Day 4 and 5

Day 4 was a total turn around. I spent two hours running some errands and managed to knock 4 items off the to-do list. Started packing the trinkets I won't be able to take with me (i.e. seashells). Unfortunately, Oz sent me one new item to take care of. Not terrible, I am still ahead.

Day 5 today has at least 2 items that will be accomplished. One of them being the dreaded laundry, that actually is more like 3 items (wash, dry, fold).

I think being more proactive and productive with my to-do list has made me feel better, not to mention getting more information on my temporary housing (see http://www.asianamericanaussie.blogspot.com) and plane ticket. The latter really cemented the reality of Oz. There is an actual departure date. With ten days left in my old apartment I am feeling the pinch.

In Between Jobs

(Exhibit A)

Now that I am using up the phenomenal reserve of personal days I have amassed over the years to prepare for my move to Australia, I am finding myself to be much less productive than I had originally intended. Granted, people in this time of “transition” tend not to be as efficient with how they spend their time (picture long lines at the unemployment office); it bothers me that I am not a contributing member of society. However, I would like to emphasize that taxes are still being deducted from my paycheck as we speak. Maybe I shouldn’t feel so guilty after all.

It is now day 3 of my time off and I am starting to believe I have an addiction to structure. I need it to be the best that I can be, without it I am no better than an amoeba, especially in the memory department. This is what the last three non-working business days had been filled with.

Day 1:
I slept in and woke up around 10am. Not bad. Surveyed my mess of a room, courtesy of Wal-mart and Target orgy along with apathetic disregard for order during the last few days (Exhibit A); I am inspired to restore order to my surrounding. But first things first, coffee and some breakie. Flipped on the tube, got on the laptop and had my morning coffee. I thought about taking a shower but cleaning my room took precedence. Hours go by and I still had not moved from my coffee chair mainly because I had just become addicted to Facebook and its many useless frivolous functions of virtual community construction. Now the coffee is mostly consumed and cold, empty breakfast plate begs to be washed of dry crusted once runny yolk. Phone rings, my brother had locked himself out of his car. The most exciting thing to have happened all day. I search on Google map to pinpoint his location while giving him triple A’s number. Crisis averted and I avoided having to leave the house for purposes other than drinking. Dodged a bullet there. Glanced at the clock and realized my presence is required at my own farewell happy hour with coworkers, I jump in the shower to get ready.

I arrive at happy hour, stayed at point A for about 1.5 hours. After that we proceeded to point B and stayed there for about 3 hours. Then we walked next door to point C for another 2 hours before returning to point B to close out the night at 3am. Went home and passed out for the night.

Day 2:
Woke up around 11am, jumped in the shower and checked for any signs of hang-over haggardness. Got dressed and rolled to my going away lunch at noon. Had pizza and a Pepsi while talking to the best coworkers in the world. Said good bye to everyone, grabbed a Starbucks, and headed home to get ready for my next drinking engagement starting at 4:30pm. Drink, drank, drunk until there was no more. Ended the night with a ginormous order of carne asada fries at Roberto’s.

Weekend:
Saturday was not filled with as much drinking as expected. Purged my closet of my old college papers. Amazed and depressed at how I once understood funny math symbols and complex stuffs.

Daylight savings hit. Sunday was filled with mostly beer drinking while watching football and a couple of night caps before once again getting something with carne asada.

Day 3:
Today I woke early for a doctor’s appointment at 9am. Probably the most productive thing I will do all day. After I got out of the medical building I felt jet lagged from lack of coffee and daylight savings. Drove home and made some breakie and of course coffee. Saw a giant puddle in the kitchen that my roommate made but did not bother cleaning up even though he admitted to it while we were talking in the kitchen. Me having short-timer syndrome mirrored his sloth like apathy. Proceeded to jump on Facebook again while watching the Hills on MTV. Pondered what task I should tackle and dismissed it all for less important agenda items such as sitting in my coffee chair blogging this very moment. I hope there will be drinking later tonight to help me train for the Ozlympics.

I wonder what Day 4 will be like…

The End (of Work)

The end is never as you’d expect it. Graduation and last day at work, you would think these occasions would be filled with an overwhelming sense of liberation, yet there’s always a little sadness. Maybe it’s because I like to be sad, but I think if you weren’t a little sad then something is amiss. Perhaps you were never happy there, you failed to make connections, or the people there were not memorable; none of the above were the case for me, that made it difficult to say good-bye.

One of my favorite colleagues was messaging me up to when I shut off my computer. He is in another building, but we’ve bonded over an arduous project in the past. He said to take two minutes before I leave and think back to the past three years but only of the good memories and walk out the door with them. And as we winded down our conversation, he said he was going to say what he would say to me on any other day, and that was “have a good night.” While his advice of leaving with the good was well intended, it saddened me because I still could not justify leaving a great network of colleagues in pursuit of the unknown. Will I find replacements for my regular lunch buddy, happy hour crew, and the midnight oil burners? Shutting down my computer for the last time made me feel like pulling the plug on a terminally ill loved one.

As I realize my day-to-day routine is about to be drastically different from the last 10% of my life span, I wonder how I will cope. My heart knows I have to do this, but it is my mind that is having difficulties rationalizing the pros of the decision because all I see are obstacles and things I rather not deal with. Somehow I expected it to be the opposite with my mind made up but my heartstrings tugged in the opposite direction.

Petting Zoo

The field next to our work parking lot is slowing becoming a petting zoo. This morning, a small flock of sheep were brought in. An hour later, Babe's big fat uncle, Mr. Pig was added to the same pen.

Aside from the excitement taking place adjacent to the asphalt lot where we park our cars, only a sprinkling of employees are actually in the office. A few hours later, my cube mate proclaims the building is to be closed at 11am according to the intranet bulletin. I glance at the time at the corner of my screen, it reads 11:30am. When is someone, ahem management, actually going to inform us of the news? Minutes later an announcement is made on the same bulletin that hourly employees that are in the office were to be paid a time and a half their regular pay for coming in. Where does that leave the salary slaves? To add insult to injury, we were barely informed of the free pizza brought in for lunch due to the cafeteria closure.

So today after checking the emergency hotline and trying to decipher the cryptic HR double talk of:

(Paraphrased) In light of our current conditions in the San Diego area, both buildings are to remain closed. Because the buildings are closed as it was on Monday, all non exempt employees who volunteer to come in will receive a time and a half pay. All other employees will be paid regular pay and no TOP days will be subtracted. Our building will remain open for volunteer employees. The air quality remains good in both buildings. Please check at noon today for the next update.

I've decided to "work from home," possibly head in the afternoon to check email, say hi to Mr. Pig and his sheeps (peeps).

Refugee

I am officially a refugee because of the San Diego Fires. I just evacuated my humble abode an hour ago and am now continuing my vigilance in front of the TV with the local news. As a child I hated natural disasters that made national news because it interrupted my regularly scheduled programs, specifically, cartoons. Growing up with no cable, these times of trial were extremely painful. Now, as an adult I greatly appreciate the round-the-clock coverage our tireless news anchors are providing; especially now there's a possibility I may lose my pack rat belongings to one of five elements: fire.

Now I wondered...what exactly does mandatory evacuation mean? Is it "mandatory" or mandatory mandatory? I mean, there must be some legal jargon that makes it not really mandatory, i.e. they can't force you out of your home. More importantly, I'm more curious about the probability of my place burning down with respect to the level of required evacuation. Does advisory evacuation mean 30% chance? Perhaps mandatory only means 50%? I think when firefighters or law enforcement knocks on your door, then there's a high probability.

I'm learning a bit about myself during all this. According to my previous posting, I added a few items to my flee list. The additional items were a few vanity items , two expensive dresses and two expensive coats. I'll be prepared to attend a fancy evacuation ball barefoot or to keep warm should Mother Nature throw a cold snap this way. I didn't take any additional shoes except for flipflops and the tennis shoes I had on. Oh and I grabbed the frozen pizza I had been craving all day. I guess I'm not as materialistic or shallow as I thought, but I'm not that deep either apparently.

San Diego Fire 2007

In my whole entire life this is the second time I have been affected by a major natural disaster. The first one was the Northridge Earthquake; I was shaken awake by the seismic movement. Right now I am home with every TV in the apartment on the San Diego Fire coverage. Work had a fire day; translation no workie today. My town currently is on voluntary evacuation with one of the fires about 25 miles away. Even with the windows shut tight, a layer of black ash has gathered on the window sill. Outside the air looks smoggy but it smells smokey like a campfire. Is it twisted that I don't mind the smell?

My apartment is nearly by the ocean, so I guess there's not really a point to evacuate except to jump in the ocean or out of fear of entrapment by fire. However, just as a precaution, I have made a mental list of items I plan to take with me (golf clubs, change of clothes, important docs, photos, journals, laptop and necessary chargers. If I have time/room then some vanity stuffs). And, just in case, I also called a friend to secure my refugee status at their residence.

