Pain, Pleasure, and the Common Cold

Ala Ala Ala

Thanks a million Ash, Cody, and Jay, for an amazing Vegas weekend!!!

We laughed, we splashed, we oogled, we lost obscene amounts of money at blackjack, we ate, we ate, we ate, we drank Sofia, we had a really fucking good time, thanks to you three and your fab-o-lous surprise weekend planning.

I know true friendship is priceless, but thanks for spending all that dough anyway. I love you guys!

love, me

The camera died on saturday, but there are a few more pictures here…

fucked-up animals

In the process of waiting for laundry to dry, and feeling too lazy to do anything useful, I have been reading the online archives of Savage Love, wherein I have stumbled upon a collection of letters sent in by people who have wierd stories involvong birds and sex.

Here they all are.

But just in case you’re in a rush or something, you have to at least read the following letter, which has made me laugh so hard that I’m in tears. (Especially loving feet as much as I do. Well, only my feet, but still.)

“When I was 12, I had a parakeet named Little Buddy. I learned that parakeets are attracted to mirrors and things that look like other birds. In my adult life, I now realize that they must be incredibly stupid animals if they do not recognize mirrored glass for what it is and not another parakeet, but that is neither here nor there. Whenever Little Buddy saw something that he thought was another bird, he would peck at it, chirp, and spit up seeds on it. One day, my dad was barefoot while I had the bird out on the floor. Little Buddy walked over to my dad’s feet and started pecking at his big toenail. My dad has the gross, callused feet of a workingman, which in no way look anything like a small bird. Little Buddy started spitting up seeds and when he started humping away at my dad’s big toe, I grabbed him and put him back in his cage. Anytime my dad’s feet came into view of his cage, he would start chirping or he would bite if I put him away while my dad was barefoot. The moral here is that parakeets are sick, fucked-up animals and you should keep them away from the ones you love.”

Cassie S.

P.S. The new Bjork album is amazing.

"The hazy yellow evening bedroom emptiness"

I know it’s been a while, but I’m just going to get right into it.

I’ve been reading this fascinating, weird, epic book called Middlesex and just happened to fancy the following passage so much that I thought I’d share it. (Hope I’m not breaking any laws!)

The narrator’s grandfather has just died suddenly, and upon finding him, the grandmother is sad but also incredibly happy and relieved. The author writes, “Emotions, in my experience, aren’t covered by single words. I don’t believe in ‘sadness,’ ‘joy,’ or ‘regret.’ Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling. I’d like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions, Germanic train-car constructions like, say, ‘the happiness that attends disaster.’ Or: ‘the disappointment of sleeping with one’s fantasy.’ I’d like to show how ‘intimations of mortality brought on by aging family members’ connects with ‘the hatred of mirrors that begins in middle age.’ I’d like to have a word for ‘the sadness inspired by failing restaurants’ as well as for ‘the excitement of getting a room with a minibar.’”

I was cracking up reading this, especially because it reminded me of the vocabulary that we as middle and high school kids used to create for ourselves. The one I still use to this day is “fauxpeal” (which goes hand in hand with “faux-hot”) constructed by the talented Cody to mean when somebody is sexy for a moment, but then not so much. Another is “mipiphany”, for when you have an epiphany which is so slight that it really only counts as a mini epiphany. I know we had more, but I can’t remember any others. (Cody, thoughts?)

What I love about these words is that they can’t really be written off as slang, because they’re not just “our little words” for something everybody else knows by a common name. They’re actual creations, words that define something previously unarticulated. Go us.

simply irresistable

I liked you, then you liked me, then we hated each other, then we became best friends. I haven’t talked to you in months, but I still love you.

Happy birthday, old friend! Hope you enjoyed the champagne.

The Persistence of Peanut Butter

Sad Little Creatures

Yesterday in Biology 107, my professor lectured on one of the most common blunders occuring in film today: the lies Disney teaches kids about animals.

