Drunken algebra

J: If I haven’t called you by 11, give me a call.
L: 11?
J: Right. As in, one hour after 10.
L: [teasing] As in, three hours before noon?
J: [deeply contemplating this]
[longer pause]
J: [triumphant] No! Two! Two hours before noon!
L: …*two*?
[another pause]
J: Whoa, what the..? No, ONE, 11 is ONE hour before noon.
L: Ah.


How to have a Petsmart adventure, Gracie-style

a.k.a., "A Dog’s Guide To Making Your Owner Want To Throttle You":

    1. Before your owner even mentions the words "car ride!" to you, make sure you have   
        a. your breakfast digested but still in your stomach

        b. last night’s dinner still in your colon because you refused to "go poop" outside the last four times your owner took you out and subsequently did not get that doggy treat, buy hey, you gotta make sacrifices
        c. plenty of water in your bladder

    2. When told you are going for a "car ride!" immediately start crouching and barking and jumping and running around the house, exasperating your owner only to the point where she threatens to cancel the "car ride!" but does not actually follow through.

    3. Get in the car.

    4. Drool. Excessively. All over the dashboard, the seat, the floor, the gear stick, the phone charger, and the side of the door.
    5. Leave nose prints on the window.
    6. Refuse to sit down so that every turn the car makes causes your body to fling itself practically into your owner’s lap.
    7. As soon as your owner gets out of the parked car, while she’s walking around the car to open the passenger door to let you out, clamber over to the driver’s seat and stare innocently at her as she looks at you in annoyance from the passenger side.
    8. Walk so close to the shopping cart that your owner has to frequently stop before she runs a wheel over your paw. Chuckle cleverly to yourself while she isn’t looking.
    9. Pull in the opposite direction of where the cart is going.
    10. Sniff the floor.
    11. Poop on it. Ignore her frantic "No! NO!"
    12. And again while your owner cleans up the first mess. Ironically, in the aisle with the pooper scoopers.
    13. Once back in the car and on the way home, silently throw up on the floor so that your owner doesn’t notice until the car is parked in the garage.
    14. Also pee on the seat. Don’t whine or anything beforehand to let your owner know you need to pee NOW. Just go. She won’t care. Honest.
    15. Escape death by obediently going into your crate when she near-drags you back into the house. Don’t whine. Don’t complain because she didn’t give you a Chicken Tender Strip this time. Just lie low, and she’ll have completely forgiven you by tomorrow. Tomorrow, there will be an abundance of treats because she’ll feel bad for being upset at you, because hey! You’re "just a dog"! And even though your owner is swearing to never let you go for a "car ride!" EVER AGAIN, she’s also remembering she needs to make good on her three-week-old promise to take you to the dog park, which is, like, 20 minutes away.

This program recommended for:
    -Dogs who don’t want their owners to ever get another dog, not ever in a million lifetimes
    -Dogs who don’t want their owners to ever have children unless those children come potty-trained and motion-sickness-free
    -Dogs who want to give their owners heart attacks caused by stress so that they can have FREE RUN! of the house and eat treats all day long
    -Men who never want to be dated

Clip! Clllllllllllip!

How To Piss Me Off, #342:

Not only clip your fingernails at your desk while at work, but take as long as fucking possible to finish the entire process. It’s like listening to a facuet slowly drip and reverberate through an empty bathroom, except in the worst of spine-crinkling ways. Clip! …Clip! ………CLIP! Buddy, you produce that sound one more time and I’m taking those clippers and showing you EXACTLY where to stick it.


Apparently, today was deemed "Get back in touch with girlfriends from the past" Day in this li’l ol’ universe o’ mine. So, YEAH. OH MY GOD. BRIANNA. BOYD. Do you know how much I love you?