The nervous panicky energy in the air conveyed by the news is unsettling. I can't believe houses are actually burning down to the ground. I am keeping an eye outside. I see some cars pass by with the backseat filled with personal items. The whole idea of possibly losing everything I own is surreal and perhaps a bit melodramatic. I imagine I would be devastated and blame myself for not getting renter's insurance (would that make a difference?) But, honestly I feel nothing right now. Non-San Diegan friends are checking in, good to know who my friends are =). I told my friend Kimmy that I'm not leaving until the fire singes my ass or until I get the reverse 911 call.

Big Brother?

This is how I know the government is keeping tabs on us. A month before my move out of this country, the judicial branch summons me for jury duty. The date is a mere 2 days after my departure. That's all I have to say about that.

2nd Trimester Disclaimer

Official letter has been signed and faxed back. More paperwork need to be completed before everything is said and done, I guess this is where all the needle prodding tests take place. Look out for moody preggy woman in the coming weeks. I am not responsible for the words and actions that takes place in the next 5 weeks. The hormones, I mean stress is most likely going to make me not myself. I will likely be a raging bitch or an emotional sap. If I start crying, I beg someone to slap me. If I start being an a-hole, please bitch slap me as well. Thanks in advance.

hindsight is 20/20

when i was young, this phrase plagued me. as i think back, i must have heard it from every teacher i ever had, all of my relatives, and the occasional old lady on the street. even as a child, i was the one that would wistfully, out loud, comment on their failures.

Me: i wish i would have saved my money instead of buying this (insert cheap toy that broke or new candy that seemed really cool but was, in fact, very lame)
Obnoxious Grown-Up: well, hindsight is 20/20

as i grow older, i notice this phrase coming out of my mouth more often than i hear it. my bgf has been seeking some, slight, advice from me lately, and generally, i reply "you should relax." well, today, she throws back to me, "you were exactly this way a month ago" or something like that. and, without thinking, i hear it.

hindsight

is

20/20.

at that moment, i realize what i said. i even made an out-loud note about it so i would remember. i am beginning to love that phrase. it is so matter-of-fact. to-the-point. it fits a variety of situations.

it is official: i am that obnoxious grown-up.

that random five year old salesgirl attempting to sell me a pedicure knew it. and i know it, too.

if you catch me uttering any phrase containing the words "pot," "kettle," and "black," please incite some sort of physical harm for the pavlovian effect. i beg of you.

Cold Feet

I'm suddenly getting cold feet about Australia. After reading some expatriate testimonies of their impressions of the locals and surroundings, the land down under did not sound like the happiest place on Earth, as I originally thought. On top of that, one co-worker keeps saying to me, "Don't go (to Australia)," like the ominous raven personified by Edgar Allen Poe. I find myself justifying my reasons to him and then realizing I didn't owe him an explanation so much as myself. I don't know why anyone would say that to someone leaving a job in search of new opportunities, especially to someone he/she didn't know well. It's like telling someone their baby isn't the cutest creature on earth when it's just mediocre, or God forbid downright fugly.

But seriously, am I making a huge mistake? While most people say, "Oh if I weren't tied down, blah blah blah, I'd take it in a heartbeat," but do they really mean it? I mean, have they truly given the whole thing as much serious stressful thought as moi? Do they know the consequences and implications down the road? It's like unprotected sex, seems like a good idea at first but in hindsight a horrible mistake.

Soothing Fall

I stepped outside of the house for the first time today and the sky was sunny. A breeze swept past me and brought the scent of fall to my olfactory. The atmosphere carried hints of scorched parchment. I was suddenly hyper aware of each breath I took into my lungs; the essence I was detecting was familiar and new at the same time. Autumn had taken over abruptly. It seemed as if the blazing red hot coils of the summer furnace had shorted out and caused the sparks to singe the surrounding air and dust. A mild blast of sharp icy cool air pierced the senses while sapping up every drop of moisture in the air. My mood was lifted by the changing of the season. I had been going through a transformation in my life as well. It made me feel better that the world was changing with me rather than before me.

Some Tidbits of Weekend

"One-Armed Stripper"

"Thousands of Beautiful Girls and Three Ugly Ones"

"Rolled some salami"

"I don't get Cox"

"Cox On-Demand, Broke Back Mountain"

My nearly full jar of almonds reduced to a few scant pieces at the bottom. Sitting below it was an almost brand new jar with freshness tamper free seal displaced along with an inch of of nuts. Probably the most considerate thing Bible Boy has done. I guess they covered the chapter on "What would Jesus do?"

Pushed Myself Down the Stairs

A good friend of mine and I made a pact not too long ago. We promised each other that if one of us ever got knocked up, the other would do their loyal duty of pushing the preggy one down a flight of stairs, no matter where they were. We derived this practice from the law of physics: what gets knocked up, must get knocked down. Many people find this method of abortion barbaric, but we just think it's good sense. It's way cheap, I mean why spend money on an unborn? There's certainly no abortion showers being thrown around the country, and I think that is a travesty. Hallmark can benefit from this new market, not to mention, the liquor industry as a whole.

So, the metaphoric pregnancy test stick has shown a positive on the new job. However, I may have fallen down the analogous stairwell, though by no fault of my good friend. I have this doom and gloom feeling that I have done poorly on the online tests they requested me to take. Come Monday morning, I will find myself knocked down instead of up.

Picking up Smoking

I've always been anti-smoking mostly because of the health hazards associated with the smoker and bystanders. However, some of my closest friends are regular smokers, and I try to be supportive; although that's probably not being a good friend. At any rate, I don't gag or give them a hard time about their habit when they light up. In fact, I like being the presence of their cigarette clouds. While I have a mental block about inhaling smoke through a rolled filtered cigarette, I have no problem breathing in second-hand smoke. I have to admit, I do feel soothed by it sometimes. There's just something about the elegant, yet mysterious, curls of smoke floating and evaporating into a haze of gray carrying hints of oaky bark that makes the smoker want to say, "Ahhhhh...."

Lately, I have been uber-stressed out about a new job prospect in Australia. I have received an informal offer and am working out the details. But due to my worry prone nature, I obsess over it like it's my job; which is a pretty accurate depiction of the amount of attention I give it while I'm at work. At any rate, I thought to myself, how do I break the monotony of my constant high-strung state? There must be a quick fix to calm me down. Then, I thought of smoking. I've heard many a smokers praise the euphoria of nicotine. However, I just cannot see myself sucking on a rolled up stick of dried tea leaves while it's ablaze. So I thought maybe I could go try one of those nicotine patches or the gum. I like chewing gum, this would be perfect. Eventually I may work up the courage to smoke an actual ciggy.

Unplanned Parenthood

In going with the theme of pregnancy, this is where reality hits. I was ecstatic about getting an offer, seeing the stick I had pee'd on turn blue. Now, I'm doing the math and thinking this is mad, i.e. I can't afford to raise this kid. The question lies in do I give it up for adoption or keep it and maybe I'll be pleasantly surprised; translation: child genius.

There's a reason it's past 1:30am on a Tuesday night and my mind is still wide awake despite numerous libations I imbibed over the last 6 hours. I had a hard time sleeping last night because of the myriad of thoughts racing through my mind. They centered mostly around Australia and specifically my packing list. I can't help that I am a worrier and detail oriented, which makes the former a million times worse.

My first attempt at serious compensation negotiation failed miserably. Either the Australians are Nazi negotiators or I suck at negotiating. They shot me down in every avenue possible, down to the flight accomodations of coach versus business (my last ditch effort). Maybe my salary package is inflated acccording to their standards, but I'm an American and I think in USD terms, goddammit! The whole thing left me feeling defeated and questioning the life choice I am about to make.

I suppose I can be resourceful. I can pray to the housing gods that they will be kind to me and perhaps I will find a one-bedroom deal or non-psycho-lame CLEAN roommates. I've endured Christmas alone in a foreign land, what's another one under the belt. At least this one will be in English rather than Portugese. The only thing I am questioning is why am I so anxious for a change. Why am I leaving such a wonderful network of friends in San Diego to pursue this pipe dream I never had until a month ago? Am I crazy? All I see is difficulties ahead. Nothing makes sense, yet there is a strong desire to go because of fear of regret.

It's a Boy!/Girl!

Having never experienced the excitement of a positive pregnancy test, this job offer from Australia is one of the few moments of pure joy I have yet experienced in my female adult life. YESSSS! I GOT THE JOB! I wanted to shout it from the rooftop of my building, but I'm pretty sure security would shoot me with a tranquilizer gun and cause me to fall off the side of the edifice. I think someone should throw me a Job Shower, and I can register for things like coffee mugs, packing materials, business card holders, international phone cards, tissue and vodka (in case this is a horrible mistake) etc., etc.... But I will settle for a happy hour.

I can't believe it. At the beginning of the application process I thought to myself, "If I pull this off, it will be like a dream I never had come true." And here I am, blogging away at midnight, surprisingly unsoiled. The reality of all of it is settling in, the positive and negative, but mostly the negative because I'm a pessimist and worrier. I am 80% sure I want to take it. I think it's not 90% because I have never been there, so the extra uncertainty accounts for 10%. Now I just have to convince my parents this is a good idea. I plan to guilt them, citing them as my inspiration. In a way, it is true. They moved here to this country with my brother and I in tow, yet they barely knew the language or the lay of the land. I am only modeling myself after them, but in a cowardly selfish way.

