Jiggity jig II, a.k.a. an effing long ramble

Back in Vegas and back to ~health. Some food for thought:

  • Leaving town does not necessitate "vacation," regardless of the destination. I’ve been flying to Honolulu at least once or twice a year since I was a baby because that’s where my parents are from and nearly all my relatives live, and only once have I considered the trip a "vacation."
  • I don’t travel well with other people. The whole point of traveling, in my opinion, is to get away from everything familiar and everyday. Including people. The two occasional exceptions are my mother and my boyfriend.
  • Getting inexplicably and inconsolably ill in the middle of the night preceding the day you are supposed to return to work, after having been gone for a week due to being out of town (a trip which caused far, far more stress than could have been predicted), sucks more than I can begin to describe. So I’m not going to bother.

Have been cohabitating at The Guy’s house for the last couple of days. He gave me full reign over his kitchen, meaning I got to designate cabinets and shelves (cups and glasses to the right of the sink, dishes to the left, etc.) and stock the place with cooking and baking essentials. This may seem like an unwelcome chore to some, such as The Guy, but to me, it’s a pleasure beyond compare. Being my mother’s daughter, my world at home, wherever that may be, is centered in the kitchen, and now that The Guy set up a wireless network in his house for me, I truly can stay in that kitchen for hours on end with nary a care or need for anything else.

After our return to Vegas, I cooked the First Meal, a big event for me which turned out something of a flop because I was too impatient with the rice and it came out slightly, slightly undercooked. But the curry was okay. Sunday was comprised of special French toast and fruits, and chicken noodle soup and spiced oatmeal raisin cookies– so in short, I’ve thoroughly tested the utilities of his kitchen and my conclusion is this: yes. Yes, it’s a good kitchen; yes, there is enough counter space; yes, the sink is adequately situated; yes, the oven works well; yes, the stove works well; yes, I am liking the fact that the water from the faucet can go from cold to hot in four seconds tops.

I haven’t, for a number of reasons, valid or not, cooked for The Guy (or for anyone, for that matter) in well over a month. Maybe well over two months. Getting back into the kitchen, getting back into the exhilaration of scouting out new and different recipes and testing them, and simultaneously testing my domestic skills, on The Guy, has rekindled a flame that was near about dead. Throw in the indisputable fact that I have an addictive personality, and Crisis arises.

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This is why cities have Wal-Marts, for people like me who HATE PACKING SHIT

The thing about going out of town is, I’m not really all about the packing. The clothes I’ll want to wear while I’m out of town, are probably the same clothes I’ve been wearing this last week, and being me, I don’t do laundry until I’m all out of clean clothes and my dirty clothes are dirty enough to the point where they can up and walk themselves to the laundry room, jump in the washer, set the dial to "extra-large load" and start sudsing.

So basically, I’m doing laundry right now and hoping that everything will dry before The Guy calls and tells me he’s ready to move it on out o’ here.

And, go figure: the first day in forever that I’ve had the opportunity to sleep in, and I woke up at 7 a.m. and couldn’t really go back to sleep, though I didn’t get out of bed for another hour. On top of this, I wasn’t able to sleep until maybe 4 a.m. On top of THIS, I went to the Galleria area to hit up Costco and the mall to pick up my moozie’s birthday presents (61 years old!), only it turns out nothing opens until 10 a.m. out here (it was 9 when I got there). Damn city.

But on that shopping note, I did return later when all the stores were open and I bought this set of knives for my mom. I wanted to buy her this set, but, um, my job doesn’t pay me THAT well, at least not yet. And I’ve used the International set before and I’ve loved them, so my mom looked pretty excited when she saw them and I explained all the details and intricacies of each knife. (My favorite part? Santoku knives are now included in most Henckels full sets.)

And, fun times, I actually bought a new swimsuit from the mall (half-price end-of-summer sales kick ass). I liked my old one just fine (bought almost exactly one year ago, oddly enough), but I was having some, er, issues with the top. Like, moving-too-much-and-bending-over-makes-me-sorta-kinda-fall-out issues. So… yeah.