Bri came into town today with her family– they’d been in Laughlin for the last few days– and they invited me to go to dinner with them, so I got to spend a glorious hour-and-a-half, just catching up with Bri. It was mostly me drilling her for information on anyone and everything involved with San Diego and USD and theatre, but she asked me questions as well (I got to brag about The Guy, whose real name she finally now knows)… I don’t think either of us shut up for more than five seconds at a time, and those silences were pretty much reserved for eating.

On top of this, I just checked my Gmail inbox, and gloriously highlighted by bold, LOOK-AT-ME script was a whole bundle of Wow!, that Wow! being an e-mail from my very first best friend– we decided after a recess at Dos Caminos Park back in 4th grade that we were going to be each other’s best friends, it was as simple as that– and The Guy was unfortunately (for him) on the phone with me at this time and I think he’s now partially deaf in one ear because yeah, when I get excited and surprised and speechless all in one moment, my voice kind of goes up three or four or seventeen octaves and, being speechless, all that comes out of my mouth is a noise somewhat akin to a mouse being slaughtered. Except louder, so, I don’t know, a really, really big mouse using a megaphone, being slaughtered.

So I’m kind of weirded out right now because 1) I’m flooded with all sorts of memories, ones from college (Bri) and ones from childhood (Christina), and 2) they both informed me that they read this. And I’m not entirely clueless, I have this site linked in my AIM profile so I know anyone who really wants to can have access to this jumbled collection of mindlessly strung-together words, but at the same time, I don’t actually believe anyone would take the time, much less have the desire, to read my long-winded entries and pointless stories. And I REALLY don’t believe a certain someone *cried* when she read a certain something that *this* certain someone wrote about her. I know you love me, Bri, but that’s just ridiculous. If I had been there, I would have kicked you in the shins to bring you back to your senses.

I guess the thing is, when people tell me they read this, I feel a little more compelled to deliver entries of actual *quality.* Like, hey, I have readers, and that’s cool because I’m a writer and writers like to have readerships and maybe my site will be passed along by word-of-mouth and then I’ll have a whole BUNCH of readers, like, 12! Yeah! And then all my readers can have a giant party where they can all pretend to be English majors and discuss the symbolic imagery and post-modern approach and Kierkegaardian philosophy littered throughout this site and how the green color scheme I’ve utilized with Typepad is representative of my repressed childhood desire to become a mermaid. Or they could just get together and, you know, drink lots of beer. That would be just about as productive. And they could wear funny hats. Because drinking lots of beer while wearing funny hats is the Ultimate Way to Party these days. Oh, we crazy kids and our crazy trends.

Because no one ever leaves comments, I just come to assume no one is reading this, and that’s fine by me. I had a recent computer scare Sunday night where it looked like I might have lost 7 months’ worth of my personal journal– the last time I backed up that file was the end of July– and I realized, then, that I do this more for myself than anything else, which is how it should be. Though I can’t say it’s impossible, the chances of the Internet crashing and losing all its files– or even just the Typepad server– are pretty damn slim. Should it come down to it, I can rest assured that I’ll always (okay, "always") have these online records of my life and train of thought.

Come to think of it, it’s probably nicer to have a comment-free site. Because I’d totally overanalyze every single word in every single comment, and going back to the feeling-compelled-to-deliver-quality thing, that just translates into WORK, and dammit, I’m not being paid to do this, so screw it. I’ll ramble as I please.

And it looks like I need to update those lists in the sidebar, as Sam’s site no longer exists and there are a bunch of new sites I consistently frequent which are all-encompassingly worth sharing. Like this site or this site. Or my most recent obsession, this site.