I've already began making lists of things to take care of, and I love making lists:
1) Rent Notice
2) Cancel Celly
3) Transfer Utilities to Roomies
4) Let Roommies know I'm moving
5) Purge Purge Purge
6) More Research (i.e. tax impact, electric currents)
7) Find a home for my freakishly tall and lucky bamboo (not my parents...well maybe....)
8) Purge Purge Purge
9) Book the rest of my physical therapy
10) Use up my FSA ASAP
11) Figure out the timeline

I will cut myself off there.

I always knew the time would come when I have to leave my little paradise by the water. What I didn't know is how I would feel. Regret, guilt, relief, anticipation...I can't wait to be there at the same time I want to say "wait...."

Feng Shui

I am not a big believer nor fan of Feng Shui. My Asian license will probably be revoked if the Asian cultural authorities got wind of this entry. To me, Feng Shui is just the ancient form of interior decorating, the same way that Greek mythology is the early stage of modern religion. Both, interior decorating and religion, do not really do that much, mainly because both can be so subjective. They are great when people need it, but neither is truly necessary in order to ensure the continuum of the universe is not disrupted.

With that said, I just moved two pieces of furniture in my room this morning, and IKEA! (That's "Eureka!" in furniture talk). I just found my new favorite spot in my room. I can't believe it took me this long to conceptualize the usage of this corner space by the window. Although, I had always thought the big faux leather Lazy Boy would be a great reading/laptop chair in that spot, my mind dismissed it because of spatial limitations. But this morning, I decided to experiment. I moved my little gray computer chair from that corner to the desk and swapped in the recliner. Et voila! I sat down and looked out at the sky and the big pine tree outside my window, along with all the cars swooshing by; it was my new little piece of ghetto heaven. I was happy as a cat reading via natural light with my cup of coffee on the window sill next to me.

I still think people who Feng Shui the crap out of their place are a little looney, especially if it is their profession, but people who pay money for this are idiots. I think that will be my new get rich quick business venture. Heck, I'm Asian, I can pull it off. Finally, I can capitalize on my heritage in a more meaningful way besides ESL. Now...I need to figure out what to do with that lamp.

First Trimester

While I am far, far, far...far from being barefoot and pregnant, I cannot help but notice the parallel between when to announce a job lead one is pursuing and successful fertilization. Some see it as jinxing the event, but I think it is quite possible the mere act of heralding the occassion may scare the prospect or zygote into retreat. So with the all-so-important international job potential, I waited until after I cleared the first interview to tell the less important people, like my parents. Let's just face it, they are excitement prone. I am still waiting for the second interview appointment to arrive, it feels much like the time between when you pee on the stick and wait for the colors to turn. I guess I'm not out of the woods yet. Maybe I should've waited until I was showing.

Preparation Anxiety

I am "cramming" for an interview less than 24-hours away. I have been out of the game with the job hunt process that I feel anxious and unsure of where I stand in terms of qualified candidates. It's like jumping into the dating game after emerging from a long term relationship. I don't know where to start, and I'm everywhere and getting nowhere. I know it's just one interview, and I shouldn't view it as a make or break deal. But, I can't help it because I like to worry; it's in my genetics thanks to my dear old mom. Speaking of the parental units, I also have not consulted them on my decision to interview for this particular position. I have been hinting for months that I wanted a change of scenery in the job front. Up until this month I did not have any leads, nor attempted to search.

I've always discussed major decisions with my parents, sought their wisdom to guide me in my young grasshopper ways. I think that also attributed to my indecisiveness (note to self, do not mention as weakness at interview). This time, I have been going it alone with the support of friends and coworkers, though a very select group. I don't want to jinx my chances. I don't want too many people to know lest I fail; the fall would hurt more because I didn't just let myself down. However, keeping the secret from my parents only adds more stress. It's like the time in college when I decided to rush for a sorority and told my parents afterwards as an FYI. I remember my mom being livid, but after talking to my second cousin she was much more supportive. I have a feeling they may rain on this parade before it forms, I don't think they will approve similar to the way they disapproved of my prom date. But, thinking back to prom, I ended up going to it and had a pretty good time, regardless. So if history is indicative of anything, I just might survive, but I am horribly anticipating the interview already. I guess I should disspell all this nervous energy by cleaning my room and simultaneously preparing for the appointment.

It's Chilly Outside

Labor Day signals the end to summer white wardrobe and warm weather alike. The West Coast is usually an exception to that cardinal rule. However, this September evening, I sense a slight chill in the air.

Labor Day weekend was a scorcher; perhaps it was nature's way of ending summer with a bang. I felt guilty for taking summer so for granted, but I also cannot wait to start snuggling under soft blankets--as much as one can in sunny San Diego. For the first time in months, I was able to shut the window to shield out the sounds of Highway 101 without suffocating from heat.

The serene silence, with traces of motorists sailing by my window, is a welcome reprieve from all the chaos the past month has brought. Almost as a precursor to leaves turning colors, change is swirling all around me; I am in the eye of a hurricane, calm but witness to all of its frenzy. I am harking for signs on how to begin the next chapter in my life. I fear if I remain at a standstill, as I am often prone to do, I will look back with regret. Yet, the glacier of uncertainty that encases the future freezes my mind.

One great challenge has been presented before me. I am waiting to hear from another. Am I ready for them? While I don't see myself as a competitive person, I do enjoy winning. Can I handle learning to tread water all over again?

I saw a sign that said "2B", and I thought of Shakespeare's famous quote "To be, or not to be." I think I am ready to be, it is just a matter of which, what, where, whom, and how.

Not Enough Estrogen

Lately I've been feeling very estrogen challenged. I was browsing through Target with the original intent of purchasing gifts for a baby shower. Of course, I immediately got sidetracked by sunglasses. I needed a new pair of all-purpose black shades that I could beat up. After trying on nearly every single pair in the display (my face is picky), I settled on a simple pair of plastic black framed ones. No rhinestones or sparkles or fancy chrome adorned this pair; it was classic. I proceeded to take twice as long picking out baby friendly gifts that did not require prior or extensive knowledge of baby goods. At the checkout line, the cashier scanned all my items. When the sunglasses got scanned, the display red "Mossimo-Men." Bewildered, I checked the glasses after I left the line. There on the tag was a label, "Mossimo Menswear."

In addition to the shame of shades, I had offered to help decorate for a baby shower. Suddenly I got roped into planning games. I dunno about you, but I hate baby shower games. In fact, I hate showers, period, unless they involve water. Shower games make showers absolutely intolerable. I could bear eating fake cucumber or watercress sandwiches with the crusts cut off and even sip tea with my pinky up, but pretending to have fun while sniffing mushed candy bars in a diaper is where I draw the line. My worst experience was probably being dressed up in a make believe wedding dress made with toilet paper. The only saving grace was winning a Starbucks card out of that game. I immediately went to the coffee conglomerate to redeem my fix with a shot of whiskey flavor.

First Day Back

After a long eventful week, this post-Labor Day work week started with a solemn ceremony of removing favorite work buddy from the instant messaging list. It felt weird deleting her name, an act of irreversible erasure--Kevorkian style. Part of me wanted to leave it, but I knew it was silly. She will never be on that list again. The whole thing had a morbid finale to it.

No More Wiener (Dog)

This is a tale about the death of a wiener, a wiener dog. A five year-old thought it would be fun to ride his pet wiener dog like a little horsey. When he mounted the poor little dog, he broke its back. Never more was the little wiener.

This story reminded me of an incident from my childhood. My little brother had barely turned one. Our mother had left us in the bedroom to make some lunch in the kitchen. She had instructed me to look after him. I got bored and decided to ride my brother like a little horsey. At the time, I was about three and a half years old packing about a deuce and a half. Luckily, my mother's maternal instinct had kicked in. She somehow knew I was up to no good-- as I often was. That little wiener is still around.

A-iisms

My tummy is achy
No more breakie
Byyyyye, Mr. Bear
No more Mr. Dog

Time for sleepy
No more dreamie
Sigghhh, replaces snort
No more snarky

Message in a Bottle

Whenever I needed to get away to clear my mind, I would drive down this stretch on PCH between Bolsa Chica and Huntington Beach with my windows down at night. I took comfort in the dark anonymity of the night. The faintly salty sea air intermingled with burning firewood calmed my spirit. Then, I would stop, just short of the bustling main street pier and park. I'd sit there with the haunting green glow of my radio as my silent companion, and I'd listen to the endless soundtrack of the crashing waves.

Tonight, I took my San Diego version of that drive. It was a detour on the way home from work or a night out down south. I found myself turning onto this road reluctantly, as I did in the past; because it meant something was weighing heavily on my mind that I couldn't ignore.

