterday and all the things I wanted to say about it. But then I realized that everyone thought about it and everything that's going to be said has been said. So now everyone is over the incident, especially me. I think I was over the whole thing after we watched it for the 11th time (in slow motion) on TiVo (courtesy of Max and Julianne). About 4 times of watching the "wardrobe mishap" cleared up how intentional the act was, around time number 6 it had lost it's novelty and shock value and I would say that sometime around # 8 is when depression set in.
11 really pushed the envelope, but we had to be sure. Of what? I don't know.
Everyone at work had it pictures up on their monitors within 20 minutes of their arrival on Monday morning. Not me though, I was extremely busy... not only did I have to change my desk calendar but there was a wall calendar that needed my attention as well.


Last night I had my worst tap class ever. I don't know what happened, but there were definitely a few moments where I thought I might have to run out of the room in sheer panic. The first thing that threw me off was my embarrassing rendition of a stamp within the first 3 minutes of class. It's pretty obvious what it should be, you just put your foot down ... keeping your ankles loose, let your heel fall first. easy, like walking. Easy until the teacher said "think Frankenstien". Apparently I thought about him a little too much and tried some bad method acting to actually be Frankenstien. Picture this: a bunch of people watching me walk across a dance studio as if brooms were shoved up each of my pant legs. Add a puzzled look on my face which is slowly turning red. Is what you picture starting to look like me being a really big ass in front of the rest of the class? Swell, then you've got the idea. I stomped across the floor wondering why I felt so stupid, until the teacher laughed while telling me to not forget to bend my knees. If my memory serves me correctly (and I might be exaggerating a little here) I had my arms straight out like a fucking zombie and my eyes looked like something out of the Thriller video. And then I shouted "aaaaggghhhhh..... frieeeeend.....frieeeeend!" scaring all the small children in the karate class next door, sending parents into a frenzy with torches to chase me from the village.

My confidence was pretty much shot after that.

He singled us out for some exercises which resulted in me further making an ass of myself. At one point I just walked over to the corner and said "I'm out". I think everyone breathed a sigh of relief with my retirement; who wants to dance next to a freakin' monster?