::Again-unrelated-side-note: The Roommate is having some financial struggles and he can’t pay the full rent, so I either have the option of lowering the rent a little for him or getting a new roommate. While it seems obvious which of the two I’d prefer… do you have any idea what a bitch it is to find a roommate who isn’t creepy or flaky or cursed with kleptomania? Moreover, what a bitch it is to find a roommate who doesn’t mind living in Anthem Highlands, a.k.a. Kind Of Effing Far From Social Hubs? Jesus. I jokingly told The Guy a few days ago that I should just have him take The Roommate’s place and kill two birds for me with one stone, but now that a vacancy in this house is becoming probable, I don’t see myself saying that to him again. It would be weird. It would probably be nice, to be honest, but only for about four days, and then it would just be weird. I don’t know that I could handle having him deal with me every single day like that. There’s a certain relief to be found in being the only one who has to put up with certain flawed aspects of yourself that flare up from time to time. The equivalent of emotional flatulence, I guess. It’s nice to be able to retreat into a room, or I guess even into a house, where no one else has to suffer your intestinal complications.

Le Fin.

Que paso, La Salsa?

Isn’t that the name of a salsa? El Paso? No? What? Um… yeah. Never mind.

I happened to check a friend’s blog last night– she’d written a brief update on her life and I took a few minutes to read it. It made me remember how close my friends are to graduating– less than two months, now! I’m happy for them and sincerely hope they’re all closing their senior year with more direction than I did.

I know Mistopher C. is coming home after graduation and will be working here; I have no idea what anyone from USD is doing or where any of them are going– actually, Chris is the only person whose plan I know. It’s kind of weird to think of people returning here; didn’t we all say how happy we were to get out, how we planned on never coming back? But, like Chris says, this city tends to just suck you back in. And it’s not the worst of places to get your professional footing, I guess… I just really don’t want to stay here forever. Forever being more than five years.

On a somewhat-related-but-not-exactly note, I’m hoping for a new roommate come July. The Current Roommate is fine and all, we can co-habitate without killing each other and all and I don’t particularly have anything against him, but I don’t exactly look forward to seeing him when I come home. There’s no clicking between our personalities, though, that’s the thing. There is very much a lack of clicking in this household.

And Saturday simply *was.* I got to go to a birthday party for a 4-year-old, and my god, I’d forgotten how much I missed being around little kids. There was a jumpy house (Spiderman-themed, naturally) and some of the younger kids convinved me to go inside, where I was instantly deemed both the Green Goblin and Dr. Octopus and thus chased Spiderman (the birthday boy) around and around and around. There was an adorable little girl, quiet and pretty reserved compared to all of her cousins, who asked to sit on my shoulders; her brother kept tapping me on the arm or leg or whatever he could reach and plaintively asked if he could be whichever villain I was currently being called, so there was a bout of identity crises for me until I told him quite generously that he could be BOTH villains.

Sometimes, I wonder if I’d be a much better aunt than I would be a mother. You know? Not that I’ll be finding out anytime soon, hey there, sister of mine?

Anyway. Some drama kind of erupted and though it had nothing to do with me, I’ve felt tainted ever since. Maybe it was just the timing– Thursday and Friday were kind of hard on me, and especially Friday, I’d been struggling to keep from falling into that glorious despair that keeps trailing me like a creepy drunk guy in a bar who doesn’t understand the concept of "personal space."

I’m hoping today will be brighter. I’m going out to Sunday brunch with my family in a few hours and my sister brought her dogs up with her (Lexi!), and The Guy might come along if he got any sleep last night, and then I’ve got the rest of the afternoon and evening and such to… work on projects, I guess. I’ve begun work on the O.S templates and so far, I think all that’s left for the main site is customizing the sidebar, figuring out what’s wrong with the banner link of the archive templates, and making some adjustments to the graphics dimensions. In the process, I’m learning a whole hell of a lot about Photoshop. The Kitchen site won’t be ready for a good while; I have sketches but no actual art yet, and there’s a stack about 8 inches thick of recipe cards, waiting to be typed in. So that might be another few weekends away from completion.

Anyway. Happy Easter! Just remember, Jesus died on the cross so you could eat those chocolate bunnies, or… something like that.

Thoughts on “The Office”

So I watched the NBC version with The Guy last night, and I was– shocked but in a mild way. It was bits and pieces of the entire first season of the BBC version, verbatim.