Today was the day that I knew was coming, yet I didn't know how I would react. I hadn't let myself dwell on it much because I didn't want to preoccupy the past present with the imperfect future. I got up and dressed for casual Friday as any other week, excited for the prospect of the weekend and the happy hour that kicked it off. Everything went as usual; I was in a great mood, amazingly. The VIP farewell lunch was just as it should have been, followed by a Starbucks run. Then we went back to work for a few hours knowing we would all regroup again.

Somewhere between running code and listening to my Ipod on shuffle, Matchbox 20's When You're Gone transpired through the wavelengths. My nose twitched with the ache that always preceded tears, like the swift breeze before a storm hits. I fought the instinct with disbelief and indifference. It didnt' work. I realized if I didn't want to look like a psychotic female that wasn't knocked up at work, I needed to mitigate the situation fast. I got out of my seat and briskly walked to the bathroom while trying to balance the tears that threatened to break the cohesive seal on the surface of my eyes. I turned a corner, and a trickle went down my right cheek. I quickly wiped it away with the palm of my hand and hastened my pace. Once I locked myself into a stall, the rest was history. I indulged the emtion, and I told myself I was past it. I let out a deep sigh: No waterworks allowed at happy hour.

The first happy hour was uneventful. It was intended as a formality for the peripherals to pay their respect. Awkwardly, coworkers with nothing in common tried to mingle and socialize while drinking discount drinks. The guest of honor was restless and ready to move on to the real happy hour at the regular watering hole. And so we headed over to the true happy hour, except it wasn't too happy for reasons I won't go into detail. Soon enough, the guest of honor grew tired of putting on a charade and wanted to go home. As she said her final good byes to people she saw everyday for the past three years of her life, tears escaped down her cheeks.

We hurried to the car, and I tried to convince her that tonight should go out with a bang, like the good old days sans Bug streaking. She wouldn't budge. Her tears didnt' phase me. I pretended to drive while Asian to lighten the mood and suggested ice cream. She still wouldn't budge. A few blocks later, I confessed I was craving ice cream. As a favor to me, she conceded and off to Cold Stone we went. After that I dropped her off. Satisfied that she was in better spirits I went home.


I then got on the phone and berated one of the parties responsible for the lameness of everything. This was not how I had envisioned the night for my dear friend. It made my blood boil and heavy at the same time.

Hiding behind the anger and disappointment in others were my true feelings about my bestfriend's last day at work. They surfaced as I pulled into a spot facing the ocean. In the dim melancholy glow of the radio with waves crashing in the background, my face grew hot and tears poured forth. How did I get here? It's not even that time of the month. I watched the waves break on the beach and searched for an answer. This was what the ocean gave me:

Life's like a beach...everyday the incessant waves wash a little bit of sand away as the daily grind wears us down. Once in awhile, a big wave hits and takes a heap. (I already feel the void.) Yet, tomorrow the beach will still be there just as it was the day before and the day before that, and it'll continue to be there despite the waves. The beach won't be the same, but it won't cease to exist. Life goes on a day at a time changingly unchanged.

Cool sea breeze wafted through the window and graced my burning cheeks. I watched people frolic in the distance enjoying the crisp crests of the water, unaware of my presence. Slightly uplifted, I wondered how next week will ensue.

Memory Lane

Countdown begins
The end of an era
Thanks for the memories
The start of a new future
Can't wait for the adventure

A drive to Baskin Robins
Double scoop sundae
Topped with whipped laughter
Sprinkled with chopped shenanigans

We passed the shanking shop
Remembered the pukey porch
And I never sang a pitch
But I laughed and cried at air ball

Gorilla that caused controversy
Sits lonely gathering dust
Stripped of his medals
He has aged a decade

Time takes no prisoners
I wish to be incarcerated
In moments of unstoppable snorting
Such great fun, it hurts then and now

P.P.

Have you ever worn a pair of jeans, that when you sit down the zipper area bunches up into a little mole hill? I suppose for guys, it's a bonus--more leg room. Personally I am always abhorred when this phenomenon, I call the Penis Puff, occurs. I'm not sure where the apprehension came from, but I am sure I had this paranoia at an early age in grade school. Perhaps I am afraid to look like a hermaphrodite.

*names have been changed (poorly)

can't sleep. have been trying since, oh, eightish. like an old lady. only thing is, every time i lay down to sleep, i think of something that needs to be done. something urgent, like ironing my clothes for tomorrow. or making sure my caseless cd's are not scratching one another. you know, urgent things.

anyway, going through my address book to make sure all of the addresses are written in black ink caps, i notice i bought a greeting card for a recently impregnated friend that was never mailed. something like,
we are all so excited about the bundle of joy! something something, a girl or a boy!
my exact words inside this note, which i never mailed, are as follows:

Dear Timina* and Tim*,

Congratulations on your impending child. I am so happy

that is as far as i got. i am pretty sure that after i wrote "impending child" in black ink cursive, i realized that i had wasted my three fifty. why i kept the card is beyond me. at least i can use the envelope for something else...

Brilliant Quotes of the Day

Scene: Sweltering hot, noon time in San Diego, CA. Driving around in an old car with AC that blows hot air.

"Man, I'd give my extra right leg for an ice cold lemonade, right now."

Scene: Referencing friend of a friend with regard to a conversation.

"Remember X? He's the one you gave the bad Russian to."

the beginning of the end

well, i already feel the sense of impending doom.

friday will not be a good day. my mind is continually clouded with anxiety. sure, i have created little games that i play with myself to make this feeling go away. games like countdown to news traveling. that sort of thing.

when i am having these feelings, i generally turn to friends in order to quell my fears.
some friends take advantage of the situation.
some friends act like nothing has happened.
some friends act like i am ruining their lives.

none of these has been an accurate description of the best type of friend.

the response was better than i could have expected (ever).
and i plan on practising my speech on you.
twice.

Suck it, With a Cookie

After writing the Buzz Kill entry, my dad called to chat about my trip. He asked if I had fun on my trip and if it was difficult going back to work. I answered yes to all of the above. Then, in his usual unexpected wisdom, he gave me a new perspective. He said that while work may seem like an unwelcome nuisance, and your mind and spirit is still on leave, you should think about what made the trip possible in the first place. If it weren't for my paying job and the work I put into my responsibilities, there would have been no European escapade in the first place. Way to make me suck it up with a cookie, dad.

Buzz Kill

After taking an extra day off from work in hopes of prolonging my European vacation euphoria, I went back to the daily grind for the first time today. Putting on business casual after nearly 3 weeks of jeans and sneakers felt foreign. My feet protested the confinement and discomfort of my black leather slingbacks. My first drive on the freeway was slightly overwhelming. Suddenly, I had to be an aware driver and not a passive passenger. Eventually, I started to feel better as the control of the steering wheel afforded me the sense of power I had missed.

When I finally got to work, I realized I had forgotten my work badge/key at home. Slightly embarrassed, I went to the security desk to be signed in by my manager. Unfortunately, he was not at his desk, but the security lady was kind enough to wave me in. However, that was only after she thought I was my work twin. Once inside the building, I went to my desk, greeted by smiles of welcome. I distributed the few souvenirs I could afford with the lousy exchange rate. Then I went to my desk and booted up my computer, knowing full well that hundreds of emails awaited me. It only took me an hour and a half to skim/read/delete/flag for follow up 300 emails. After a quick meeting, it was time for lunch.

My good friend from work organized a welcome back lunch. Bug was there. Lately, he's been a sort of a sell-out Nelly Futado style but in the worst way possible. Someone turned him onto designer sunglasses, but that person must have been a woman because all the overpriced spectacles he has purchased look like chicks' shades. Today's basic black Dolce & Gabbana shades were no exception. I had to hold my tongue through the entire lunch before I could snark to my good friend about the bad choice of shades. Not surprised she agreed.

After being dropped off at my office, I realized I had lost my temporary badge issued from this morning. It had broken off the clip at some point. The security guy was less lenient than the lady. I tried calling the coworker that had dropped me off but to no avail. Once again, my manager was not there. In fact, no managers were around to sign me in. I had to wait nearly 20 minutes before my manager came out to let me in. I wondered if this was a sign that I shouldn't have gone into work today.

At around 3 o'clock, I realized I was completely bored with work. I felt the same way as I did before I had gone on my vacation--that was, zero motivation. Career existentialism set in, and I pondered if it was time for a new job.

The Morning After

The morning after a nice long vacation is much like the morning after a one-night stand. You wake up, disheveled and disoriented. You have nothing to change into because all of your cute clothes were on the trip with you, and they desperately need to be laundered. And so, you're wearing the same outfit you had on the night before. Then, you go to brunch with your best gal pal to gab about the previous night's proceedings and to recover. After lounging by the pool with some beers all afternoon, you blog about the events that transpired and savor the last of the afterglow.

I'm Leaving, on a Jet Plane

As we sit in sardine like proximity of complete strangers on Scandinavian Airlines, raindrops trickle slowly down the glass pane windows of the airplane. Sabina and I are leaving Oslo; our vacation has officially come to term. We have been fortunate with sunny weather nearly through the entire trip, but on this day, our departure date, the clouds of Norway weep for us. Travis, the third of the travelling musketeers, is already en route to the UK.