Her story featured the box office smash Finding Nemo. “Remember how the mommy clown fish dies in the beginning, leaving the father alone to raise that one little egg that got left behind?” she asked. Yes, I remember…

“And remember how that little egg turned into Nemo, and the father-son relationship was even more special since Nemo was the last one left?” Yes, it was a special relationship, Professor…

“Well in reality, if that father clownfish had his whole family wiped out except one egg, he would have changed his gender so he was a female, waited for that egg to hatch, and eventually mated with his son, little Nemo.”

So, one point for Disney, sadly, as nobody would dare argue that an Oedipus complex plus transgendered Dad equals an $844 million dollar grossing movie. It might be a good documentary on E, though.

And shpeeking of biology…

I have as of late observed a tiny tragedy in our thriving Cement Horizon habitat: the absence of one of my favorite creatures, the Zembla. It’s quite possible that the elusive and often aloof Zembla could be hiding in one of the many lush folders or leafy links that the CH environment has to offer. Maybe the Zembla is napping, or tending to it’s version of domestic duties. But it’s been so long that I’m forced to wonder, has the Zembla gone extinct?

What a tragedy it would be if this clever creature’s time in Cement Horizon has passed. It’s a shame to think of the rest of the Blog-dwellers, some of whose very existence was brought about by the ferocious wit and graceful sentence structure offered by the Zembla. How will we carry on? What will the White Ponies, the Sushis, the Law-fighters and the Cookie-Frosters do without their beloved neighbor? That is a question I simply cannot answer.

So I beg of you, all Blog-dwellers, residents, and even occasional visitors of the Cement Horizon region: should you see a Zembla - even just one, even if it is a tiny little thing struggling for air or eloquence - nurture it. Laugh at it, comment on it, do anything you can to force the Zembla to reclaim it’s rightful place among the many others thriving in the CH habitat.

Zembla, Cement Horizon is out of balance without you.

Set Up By The Fashion Police

When I asked to see it, you said I couldn’t. “Motorcyclists have to pack light”, you said in so many words. The very outfit you wore was all you had to offer me.

Then what explains the item I found crumpled up in the very far corner of my closet?

Photolicious

Who knew that the Johnson Street house in San Diego was so happening? A whopping two people, that’s who! In the past week, we were lucky enough to have two consecutive guests staying with us - the lovely Christine Cramer, followed by Gene, who made these very photo viewing opportunities possible. Look on:

Christine, Ash, and I go to the happiest place on earth, and stop at a diner on the way home.

Kati, Gene, BJ, and Ash play frisbee golf while I photojournalize.‘

Something's Not Flowing

I just went to give blood, because yesterday the blood bank called me and frantically said “We have less than one day’s worth of your blood type. Please come in and donate!”.

So I went in, filled out the lengthy questionnaire (I had to lie about the wild sex I had last week with the gay African IV-drug-user), suffered the iron prick, and finally sat down next to BJ and waited to be drained. The lady came over, iodined me, and stuck the needle in, but it really hurt! She said it wasn’t working right (i.e. she had stuck it in wrong) and dug around with the needle looking for the blood to start flowing. That hurt even more! Finally, after a lot of unfruitful poking and squeezing, she threw in the towel and inquired about my other arm. I thought to myself “I don’t think so lady!” She and another more qualified nurse searched my left arm and gave up, claiming they couldn’t find any veins that would work.

I feel so impotent! I went in to donate blood, to do my part! But then some inexperienced phlebotomist messed up the insertion, and the whole thing was shot to hell. And the nerve of them, to make me feel like it was ultimately my fault - than my veins weren’t “visible” enough! Well maybe if you hadn’t screwed up and vein-raped my right arm in the first place!

Last time, it all went so well. The blood flowed, I met a cute P.E. teacher who slipped me the numba, I got pizza. This time: no flowing, no numba, just juice and an achey, undrained arm.

Panamaniacs

Overheard on the way to Peter Pan:

Me: Want to hear something dorky?
Ash: Ok.
Me: My mom and I used to have matching coolots.
Ash: What’s a coolot?

I saw the umpteenth film version of the story of Peter Pan last night. I was pretty excited, because I love the story and the preview was beautiful, but as I sat down in a theatre filled with gurgling children, I worried if this was about to be 113 minutes that I would end up regretting.