Steve Carell did a really decent job at being cluelessly tactless and uncomfortable, but he’s no Ricky Gervais. Still, I like this show, even though I’ve literally seen it all before. I’m hoping new elements or storylines or jokes or what-have-you get introduced, but at the same time, I don’t plan on getting that into NBC’s show because I know it’s not going to last. The humor is too… British. Which is fine and all with me, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t fly with enough American audiences to survive its pilot season.

And I know this isn’t "Film," but I’m not making a new category just for this one show.

The "Gareth" character (BBC) translated beautifully and "Jim" (NBC) is a dead-on version of "Tim" (BBC). So dead-on that it was kind of spooky. But, yeah. Um. Stuff.

Bits and pieces

NBC’s "The Office":

The Guy TiVo’d this for me as I was going to be out last night and unable to watch it. I’m a huge, HUGE fan of the original BBC show and thus turned The Guy onto it as well, and we were both really skeptical about this new American version, because the humor is kind of… well.. British. Not to mention Ricky Gervais is classically inimitable, though I read that Steve Carell isn’t even trying to mimic him. IMDb’s page on it had a user review, I’m assuming American, and, of course, the review was pretty negative.

I haven’t seen it yet and I don’t know if The Guy has watched it already, but… I don’t know. Even if it does live up to its predecessor’s genius, I doubt the show will last a season on NBC. There’s just not a large enough audience for it to survive.

On a related note, I’ve been hooked onto "Bo’ Selecta," much to my chagrin. It’s weird and absurd and confusing and did I mention WEIRD AS FUCK? But I kind of like it, now. So, yeah.

Snow Patrol at Coachella:

Holy crap! Snow Patrol is playing at Coachella this year! On the SAME DAY as COLDPLAY! If I can get my life sorted out by then, I’ll drive down to Indio in a heartbeat. Tegan and Sara are playing Coachella this year as well, but they’re lined up for the second day and they’re pretty far down on the list, and it’s not really worth the wait or the additional $80 to hang around on Sunday just to see them.

Anyone interested in tagging along?


I was listening to KNPR (again) Tuesday evening on my way up to Summerlin and they were re-broadcasting a segment on neighborhood casinos– namely, the Stations (Green Valley Ranch and the two in-progress casinos, Red Rock and I think Durango). Mostly, the speakers were arguing against it, and this one woman had called in to make a case for how Red Rock Station is going to ruin the beautiful views of the mountains that Summerlin residents currently have.

She was actually doing a pretty good job at making a sound, reasonable argument until she threw out the word "beautyness." Something about the "beautyness" of Summerlin being taken away. All credibility, in my mind, was stripped from her at that point. Come on, NPR, you have a reputation to uphold! Don’t you screen your callers?

What’s in a name?

-There’s this street named "Democracy" at the other end of Anthem Highlands Dr., and currently, it leads to nowhere. Dead end to the left, some houses and an unpaved dirt road that stretches into nothing to the right. Hmmmmmmm.

-At Moose’s, the only thing I’ll drink is something called a "Casanova." The name is ridiculous but the drink tastes all right, but the thing is, every single time I’ve ordered it, it ends up being a different color from before. It’s been yellow, pink, purple, green, kind of brown-ish, and orange. It usually tastes different each time, too, but I’ve found that when the Asian bartender makes it, it’s close to perfect. Some chick made it last night and I couldn’t get past the funky flavor. Anyway. The drink is named after a classic romantic figure, and aptly so: romance comes in all shapes and colors and, apparently, flavors. Go figure!

I know you don’t care, but:

I bothered to weigh myself today. The last time I was weighed was at the doctor’s office back in January and that was totally against my will and I SO did not need the nurse to actually announce my weight out loud, as I was quite content not knowing.

I guess I’ve lost a few pounds since, or at least I haven’t gained any weight since, a comfort to me as it’s something I obsess about daily (sigh). But I’ve still got somewhere between 20-30 lbs. to lose before I’m where I should be. Which is so strange to realize because, amazing though it may be that I can finally admit it, I’m not *that* big of a girl and I honestly don’t know where all that weight will depart from. Oh well.