I think back to the past 16 days, and I remember only good things. Perhaps it is because this trip has been filled with nothing but good memories. My snarky sarcastic side lies dormant on the sentiments running through me. Is it possible this vacation has actually made me somewhat of an optimist?

Our plane is now taxiing towards the runway, and all I can think of is the word bittersweet; how perfectly it describes the mood in my heart. The raindrops are streaming past the windows now, faster than before. It's time to go home. There's nothing we can do now to resist the G-force hurdling us farther and farther away from the foreign lands we've come to love. Well, nothing short of a terrorist like take over attempt on our part. Let's just face it, sitting in the middle and by the window in row 27 is just not conducive to storming the cockpit. I think our efforts are better spent trying to infiltrate the water closet.

This trip was special because of the characters involved. I said characters because we each played a role. Sabina was the matron navigator who, like a student council president, kept us on track. She was also the universal translator from whom I learned Norwegian from. (Her Norwegian lessons had backfired when I caught her telling her uncle that Travis and I were being childish.) Travis was the token male, who often was our bellhop. Of course, he was much more than that, he was also quite the doorman and courier for small pieces of trash and empty containers. Oh, I kid, I kid! Travis provided us with very entertaining stories from his past and unsolicited random facts about Velcro. I also shared in the entertainment role by my willingness to pose in compromising photos. And, by that I mean cheesy, touristy, slightly obnoxious PG-13 photos. On the other hand, I was the timekeeper with a watch tan badge of honor. At night, after I set the alarm clock, I become the intermediary between Travis' snoring and Sabina's protest.

Many memorable moments were had on this trip. Such an example was a miscommunication at one of our host families' house, where the hostess thought Travis wanted her to do his laundry. She was quite indignant about the request and punished him by making him sleep on the dog couch and holding his socks hostage. Sabina was the eternal klutz, and I was there to laugh at her every near tumbles and falls, like a good friend should. She was particular good at teaching us the idiosyncrasies of each European shower. We were never scalded by hot water nor frozen by icy blasts. On the occasions when we went clubbing, I told people that Travis was my adopted gay brother (but only to guys because he was salting my game).

Now that we have finally boarded our connection to Chicago, the bitter part of separation has subsided and the sweet memories are surfacing. Shakespeare said it best, "Parting is such sweet sorrow."

Final Days of the Tour

As my European vacation is winding down, I am struggling to deal with the idea of returning to the reality I call my life. While I miss the consistency of everyday life in the States, i.e. sleeping in the same bed, I do not enjoy the consistency of my vacation, i.e. wearing the same jeans for 2 weeks. I cannot wait to do some laundry.

I have learned a few things on this trip, a smidge of German , a pinch of Norwegian, and a splash of English. More importantly, I learned to relax, enjoy myself, be at ease, and laugh at my own falters. What I have not been able to disspell are questions of my life: where is it going and what lies ahead. I suppose an extended vacation is not the solution. But, I think I am going to be more optimistic and not fear the unknown.

California, here I come!

At the Beginning

It's about 1am on Thursday morning, the official start of my European adventure. Richard Marx's At the Beginning is playing on iTunes. After some packing revision, I think I can finally sleep for a few hours. Once the alarm goes off I will jump out of bed, shower, and travel proof my hair for my 15-hour journey across the Atlantic ocean. I plan to arrive in London looking proper and prudent so as to not offend any Brits. I will greet them with the appropriate Napoleon stance as I say "g'day, old chap" (hand at my navel).

I am getting travel anxiety already, what if the plane crashes into the ocean in a fiery ball of flames, and I perish forever? I will never see the people I care about, although I wouldn't mind not seeing the people I care less about. Getting on a plane is always a humbling experience, it makes me think about the things I wished I said to people and the things I wished I accomplished. Surviving a plane ride is like getting a second chance card in life.

So, just in case, because I know I am the type that keep things inside. If I survive, feel free to poke fun at my mushiness, just don't actually poke me because I bruise like a peach. Here it goes:
I am thankful for my friends and family. I think I am extremely lucky to have co-workers who are actually friends as well. I am thankful for the many hours of laughter and delight afforded to me by people who really get me, and you know who you are. I love my family, even my little brother who tried to blame the car alignment problem on me. That's ok, I'm pretty sure I dropped you when you were a baby, probably on purpose a little bit. I don't know if I've ever been in love, I guess if I don't know then I probably haven't. Although, it is quite possible I came quite close to it (EGK), and it's been such a long time that I have no idea what that's all about. Hmm, not sure what else to say now. Last words or blog from the grave is a lot like giving an Oscar speech. I'm pretty sure I've left out some major things and people, but they're cuing the music.

Thank You for Playing

My parents started a tradition of driving down to have dinner with me before I go on a long vacation. Of course, three eves before my European adventure they drove down to meet me up for dinner. They had a plastic bag with them and the contents of this bag was mail, cassette cleaner, two squatty peaches, and dental floss (apparently they heard about the Brits). My dad even said, "here's floss for you to take on your trip. "

I dunno about you, but I was expecting much better travel send off presents. Well, I expected nothing, but the bag got my expectations up. Floss is such a lovely parting gift.

Bible Watch 2007, Chapter 1

I started the much dreaded Bible Watch 2007 with the opening scene to Baywatch. That was a marketing ploy known as "sex sells" to rope in the unsuspecting readers. The actual events I am about to describe has more gravity than bouncing boobs.

Back in May, I came home from a long drive from the OC to see a bible sitting on the coffee table. I thought, ok, one of the roommies decided to attend church today. He/she must've done something super sinful, I wonder what it was. Over the course of the next few weeks, I came to identify the true bible thumper as the older and more masculine roommate. I saw him carrying it when he came home a few nights. Then slowly, the bible was everywhere. It would be sitting on the dining table. Eventually it would lend itself to be left open on the table with highlighted passages. Other religious relics also started to appear immaculately. Items like prayer mad libs and a bible boot camp manual. Not to mention, the religious paintings calendar he had put up at the beginning of the year--something he had played off as a white elephant gift from his aunt, was all starting to make sense and take foothold in the common living/dining area.

The latest development occurred last night when I came home, slightly buzzed from hopping around in PB, and I saw a greeting card propped up on the dining table. It was a "Congrats on your Baptism" card. I didn't know they sold those. I was too tired to care to read it. Then just as soon as I had dismissed the annoyance of the lack of separation between church and state, I saw a little ceramic cross. Horror shot through my spine. For God's sake, people eat at this table, have a little respect.

In slight retrospect, my sarcastic musing of some sin committed truly makes me wonder now. As I am writing late into the night, paranoia tends to set in with fatigue and delirium. I wonder...did he kill someone? Must remember to check homicide logs in the past 3 months. Also, did you know homicide includes murder and manslaughter? So advanced.

who does that?

ok, so an old topic, new post. i received a phone call earlier that went something like this. i will be playing the part of beautiful girl, and our friend will be playing the part of mr. soccer.

Mr. Soccer: Hey, hows it going?
Beautiful Girl: Great, how are you?
MS: What are you doing tonight?
BG: Why, are you going to invite yourself over to watch the new episode of JFC?
MS: No, I thought you and {insert other beautiful friend's name here} might want to heckle me as I ref a soccer game.
BG: Well, {other beautiful friend} is doing something today. .
MS: OK, well, I will leave two tickets at the gate under your name.
BG: {did I agree to go?} OK, well, have to get back to work.
MS: OK, later.

WTF? if we are going to heckle someone reffing a soccer game, would we want them to know that we were showing up? that pretty much defeats the purpose of heckling, right?

don't let me be a two-year friend

another saturday, another night of absolutely nothing to do. but think. about people. generally, my mind tends toward those that are currently in my life.
last night, i got to thinking about all of those people that were in my life for what seemed to be forever, but in actuality was only a brief period of time. take s.l., and old friend who used to ride the bus with me in middle school. he was somewhat of a spaz. but a great guy. he had this cat that would chase the light shined by a flashlight. it was hilarious. and i was thinking, i wonder what happened to this guy. i vainly tried to google him, but nothing comes up. will i ever see him again? does it matter? did he ever have a random thought on a lonely saturday night about me?
this got me to thinking about friendships. i generally tend not to keep them for very long, for whatever reason i tend to come up with. over the past six months, i have all of the sudden a very good friend. an odd thing for me. my best friend for the past ten years has been my sister, and all of the sudden, i am letting this other person into my life as a confidant and confidee (not a word, but you get the idea). am i growing up? did i finally realize that i am lonely and in need of people to spend time with? was it just an accident of time, meeting someone who was incredibly cool and who shares an enormity of common interests?
i have had friends before, but for the most part, brief friends. friends for two years. friends that once they are out of my life, i find excuses as to why they are not in my life anymore that make sense only to me. remember when she insulted you for, what was that reason again? remember when he tried to kiss you late night at that bar? remember what her friend said to you and she did nothing to combat the claim? did those things even really happen? have i exaggerated them in my mind to allow me to drop these people, because it would take effort to maintain a friendship?
i am getting off topic, if there is a topic, but hear this. don't let me be that girl. you are too good of a friend to let me get off that easily.