But I didn’t end up regretting it at all - in fact, the movie was great, despite having been directed by Crocodile Dundee. The acting was wonderful; mostly cute, plucky British children. The girl who played Wendy was beautiful in a perfect Wendy-way, where it wasn’t about being sexy.

The film sticks to the story pretty well, I can’t remember anything being changed except one little twist at the end. The romance is really played up, the action scenes were good, and the Indian/ Princess Tiger Lily stuff was handled very tastefully. A lot of the film was pretty funny, too, especially the one-eyed, one-legged plotting parrot. The characters were all three-dimensional and well thought out, from Smee to the sinister mermaids that try to drown Wendy. Peter and Wendy even have the classic “He Can’t Commit” argument.

My complaints are that the special effects (the ticking crocodile, Hook’s hookless stumpy hand) were kind of cheesy, and the color filters were way overboard. There were very pink or very blue scenes in the film where I was just begging for some normal colored light! And the boy who played Peter was good, but not great. I had some problems with his mouth.

Overall, a solid fairy tale film, with a beautiful set and beautiful actors. What more could you wish for from Peter Pan?

Go Roll Off a Cliff

This evening at the restaurant, I was viciously reamed by a woman in a wheelchair. She was upset because of the condition of the wheelchair ramp in the back hallway, which is normally just a service area. The ramp was up to par as far as handicapped access codes, but she was hot under the collar because there were a “few dirty dishes and some trays” lingering at the end of the hallway, apparently compromising the aesthetic quality of her roll. She kept telling me how inappropriate that was for a nice restaurant, expecting me to apologize repeatedly and probably give her something free.

But there were no freebies to give.

So I apologized, walked away, and wished I had said:
“The thing is, Wheelchair Lady, life is not always pretty (as I’m sure you well know). If being in proximity of a few dirty plates is the worst thing to happen to you all day, then your life is a whole helluvalot better than mine, legs or no. Do what you need to do to be at peace with your disability, but don’t take it out on your waitress!”

In the words of Gene Wood, at a San Francisco Mac Donald’s circa 1996, “Fuckin’ Cripple!”

I Killed the Radio Star

Yesterday, I was beat. I had just finished a long day of finals, which had followed an even longer night of frantically finishing a paper about urban sprawl (always a joy!)

I plopped down in my car, heaved a sigh of relief, and flipped on the classic radio station. I needed to hear some Led Zeppelin, or maybe some Hendrix - hell I’d even listen to some Toto as long as it would help me move past whiny exhaustion and remember that the world was bigger than me and my GPA.

But there was no classic rock on the radio. Oh no.

Instead, it was Osama Got Run Over By a Reindeer . My jaw dropped open in horror.

What the hell is happening to our radio stations?

How Rude

There’s a link on memepool that compares the work of a recent London photographer named Matt Stuart to that of Diane Arbus, arguably the best photographer in the world and my personal hero.

I think it’s an improper comparison, and that Stuart’s work is much more comparable to Robert Frank’s pictures in The Americans.

But, I guess it doesn’t really matter, since they’re all great photographers.

Pre-New Year's Resolution

I hereby declare that, until the year 2004, I will not spend any more money on STUFF, food and toiletries excluded.

This means:
No new clothes (even undies!)
No new sheets or bedding, no matter how cold it gets. In San Diego.
No new doggie toys (sorry Miles.)
No new media, or renting DVDs, or books or even magazines.
No gratuitous christmas cards: only send them to people you really love or people
with quality gift-giving potential. 37 cents is a lot!
No new jewelry, sex toys, jammies, picture frames, environmental non-profit donations, hand-bags, cute pads of paper, or late fees at the library.

NO MORE SPENDING!!!

Bothered and Bewildered

Dear Guidance Counselor,

I just wanted to thank you for helping me out today. Before our meeting, I had so many questions about transferring to a UC. I felt so bewildered, so uninformed. But not anymore!

Today, you informed me (in so many words) that I basically have no chance ever of transferring to a UC before the the year 2005. You helped me see how scholastically incompetent I really am, and how many years of my life and thousands of dollars I've wasted at an unaccredited art college.