How to piss me off:

Ponder out loud whether the reason I’ve confronted you twice today is because my dog peed in your bed. Um, NO, you idiot, it’s because you left a huge puddle of water next to the fridge because you don’t know how to operate the water dispenser and I slipped in it when I came home, and because YOU LEFT THE STOVE ON for, like, five hours! I don’t know how things work in Jersey, but out here in the West, we like to practice a little something called HOUSE SAFETY.


It’s Easter weekend and my sister is coming into town and she isn’t bringing me any gummi octopi because I thought she was leaving Friday afternoon but in fact she had already left by the time I called her this morning, so I’m kind of bummed. We really need a Henry’s out here. Actually, we really just need a whole San Diego out here. Dammit.

I vaguely remember something about the hard-core Lentonites fasting from Good Friday to Easter Sunday. Actually, the real hard-core ones fast the whole Lenton period, but I’ve heard that the next step down is to fast for the Easter holidays, and the step down from *that* is to not eat meat for those two days. I’m thinking about experimenting with that second one but that container of rice pudding in my fridge is calling out pretty persistently.

…and that’s all. Happy Good Friday, everyone!

Gracie 1, Roommate 0

The Roommate informed me today that sometime yesterday, Gracie had gotten into his bedroom while he was out (not that hard, since he leaves his door wide open) and had, to put it bluntly, peed in there.

I have to admit, I was utterly floored and wanted to insist that she couldn’t have possibly done what he said she did, except there are only three residents of this house, and I KNOW I didn’t do it and I’m pretty sure he didn’t, though I’m not ruling it out as a chance-in-hell possibility.

Gracie’s been really good about not peeing in the house for the last week or two. Maybe two-and-a-half. And even when she did have accidents, they were always on the tile, not the carpet. She’s been doing pretty well with the whole moving-up-the-good-behavior ladder in general, in fact; she doesn’t get into the kitchen trash, she doesn’t chew on non-dog toys (except for my old pair of faux-suede tan heels which I kicked off in my bedroom and left right by her bed, goddammit), she doesn’t even jump on the furniture.

Take note of that last one.

Because what she did, you see, what she did, you understand, wasn’t just pee in his room. She peed ON HIS BED.

And I can empathize all too well with what he came home to, as there was a stretch of several months when one of my cats, back at my parents’ house, took to peeing right in the middle of my bed, and I’d come home at one or two in the morning, dead tired, only to find my bed wet and reeking. So in a way, he’s actually lucky that he made his discovery so early in the evening. (At the time, I was out and Gracie was crated.)

The Roommate shrewdly suggested that she did what she did as a territorial thing, that he’s constantly shooing her out of his bedroom, so when she finally had the opportunity to go in there, she decided to once and for all stake her claim. I guess he’s right, if only because I can’t imagine why the hell she would go and do such an uncharacteristic thing like that.

I guess I should feel bad. Actually, no, I do feel bad, but I guess I should feel worse. And, you know, maybe I would feel worse if he didn’t constantly pile up dirty dishes in the sink RIGHT AFTER I’ve put all the dirty dishes that were already piling up there into the dishwasher, or right after I’ve unloaded the clean dishes from the dishwasher so that dirty dishes can be put DIRECTLY in the dishwasher.

And maybe this was Gracie’s way of saying, Hey, stop sleeping so much and do a little housework, hey? ‘Cause it’s not like you have a JOB or anything right now to go to. Wash your damn dishes! Get the mail!

I have, in the meantime, reprimanded her by explaining that in this house, we who have four legs do not jump up onto furniture, let alone pee on it.

He, in the meantime, has continued to leave the house with the door to his bedroom WIDE FUCKING OPEN.

I have the feeling that, come June when his 6-month lease is up, I’m going to have to up and find me a new roommate.