Random Phrase

If she got knocked up, she would know to push herself down the stairs.

Catch Phrases

"That's so advanced"
"That's so elevated"

Bible Watch 2007

Imagine...California sun beaming down on prestine sand...there's a strong breeze...Pamela Anderson jumps off her lifeguard tower...in slow motion, she runs towards the water with a sense of urgency....carrying a bible.

More to come later...

Physical Therapist = Chiropractor?

I recently went to an orthopedic doctor who prescribed and recommended physical therapy for my patellar tracking disorder. Translation: My doctor referred me to a physical therapist for my knee problems. I have never been to a physical therapist, and I have always imagined them to be nurse-slash-trainer like. My first appointment was nothing like I would imagine. The office was basically one big gym space with a doctor's office receptionist counter and waiting/sitting area. The patients had little privacy in the gym. Most of the people I saw there had a limp or had some signs of limited mobility. I, on the other hand, had none of the symptoms. I wondered if my presence there was a result of my hypochondriac tendencies, or did I truly need physical therapy.

My first day, my therapist taught me 3 exercises to strengthen my hamstrings and VMO muscle, whatever that is. While going through the sets, I felt no strain. I started to think maybe this is borderline chiropractic. At the end of my session they placed two giant pillow-like cold packs on my knees and hooked electrodes to both sides of my knee caps. What is this? Labotomy for my knees? The sensation that followed felt like those static electric bolts contained in a giant crystal ball things you see at novelty stores wiggling through my knees. It was tingly and tasted like chicken. After I got home my knees became sore like no other. I moved like the patients I saw at the office.

Two days later, my knees were no longer sore. I think they even feel stronger, or perhaps it's a placebo psychosomatic thing. Afterall, I'm paying a good chunk of change per session; that might have something to do with it. I arrive at the office fully capable of full range of motion. This time three new exercises, and an hour after I leave the physical therapy office I am crippled. I thought you were supposed to enter crippled and leave fully capable, not the other way around. Maybe that's why everyone was limping around in the office; they are probably at level 16 exercises.

MIP vs MOP

As 2007 continues to barrel down the tunnel of time, two questions come to mind: Where the hell is my MIP? And where the fuck is The MOP? Well, I know the first one is lagging but surely to arrive sometime late this month to disappoint. However, there has been no specific time frame for the latter, that basically means 11:59:59AM on December 31st is still fair game. I have yet to receive any indication of The MOP's whereabouts. C'mon, throw me a friggin' bone here.

If and when The MOP arrives, I'd imagine our conversation to be like this:

Me: Where the fuck have you been?
MOP: What do you mean? I'm right on time.
Me: Dude, the cable guy has a better ETA than you.
MOP: Chill out, I'm here aren't I? I am all that you've been waiting for and a bag of hoho's.
Me: Gimme the hoho's. (Snatches the chocolate dessert from MOP's hands). You can go now.
MOP: (Looks stunned yet deliciously hot...then pouts like Zoolander, Magnum style)

When my MIP gets delivered by the unfortunate messenger, I'd imagine our conversation to be something like this:

Me: (Looking disinterested and knowing what's coming) So?
MIP: Here is your MIP, if you could read it over and sign and date at the bottom.
Me: (Scans the MIP document for anything to reject, finding nothing and everything) Like I have a choice. Totally screwed anyways.
MIP: That's not true, you can achieve most of it.
Me: Half the deadlines have passed.
MIP: Well, I think half of these are definitely reasonable, if not well within reach.
Me: Gimme the pen. (Signs with a flourish, throws pen and document back in MIP's face). You can go now.
MIP: (Looks flustered, sighs and hunches over, slouches away with scuffling footsteps)

Hooters Smooters

I had the pleasure, and I use the term pleasure loosely, of going to a Hooters restaurant for the first time in the company of all male co-workers. We had just undergone a day of grueling team building, some I try to block out from memory, and we needed a medal in liquid gold, perferably several. As I entered the establishment, I expected to see a sea of bright orange hot pants and white tanks. But to my disappointment, it was black t-shirt Friday as I learned from a more veteran restaurant goer. The waitresses were all clad in black tanks and black leotard like shorts with tan nylons, way less tacky than I had wished for. One waitress in particular stood out in an obvious-trying-too-hard-had-work-done kind of way. The veteran expressed disdain in the absurd proportionality of her physique.

Vet: That is just ridiculous.
Me: XXXL?
Vet: (shakes head in distaste)
Me: I don't understand, isn't that why you guys come here? Here it is this poor girl trying to please, and you're complaining about the excess. I don't understand.
Vet: Well, it's overboard.
Me: Maybe it's her thing.
Vet: Why would anyone spend all that money on her body just to work at Hooters, she must be a professional.
Me: That's not true, there's a Hooter's pageant for Hooter girls all over the US. Good prize money, I think it's a scholarship.

Then I just realized how absurd that sounded and shut my mouth.

We ordered a few pitchers and, of course, the famous wings. I have to admit, the wings were quite good. The nachos we ordered were mediocre, although they did receive bonus points for serving fake cheese nachos (the kind you only find at stadiums). Our waitress was very attentive at making sure everyone's beer was topped off at all times, talk about service! In addition, she demonstrated a wing eating technique using latex gloves...that's all I have to say about that. All in all, the experience was innocuous. I think I'm ready to hit a strip club.

You were Right

Yet another separation anxiety entry. My buddylist at work seems so much shorter even though only one person is absent from it. My super buddy is on a much deserved vacation. I, myself, am counting the days until I get to set foot in snooty London. This extended absence is probably what it will feel like when the day permanent departure comes to fruition. Already, I am going mad. Lack of lunch buddy, chat buddy, sounding board buddy, combat PITA buddy, no buddy.... Insult to injury, I am seeing the manipulative ways of Bug, or more accurately bitchy ways. I don't think I've ever met a bitchy guy that wasn't gay or from Jersey. Oh but wait, could it be his cycle's sync'ing up with mine? I do feel rather irritable despite a one day respite from work, and I'm cutting down on Starbucky doppio style. Too bad, we'll never get images to back up the horrors of a bachelor pad from hell. But at least we'll complete one Investigative Endeavor that is on Male PMS? BTW, you might have been the first, quite possibly only, person to receive their MIP at all. Word just got out that they are delayed yet again until the end of the month. That's ok, I think my stint here is numbered as well, maybe it's not worth waiting around for a bonus the company clearly does not want you to have.

Random Quote

I'm taking off faster than a prom dress.

WTF?

At the institution where I pick up my paycheck (no, not the unemployment agency), they offer a "personality" test as part of soft skills training. One in particular, the gateway course to other equally soft courses, is called TDF. The letters stand for Thoughts, Decisions, and Feelings. Once you complete a comprehensive vocabulary test of adjectives about yourself you are assigned the three letters in a certain order. The first letter is the most dominant trait you possess. Most participants who are analytical are often disappointed to learn they are an F--. Yet, in reality, the F'ers are better off than the T'ers because they are more intuitive and see the grand scheme beneath the surface. It turned out I'm a TFD, and I know this is true because I am terrible at deciphering song lyrics.

Lately, I've been introduced to Panic! At the Disco's "A Fever You Can't Sweat Out" album. Can I just say it is simply dyslexically brilliant. I didn't realize the irony of the title until after I listened to the entire album a few times and decided to take notice of the lyrics. (This is quite an accomplishment for a song, let alone an album, as I am a beats and melodies kinda gal. ) First off, the song titles alone are enough to get your mind wondering as to what the band is trying to get across. Then you move onto the lyrics and tunes as you peel back the layers of this discombobulated onion. Even the musical styles they incorporate are sarcastic. The whole album is brimming with symbolism and nuances someone like me would never fully solve in a lifetime.

Right now, my favorite song is Camisado, which in archaic Spanish (archaic Spanish?! Where do these guys come up with these things) means nocturnal ambush. The words that stood out to me the most were "Just sit back and relax...sit back and relapse...therapeutic chain of events." At first I thought the song was preaching don't sweat the little things, but upon further examination it takes place in a hospital. Some things that came to mind were child abuse, like a stepfather taking advantage of a stepchild in the middle of the night or perhaps domestic violence and the child ends up in the hospital while trying to protect his/her mother. In either case, the soul is floating around taking in the hospital as the corpeal entity is unconscious. Then I read some threads and people were saying the song was a Fight Club reference, which made the "decorated emergency" fit a lot better than when I thought it was "decorating emergency" and thought of a crack whore. The Fight Club reference really hit it home for me with the "therapeutic chain" of events; it reminded me of that one time when I shanked an old man at a pub. Good times, good times....


Lyrics for your reference.