Now that I know how many units of complete bullshit I have to undergo before even being considered eligible to transfer to a 4-year college, I have lost all confidence and interest in ever playing your ridiculous bureaucratic game. The only thing keeping me interested now is proving you wrong.

So thanks again, Rigo, or whatever the hell your half-assed guidance counselor name is, for giving me the real incentive to get my act together and transfer. Your discouraging comments, your dull intellect (Arnold is no longer the governor-elect. He was sworn in already, you moron!) and your occasional mid-conversation glances at my chest have really inspired me. They've inspired me to get the fuck out of San Diego City College!

Sincerely Yours,
Robyn

P.S. Your handwriting sucks too.

Important Papers...and Underwear

I woke up this morning, and there was no color but orange. Pure orange light flooded my room, and I was already disoriented by daylight savings. "Is there something wrong with my eyes?" I thought, and then drifted back to sleep.

Two hours later, the light was still orange, streaming in as flourescent bars through the blinds on all the windows in my house. No real daylight, just a dark orange glow. I opened the front door, and there was a bad smell, and a bad heat - heat that nobody should know at 10am on an october sunday. The sun was a hazy crimson color.

I turned on the news and there was an old german lady being interviewed about what she was taking with her, since she had just been asked to evacuate her home due to the 80,000 acre fire burning it's way toward her neighborhood. "Oh just some important papers... and some underwear. But don't you worry about me. The lord takes care of me!"

I decided to take the dog out, since the neighborhood was so quiet. I guess I wanted to make sure that everyone around me hadn't been secretly evacuated without my knowledge (those sneaky neighbors!) I think this is the closest I've ever lived to a fire of this size, and I'm a little scared. It's basically snowing ash, the winds are strong, and the fire may be moving in my direction. What if I have to evacuate? What should I pack? Should I quickly acquire renter's insurance? I suppose none of these questions will be answered by typing in my blog.

Ja Pan? Junior Pimp? John Pumpernickel?

Mister J.P.
You own 3 clothing stores in P.B.
Next time you come in, ask for me
Cause you tip exorbitantly.

Thanks for the dough, JP (whoever you are).

Give Me "Party Girl" Any Day...

I saw the film "Party Monster" the other night at the Kensington, San Diego's answer to the crappy Act I and Act II. It was Mr. Macaulay Culkin's first film in nine years. "Why", you ask, "did he go away for nine years and choose to return in a film that I haven't even heard of?" Well, I think Macaulay had a plan. Y'know, something like:
1. Star in "Richie Rich" and pound the last nail into the coffin of my career as a child actor.
2. Get married.
3. Get divorced.
4. Kickstart career as serious adult actor by starring as a murderous gay drug-addicted club kid in a small cult film that few will see.

But I digress. The film was basically good, albeit a bit depressing. It was based on a true story, about two kids in New York City in the eighties who apparently revolutionized clubbing and had a small hand in creating what we know today as the rave scene. It was kind of a dual narrative, by both Macaulay and Seth Green, who was by far the best part of the film. Actually, the best part of the film was Seth Green's costuming, specifically when he dresses up as a treasure troll. (Hmm...don't I know someone who did that?)

Chloe Sevigny and Natasha Lyonne also star, but the film disables either actress from developing any depth, and they both come off as mundane and cliche characters. Dylan McDermott plays a sinister club owner rather well, however.

I wanted to like this film so much, but I just left the theatre in a slump. It was well made, and pretty well acted, but I guess the subject matter was just troubling to me.

O Wet Pet

They say that, of all the reasons that couples break up, money is number one on the list. I don't know who "they" are, but I agree. I feel like I've had the following argument every day this week:

Ash: Can you pay for dinner tonight?

Me: (dully) Okay, but I did just spend $200 at the vet yesterday.

A: But I paid for the last two tuesdays! Come on!

M: You just spit on me!

A: I'm sick of you and your dry arguments!

M: Fine, I'll pay.

Oh yeah, I/we got a dog. His name is Miles and he has been ours for a week. He's great - so smart and cute. Unfortunately, there is one thing that Miles will not abide: having his picture taken. This is very unfortunate, being that I love to photograph things.