PANIC! AT THE DISCO LYRICS -- "Camisado"
The I.V. and your hospital bed
This was no accident
This was a therapeutic chain of events
This is the scent of dead skin on a linoleum floor
This is the scent of quarantine wings in a hospital
It's not so pleasant
And it's not so conventional
It sure as hell ain't normal
But we deal, we deal
The anesthetic never set in and I'm wondering where
The apathy and urgency is that I thought I phoned in
It's not so pleasant.
And it's not so conventional
It sure as hell ain't normal
But we deal, we deal
Just sit back, just sit back
Just sit back and relax
Just sit back, just sit back
Just sit back and relapse again
Can't take the kid from the fight
take the fight from the kid
Sit back, relax Sit back, relapse again
Can't take the kid from the fight
take the fight from the kid
Just sit back, just sit back
You're a regular decorated emergency
You're a regular decorated emergency
This is the scent of dead skin on a linoleum floor
This is the scent of quarantine wings in a hospital
It's not so pleasant.
And it's not so conventional
It sure as hell ain't normal
But we deal, we deal
The anesthetic never set in and I'm wondering where
The apathy and urgency is that I thought I phoned in
It's not so pleasant.
And it's not so conventional
It sure as hell ain't normal
But we deal, we deal
Can't take the kid from the fight
take the fight from the kid
Sit back, relax Sit back, relapse again
Can't take the kid from the fight
take the fight from the kid
Just sit back, just sit back
Sit back, sit back, relax, relapse
Sit back, sit back, bababada
You can take the kid out of the fight
You're a regular decorated emergency
The bruises and contusions will remind me what you did when you wake
You've earned a place atop the ICU's hall of fame
The camera caught you causing a commotion on the gurney again
You're a regular decorated emergency
The bruises and contusions will remind me what you did when you wake
You've earned a place atop the ICU's hall of fame
The camera caught you causing a commotion on the gurney again
Can't take the kid from the fighttake the fight from the kid
Sit back, relax Sit back, relapse again
Can't take the kid from the fighttake the fight from the kid
Just sit back, just sit back
Sit back, sit back, relax, relapse
Sit back, sit back, bababada
You can take the kid out of the fight
The I.V. and your hospital bed
This was no accident
This was a therapeutic chain of events

(Or maybe, it's decrying the horrible state of our healthcare and hospital system. Perhaps a personal experience had them so frustrated they went ballistic in the ER and had to be calmed down. Any takers?)

See Through, or not See Through? That is the Question.

Now that Memorial Day is over, fashionistas everywhere east of the Mississippi herald the short window to wear white until Labor Day. No, I am not talking about the KKK convention but white shoes, pants, shirts, or all of the above. Unfortunately, the biggest trap of wearing white in the summer is the see-through factor, especially magnified by the blazing sun. For most, and by that I mean women, see-through clothing whether accidental, incidental, or intentional, is less of a fashion faux pas than a male counterpart commiting the same crime.

However, if you are blessed with a penis and you must wear white pants that are see through against your own best judgement and the advice of your gal pal, here are a few tips:

1. Don't wear picket fence white, it's too harsh. Look for off-white or linen pants.
2. If you don't/can't try on the pants, then do the hand test. Place your hand under the fabric as it is meant to be worn (i.e. if it's lined then put it under both layers). If you can see the outlines of your fingers through the fabric of the pants (especialy at the seat), it's see through.
3. If you try it on and you can see the pockets through the pants, it's see through.
4. Should you still buy the pants after it fails steps 2 and 3, make sure to pair it with a shirt that is long enough to cover your bum. And most importantly, DO NOT tuck in the shirt! Tucking in is a dead giveaway, think step 3.
5. It also doesn't hurt to wear nude color underwear (that does not mean commando).

If after following steps 1-5 and you still solicit giggles from ladies or outright ridicule from your buddies who know better, you have no one to blame but yourself. Just because you think you look like Derek Zoolander and have perfected Magnum, that doesn't mean you can wear see through pants with your red Transformer underwear.

Ode on a Wine Bucket, Part Deux

Recently, we wined and dined at our usual wine and dinner place. To our great disappointment, the food and wine was not worth blogging about. Although, there were some memorable moments as we made fun of each other in our drunken state.

The night started tame, starting out the gate with a Sauv Blanc. Unfortunately, it was too happy for Aling's palate. The second wine was a Chard, suprisingly good, but I am a firm believer in not paying over $20 for white wine, especially a Chardonnay. Third wine, Pinot Noir, one step behind Sideways' F***ing Merlot (shhh, there are wine present). This one was fruity, like our friend Renon. Unfortunately, it could not stand on its own without the sausage dish it was paired with, again, much like our friend Renon. Last, but not least, good ol' Cab. The nose holds potential for the future. Definitely a teenager in wine years. I highly recommend to pedophilic oenophiles.

Roommate Rant

It's nearly 11pm, and I'm in my room with my door shut. The news is on and I'm surfing the net. My roommate comes home and calls out my name. I don't answer hoping he would think I'm asleep. He proceeds to knock on my door. Seriously? A closed door should signify I'm turning in for the night but maybe not in crazy Bible land. I get off my bed and open the door.

Me: What's up?
Roommate: Does it feel humid to you?
Me: (puzzled look) No?
Roommate: It's nice and cool outside, but I come in here and it's humid. (Gestures imaginary weight bearing down on him)
Me: (shakes my head) No, I didn't notice anything...

This goes on for about 5 minutes. And he finally gives up. Is it possible he's getting male menopause? Humidity flash? Seriously? I cannot say that word enough. He does have a cold after all. Did it ever occur to him that his body sensors may be out of sync?

I could understand if there's a broken window, a flood, or even a fire to disturb me. But humidity? Lemme call the fire Marshall.

Sports and Pageants

Over casual conversation, the topic of performance enhancement substances and sports were discussed. We covered the unfair competitive advantage players gained while feigning innocence. As this discussion occurred at a sports bar, the TV monitors behind us were televising the Hooters' beauty pageant. A light bulb went on, shouldn't the same standards be applied to women's beauty pageants? Augmentations, nips, tucks, liposuction, rhinoplastys, collagen injections were easily accessible, not to mention, LEGAL. As long as you had the money, you could get any of the above procedures done to enhance your appearance.

It wouldn't be a stretch to say that plastic surgery is the steroid of the beauty contest world. Why isn't there any restrictions to level the playing field for contestants everywhere? Or, at the very least, separate pageants for those who choose to go under the knife and those who remain true to what God gave them. I know not all the Hooters girls are as "wholesome" as they claim. If not separate pageants, at least bonus points for being Foster Farms chicks.

Memorable Quotes

"Starbucks gives you brain waves!"

"If Renon shaved his head any more, I can write on it."

"It's freakin' off the bean."

"...so much testosterone, it makes your nuts explode." ([male]friend's description of the movie "300")

"When life gives you limes, rearrange the letters and smile." (The lid of a low fat sour cream tub.)

"Yomama is a Lama" (Unfortunately, we cannot take credit for this one. It is the title of a children's book.)

"...the lack of M.O.P.-ness is pushing me to the edge."

"Dude, the Bible is the first step to crazy."

"I'm busy as balls"

"...like it's his job." (used to add emphasis)

"(Be) As gay as you wanna be."

"I'm not gay, but my ass is."

" I don't golf, i just work on my guns."

Investigative Endeavors--Man Nipples

Does size really matter? In our latest and greatest investigative idea we set out to solve the quandry of the much debated nipple to penis aspect ratio.

Assignment #4:
Investigate the correlation between male nipple size to penis size. Is one an indicator of the other?
Hypothesis 1:
Big Man Nipples = Big Penis

Hypothesis 2:
Big Penis = Big Man Nipples

Due to the sensitive and graphic nature of this exercise, our sample size may be limited and most likely biased.

Re: Separation Anxiety

As the other separated dynamic duo of the Aling Pomii clan, I can empathize (oh my god, i've always wanted to use that word properly, did I use it right?). After reading the Separation Anxiety and uttering an "Awn..." while clutching the heartache that followed (oh wait, that was heartburn from the Brazilian BBQ feast) I had to respond whilst my partner in crime watches a show in another time zone; its name I dare not repeat.

One funny event that occurred and I was not able to convey on the spot:
A: Dude
B: WHat?
A: So, Napoleon tried to get on the plane with my early boarding group because he was paranoid about the lack of overhead space for his luggage.
B: Yeah?
A: Yeah, so when we got to the gate and they were scanning our tickets, he got denied. He tried to pretend we were a couple, and I couldn't help but say, " I'm sorry, I just threw up a little bit in my mouth."

After a full day of intense brainstorming, that was the goal of this business trip, I could not help but feel my brain has been beaten by bad weather. The potential tornado weather looming outside mirrored the whirlwinds in my mind. I have never spent so much time with my boss, who needs to learn the definition of personal space (seriously, do you need to brush up against my bare arm every five seconds?!) Not to mention, I have never been held to such a stringent work schedule in my whole entire life since grade school. It makes me wonder how productive I really am at work, but that is a topic not up for discussion.

We were in such a small prison cell of a conference room that I couldn't even secretly text funny events that transpires nor receive such messages. It was torture, I had to hold my disdain for my boss who is obviously invading my personal space. Chewing gum didn't help. This anxiety wasn't something one could subdue with a patch either; it called for something more drastic. We needed a stand-in for one another. Auditions for Blogy Idol begins next week, un-sexy individuals need not apply.

(Just a side note, Aling Pomii have these gestures that are invoked when certain words are said. While at dinner with co-workers on this business trip my boss kept using one of the words. I twitched each time that occurred. Alas, our many hours of practice has instilled a Pavlovian response. While some may think that's whack, we think it's Exxxcellent....)

Separation Anxiety

As one-half of the Aling Pomii combo, who has spent countless hours coordinating drinking galas, beach-excursions, evil testing plots, and home-improvement lists, I feel it is necessary to speak to the issues that occur when a duo is inoperable due to distance and time-zone constraints.

1. Lunch Partnerage – I found myself hungry today, somewhere around 1030. But, the other half of the duo is on a business trip. I needed to contact four (4) different people to find a lunch partner. Four! You can imagine the pain that caused me.

2. Funny Jokeage – It is completely impossible to relay the hilarity of a joke about another that suddenly just comes to you if two people are in different time zones. Take the following (condensed and paraphrased) conversation:

Person A: Hey guess what?
Person B: What?
Person A: This person we know is completely ridiculous. We just got out of work and you will not believe what happened.
Person B: What happened?
Person A: (insert funny and juicy information)
Person B: I love it! I would love to discuss this for an hour, but I have to go to a meeting.

Trust me, this was far more excruciating at the time it happened than it appears to be in print.

More to come as my separation anxiety deepens….

Who Does That?!

Greetings! Web crawlers, this is the newest addition to our humble little blog. Have you ever been out and about doing your own thing, then suddenly, out of nowhere, your fellow homo sapien does something so unthinkable you realize how wrong Darwin was about natural selection. Sure, we've all heard of the Darwin Awards, but sometimes Nature doesn't filter all of them out. And as much as we here at Miscellaneous and Other would like to help out, the law simply prevents us (at least for now in this country).

The short compilation you are about to read are just things we have heard or witnessed in our daily lives, and we're just throwing it out there as tidbits for thought...kind of like those little flakes of fish food, or if you had betas, those little pellets, or...nevermind. Oh, and for the sanctity of privacy, we cannot reveal the identity of these perpetrators, so you'll have to take our word for it. To quote the ever so wise Phoebe Buffet, "Because a promise between friends means never having to give a reason." Without trust we have nothing, plus we're sexy, and sexy people never lie. Never.

Exhibit 1:
Action-- Bringing white Zinfandel to a dinner party post undergraduate school.
Reaction-- Who does that?!

Exhibit 2:
Action-- Double-dipping in salsa, ranch dressing, or any shared condiment on a first date.
Reaction-- Who does that?!

Exhibit 3:
Action-- Ordering milk at Hooters.
Reaction--Who does that?!

Exhibit 4:
Action-- Earn six-digits but mooch beer off of those who earns five-digits, then proceed to pour a full pint and leave after one sip.
Reaction-- Who does that?!
Exhibit 4a:
Action-- Following departure of six-digits earner in Exhibit 4, a five-digits earner pours the unfinished pint back into the pitcher and proceeds to top himself off.
Reaction-- Who does that?!


Exhibit 5:
Action-- White boy walks into a bar and throws his arms in the air pretending to be a gansta and shouts "Whaddup my N*gga!" to his black friend. Music halts to a record player stop and all eyes are on him.
Reaction-- Who does that?!

Exhibit 6:
Action-- A male co-worker calls a female co-worker, who lives near the office (but that's not the point), after work hours and invites self over.
Reaction-- Who deos that?!

Exhibit 7:
Action-- A table of four orders four sliders. One of the members is "on break" from his Jenny Craig/Nutrisystem/Slimfast diet, eats like it's his job. This member proceeds to eat the last slider without offering the only female fellow diner at the table, who has not yet had a slider.
Reaction-- Who does that?!

Exhibit 8:
Action-- Too lazy to pick up mail from mailbox for such a long duration that the post office had to start holding mail at its facility.
Reaction-- Who does that?!

Ode on a Wine Bucket

All work and no play makes a dull blogger. So we took ourselves out to a fine dining experience. It was a much anticipated dinner, 4 courses and 8 wines. What more can a girl ask for? We started out with with some Welch's white grape juice, I mean, white wine. As one would expect, there were wine notes accompanying each wine. We thought it would be fun to decipher or rather provide our own interpretations of these poetic homages to wine.

"1994 Torre Oria Grand Reserve Tempranillo--
Nose of ripe cherry with background aromas of herbaceous tobacco, olive, hardwoods plus a touch of eucalyptus. Chewy palate full of jammy plum and berry flavors with a long, complex, elegant finish. At its peak and ready to drink now!"

Most of the description was pretty standard, much ado about nothing, but the final line caught our eyes. To the untrained reader, they may be misled to think, "Great, I don't have to wait to drink this wine." Little do they know, "At its peak and ready to drink now!" translates to "We got too much of this wine, it's not as good as we thought, and we're trying to get rid of it."

After perusing more of these eloquent wine notes, we wondered about wine mixology. Cocktails often have more than 1 liquor, why not mix wines? Afterall, a wine described as "...rich, ripe blackberry and white cake" would do well to be mixed with "rich, cocoa tannins." Voila! The new Chocolate Cake, grape style.

The night ended with a sumptuous dessert, of decadent sherry drizzled on vanilla ice cream, the good kind, too. We also got a great tip on an adult milkshake with this wonderful sherry. We plan on making another evening out of grape derived alcohol. This time with sherry spiked milkshakes we decided to name Mrs. Robinson.

Updates on Male PMS Study

In case you're wondering what we've been up to lately, here's a little update. Male PMS study is well under way. We expect to collect at least 3 months of data with 3 subjects and one control. Also to control for female hormonal bias we plan to employ 2 observers whose cycles are not in sync. We've also been busy as balls working our day jobs, saving the world...What, do you actually think we are anything short of superheroes for being able to juggle a full time job, drink every chance we get, and come up with inane mindless random rants interjected with felicitous wit? I didn't think so. Oh, and did I mention we're good looking, too?

Potential Bar Names or First Born Names (2)

Lucy Slots.
Easy #2.
Sandy Cheese
Sandy Cuuc
Sammy Sams


(I know it is just a single entry, but I had to get it down before I forgot...)

Investigative Endeavors -- Male PMS

Some of you may have heard of this oxymoronic phenomenon-non...non. Most people may think it is an urban myth, as improbable as an unicorn. And I bet most of the guys out there are thinking, "Ha! That's impossible, I don't even have an uterus," (in their deepest masculine thinking voice). In the age of equality, mood swings do not discriminate. I should know, I am both a sufferer and victim.

Assignment #3:
A. Identify individuals unknowingly afflicted by the condition through visual observation.
B. Prove the existence of male PMS by tracking the daily disposition of identified subjects.
C. Test female PMS remedies on subjects with symptoms of male PMS.

Hypothesis:
A. There are at least 2 male PMS sufferers within 200 sq. ft. of office space.
Male PMS, more common than male pattern balding?
B. Cycles are on a monthly basis much like female PMS
C. Will birth control pills and other age old female PMS remedies work for male PMS?



I am confident that, by the conclusion of this Investigative Endeavor, those of you with a Y-chromosome might want to phone home and check your medical birth records.

And yes, we are a bit back logged on our I.E.s. There are more questions asked than answered. Hey chill out, if you're waiting on the web for new postings of this blog, you're probably unemployed or work for yourself/from home, whatever, same thing. The writers of this blog actually have a day job, and it's that time of the month... for reporting...what did you think it was?

Pick Up Lines that Makes you Wanna...

While chatting over curry, a line was uttered that started with potential and ended with disappointment, much like my many dates.

"Don't you wanna be in (insert name)'s bed...surrounded by all his action figures?"

Investigative Endeavors -- Scalp Wax

Ever look at a bald guy (and I mean really bald, not balding), regardless whether it's shaved or shed, and wonder why it looks so shiny? I mean, shiny in a good way, akin to a polished bowling ball where you can see your reflection in.

Assignment #2:
Investigate the existence of scalp products and how lucrative the market is
Hypothesis 1:
Natural oils
Hypothesis 2:
Scalp products (i.e. wax, pomade, oil, glitter?)

Investigative Endeavors -- Beads

This is a series of investigations we hope to engage in for our own enrichment as well as anyone who has ever had the same stupid question but was too ashamed or lazy to ask. We will also field questions from readers, however, we do reserve the right to chose which questions are poignantly ridiculous enough to be worth our brainpower.

Assignment #1:
Validate the profitability of bead stores

Hypothesis 1:
Front for drugs? babies?

Findings to follow...

Potential Bar Names or First Born Names

After seeing Blades of Glory, we were inspired by Chaze Michael Michaels' name to come up with a few of our own for bar Tom foolery or potential first born child. This list is a work in progress, updated whenever our muse (alcohol) decides to shower us with a new masterpiece.

Nature of list: Chonological, in no particular order of preference

(April 1, 2007)
Hans Christian Anderson Cooper
Hong Chintan Ashish Shaw (ethnic version)
Chocolate Moussolini
Povimii Crimini
Scotch McAllister
Mimi Martini

What not to use:
Data Bugger