First, we thought it was the flash. Katie was trying to snap some shots of him with one of those disposable things, and he got so mad that he left the room and wouldn't return no matter how many times we called and dangled treats. It took him about 15 minutes to forgive her.

I thought I'd be clever and busted out my manual Nikon, for some shots incognito. But no dice. As soon as I lifted the camera up to my face, he took off. I followed him with some treats, but he nursed his grudge for a while.

This is a tragedy! Things as aesthetically pleasing as Miles must be photographed. And yet...I can't deny the fact that pet photographs, by their very nature, are chronically lame. So ultimately, his camera-shyness could be a blessing in disguise. When I become a famous photographer, I suppose they will have fewer lame pet pics to pull from my past and humiliate me with.

A Clean Getaway

I spent Friday night in the ER. I got this weird, ugly V-shaped cut on my wrist at work, and I decided I should get it cleaned and stitched up, since it was given to me by the jagged corner of a metal shelf, above an area where meat is often cleaned. And besides, it kinda sounded like fun.

I got there about 2am, and the waiting area didn't appear to be too full. I filled out some workers' comp paperwork, and hunkered down with my Atlantic Monthly. The lady said I would probably be waiting for about an hour - it turned out to be about three.

When I was finally admitted, I got my own room complete with a bed and "Rorschach inkblot test"-themed curtains. I saw an overweight mermaid in them. Then, out of nowhere, THE HOTTEST ER DOCTOR IN THE LAND came in to bandage me up. I had to get a Tetanus shot, and later Ash asked me if the doctor had given it to me in my ass. I can't say the thought hadn't crossed my mind...

Ultimately, I ended up being there until about 6am. It seems like a lot of stupid/sad people come into the ER on friday nights. Here are a few...

- Middle-aged, weathered woman, barely able to walk, who was beat up by her boyfriend. She refused to fill out a police report because she claimed the arguement was her fault.
- Token 15-yr-old gangsta with numerous stab wounds and blood soaked into his white wife-beater tank. Family members running amok.
- Frenzied hypochondriac, mumbling about heart palpitations and exaggerating the amount of time he has been waiting.
- And the sad one: a girl my age, hit by a car. The doctor told her unsuspecting friends that she wouldn't make it probably, and they crumbled right in front of me.

I suppose there's nothing like other people's pain to put your own in perspective.

Jose and Jos B

Me: (to waiter) I'll have the lobster burrito, and I'll take the chile verde on the side.

Ash: I'll have the enchilada combo.

Me: I hate chile verde...

Ash: Me too.

Me: Does anyone like chile verde?

Ash: I don't think so. It's the mexican mistake.

The Couple That Prays Together, Stays Together?

Nothing bothers me more than the smell of cigarette smoke on my boyfriend. I have yet to figure out why this smell infuriates me so much, but I know that my feelings are akin to Halle Berry's in "Monsters Ball", when she notices smeared chocolate on the face of her obese 11-year-old son and proceeds to beat the shit out of him.

My hatred of cigarette smoke in general is pretty valid, I think, if for no other reason than the fact that it's hazardous to ones health and stinky. It's something I can abide if absolutely necessary, of course, like if I'm waiting on a table of people who are smoking, or if a close friend of mine is a smoker.

I guess the thing that irks me the most is a non-smoker smoking. Sure, we've all done it (except Dave), while drunk at a party or while trying to bed an actual smoker, or both. Some of us have even been actual smokers for a while, which is sad but acceptable because at least we were committed. But if you're not drinking, seducing, or addicted, what the hell is the point of smoking, ASHLEY, when your girlfriend - yes, the one you share a small bed with - fucking hates the smell! And taste! And, just, general principal of it all!!!!!!!!! raaarr!

Somebody Beheaded My Marigolds!

My landlord's assistant guy, Doug, does a lot of gardening for us. Sometimes he comes over when he's bored or needs to work on his tan, and just sort of stands around the yard, looking like he's doing stuff. Sometimes we gossip about the neighbors in back who are worth gossiping about because they (Les and Susan) are married but Les is gay and an alcoholic. He gets really drunk and yells at us to shut the fuck up when we're being loud at night, and then completely denies it the next day. "Oh I would never say that!".

Anyway, Doug planted a bunch of, well, plants the other day, including some beautiful marigolds. They were all orange and pert and I loved them. Marigolds are also cool because bees don't like the odor they give off, and hence stay far away from them. Bees = scary. But this morning when I woke up and wandered outside, they had all been beheaded! Each of the 4 stems that had been planted was completely stripped of all it's leaves, and the orange flower bud had been cleanly detached, laying in the dirt next to the bottom of the stem.

Who would do this, I ask?!? My list of suspects includes Laura the little nuisance from nextdoor, snails, and the coyotes (pronounced ky-oats. coyoteees are for sissies) not necessarily in that order. If anyone has any other suggestions, it is his or her obligation to come forward. I must avenge the unrightful deaths of my innocent plants!

"I am a vessel. Fill me."

Yea, this was forwarded to me. But so what, it's funny.

The Washington Post's Style Invitational once again asked readers to
take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or
changing one letter, and supply a new definition.

Here are this year's winners:

1. Intaxication: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you
realize it was your money to start with.

2. Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.

3. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops
bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little
sign of breaking down in the near future.

4. Foreploy: Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of
getting laid.

5. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject
financially impotent for an indefinite period.

6. Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.

7. Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wi! t and the
person who doesn't get it.

8. Inoculatte: To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.

9. Hipatitis: Terminal coolness.

10. Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)

11. Karmageddon: It's like, when everybody is sending off all these
really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like a
serious bummer.

12. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day
consuming only things that are good for you.

13. Glibido: All talk and no action.

14. Dopeler effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when
they come at you rapidly.

15. Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after
you've accidentally walked through a spider web.

16. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito that gets into our
bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.

17. Caterpallor (n.): ! The color! you turn after finding half a grub
in the fruit you're eating.

And the pick of the literature:

18. Ignoranus: A person who's both stupid and an asshole

Sapporo? Tomorrow.

Yesterday I went to the dentist. It was a sad, sad day for me because it was the decisive moment when I realized that I am, in fact, now an adult. The factors leading me to this conclusion were as follows:

1) I chose the dentist myself. (I actually called 1-800-dentist! rad!) and
2) I paid the dentist myself. So far, I have shelled out $221.47, with another seven hundred or so to go.

The only thing that helped ease the trauma of Adult Day was the valium.
It begun with the receptionist handing me a wee blue pill in a pink plastic cup. I swallowed it, grabbed a Seventeen, eased into the fuzzy banana chair, and waited.
Unfortunately, Valium takes about an half and hour before you feel it, so I was forced to spend a lot more time with Seventeen magazine than I had anticipated. (An interview with Paris Hilton actually quoted her calling the press "retarded".)
Then "The Crystal Ship" came on the radio, and I didn't know if I was actually high yet or just being persuaded into thinking I was high by Jim Morrison.
Finally, as Queen sang "HE'S JUST A POOR BOY FROM A POOR FAM-I-LEE!" and it was all I could do to keep myself from singing along loudly from my fuzzy banana chair, I knew the Valium had worked. Someone came in, drilled and filled, did whatever it was they had to do, and left. I was high as a kite and loved every minute of it. Thanks Dr. Rosenson!

In other news, on Wednesday I saw Time Flies at the Globe Theatre, a compilation of short plays written by David Ives, following his first compilation All In The Timing, which a few of us were obsessed with during high school. The shorts were overall pretty good - some were hilarious and others were very not hilarious and trying to be deep instead.
None, however, were as good as "The Philadelphia", from All In The Timing, which was marvelously acted by Sean Keane and Dustin Reed at the College Park One Act festival. Yours truly also starred as "the Waitress", having been re-cast the day of the performance since the role's original owner, Shannon McGuire, was having (surprise surprise) personal problems. Ahh, the pants-peeing good ol' days.

The Number Two

Okay, in an effort to experiment with different blog-writing styles, I will attempt to write a list of the "TOP TEN MOST AMUSING THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO ME TODAY".

10) Just now on the late show with David Letterman during his daily monologue/stand up routine, he announced that both of Saddams sons were killed today. The audience burst into a joyful applause. I may cry.

9) Due to my (and I quote ) "excellent financial record", I was pre-approved for an American Express card. Go consumerism!

8) I went the doctor today. After a rather *intrusive* visit, my doctor (Dr. Lam - no religious references, please) told me some suspicious news about my - well, down there. I kinda started to cry, and she actually said "Well, at least you're not going to die." wtf!

7) I'm sorry, that one gets two numbers. At least I'm not going to die!!!???!! Oh yeah, then after that she put me on some pills and told me that as long as I was taking them (7 days) I couldn't drink any alcohol or I would have a violent reaction. In a nutshell, my hoo-ha is sad, sex feels yucky, and now I can't even have a goddamn drink!

6) My window is smashed in my car, basically making it available to whatever homeless person gets dibs to use it as a bed for the evening. But this morning, my car smelled really good - like patchouli and roses, or the way "Like A Prayer" smelled when I first bought the album. I pictured a really cute, homeless-by-choice hippy girl sleeping there, and it made me happy.

5) Earlier, there was a man on the street with a sign about needing a job due to being laid off. He was just standing there by the whole foods parking lot being completely ignored by all these people who pretend to care about the environment. Aside from being incredibly sad, I also managed to observe that his scenario appeared to be straight out of O Brother Where Art Thou. The man had only a few teeth, and along side him were his three blonde lil'uns, complete with bare feet and overalls. I wondered if I was being secretly manipulated by Disney as I slipped him a twenty.

4) Does number five make me seem like a bad person? Anyway, um...
Today I realized that I really hate the name Jeff. Geoff is okay, but just Jeff has got to go.

Alright, top ten lists are much harder than I gave any of the Letterman writers credit for. I just can't lower my blog's worth by trying to come up with anymore numbers. Besides, #4 doesn't really count. Sorry Jeffs.

Are you there Blog? It's me, Robyn...

Sorry Judy. So, I guess this is me beginning a blog. I dunno why, it just seemed like the right thing to do. I fully acknowledge that I have less to offer than other blog-contributors. I am not wryly funny (like Sean), nor enigmatic (like Kristin) nor am I a social butterfly (like Michele and Gene) nor getting laid consecutively by different European men (Cody). I don’t even have a painting of myself to post on my site (btw Kati, in the painting you look chillingly similar to the senators daughter in Silence of the Lambs. Spoo-k-k-k-y).

I will have my blog anyway, tho. I think my little stories are interesting and well worth chronicling, even if no one else does.

My first blog story will not be about the family of assholes and mini-assholes that I waited on tonight, because they sucked so much that they don’t even deserve another word. Bitches.

My first blog story will be about the charming Lord of the Rings boys that I had the pleasure of waiting on last night. First I waited on Sean Astin, the Samwise Gamgee/Goonies guy. At least I think that’s who he was. Everyone kept making a big deal about his food getting there on time, and the whole evening I was confused about who was the celebrity and who was just the friend of the celebrity! I still am, kind of - I mean, metaphorically.

Anyway, the Goonies guy was very complimentary and sweet. Also, he kept touching me throughout the evening, which I normally would not tolerate from a customer (yea right) but with him it was kind of exciting, since he was, you know, a celebrity and all. (Or was that his friend?)

Later on in the evening around midnight, a very tiny and very drunk Elija Wood staggered into the restaurant. (He really was tiny. I allowed him to stand on a step above me during our conversation so I would not be forced to squat.) He asked if it was too late to eat dinner, I accused him of trying to make me work late, and we were friends instantly. I told him that my car had been broken into (yes, for the fifth time, people!) and he immediatly hugged me while his sexy Vueve Cliquot -drinking friend offered to beat the culprit(s) up. I replied that I would have kicked the culprits ass myself if I’d known who he was. And I did not return the hug.
So there it is - a sparkling example of me keeping my composure when confronted with psuedo-celebrities, as unprecedented as this episode was.

Okay no more name-dropping for a really long time. I guess I’ll just brush my teeth and go crawl in bed with Ash(ton Kutcher).