Ability to concentrate, not so fantastic right now. As for packing, I haven’t even dug out my *bag.* I don’t even know where I stashed it last.

My boyfriend is going to kill me if I’m not ready by the time he calls, especially given the fact that I’ve had all morning to get everything together. (Oops.)

Question stolen from non-dooce Heather:

22. Your worst enemy?

My own worst enemy… is a line from a song by Pink. Yep.

All right. Catch you ducks later.

Checkaboo

Movies whose releases I am anxiously awaiting:

Movie I’m going to see tonight with The Guy:

From what I’d heard about it when it was first released (ah, Vegas, always slow on the indie-film uptake), the movie sounds like it’ll have the characteristic Bill Murray slow-paced, somber, sad-but-not-really-sad-but-still-yeah-kinda-sad feel to it. Which suits me just fine tonight.

Off to the gym… gotta prepare for the marathon!

Condemned to the West Coast

A girlfriend from back in the day came into town on Thursday with her husband (husband!) and her recently-acquired Southern accent. She went to college in Alabama, is doing grad school in Alabama, and I imagine plans to teach primary education in Alabama as well. Charming though she was before, she now glows with what can only be described as a Southern belle light. The dark blonde hair, blue eyes and freckles help with that image, too, of course.

Heather and I met up with the couple last night. I had planned on staying for about 15 minutes, as I was supposed to be helping The Guy get things situated with his Big Move to Green Valley, and ended up staying for two hours. One of those hours was spent looking at photos and catching Abby up on my life since summer of 2003, and the other hour was spent with Abby and James telling us the story of how they met and how he proposed.

Things I learned from those two hours:

  • Try though I might, I can’t condense any stories about my life, it seems, into the "simple, cut-and-dry version." Everything needs a 15-minute prelude and a 15-minute epilogue, and the body of the story skips ahead and rewinds to other storylines that come into factor.
  • Southern people are very cute with their Southern drawl, and Southern drawls are infectious things.
  • The very nature of a "drawl" indicates a slower. movement. of. time. with. lots. of. pauses. inbetween. thoughts. I could have told their story in 30 minutes. It might have taken them near about two hours to tell mine.
  • I am inherently incapable of sincerely adopting a Southern drawl. The words would always be about two paragraphs behind my train of thought (as it stands, my words are about two sentences behind my train of thought, which leads to me constantly tripping over words and switching subjects at the speed of light.)

For the next three days, I will be at work pretty much from sunup to sundown, and then I have to skip town from Tuesday to either late Friday or mid-Saturday. I’m taking my computer with me while I’m out of town, which means I will also be offline.

As for the Big News! (because you asked, "you" being that person who left that comment), it is comprised of the following:

  • I am planning to go back to the med school path…
  • …starting with the Spring 2006 semester, during which I will begin taking med school pre-req’s (8 units bio, 8 units gen chem, 8 units o-chem, 8 units physics, and to be safe, 8 units UD bio), then the MCAT in April 2007. Applications will be submitted by November 2007, and if all goes well and the winds are in my favor (’cause I’m really going to be the ONLY one submitting applications to med schools who has worked her butt off in preparation for it), I’ll get accepted by summer 2008, which means I’d start the four-year program in Fall 2008.

There actually is a very long story to go with this decision, but I’m running late (as always). Be back next next weekend. Cheers!

Material girl

I fell asleep up in Summerlin last night unintentionally, and I didn’t fully wake up until 8:30 this morning, meaning I had to haul ass to work. Problem? I needed a change of clothes. Or at least a change of shirts.

I asked The Guy if I could borrow a sweater, since I’m always freezing in my office anyway and it was the only category of his clothing I could borrow and wear to work without looking like a complete moron. He said sure, just pick out whatever– all his sweaters (this being summer and all) were folded and piled on the top shelf of his closet.

After scanning over them briefly, I chose, at random, a black one at the bottom of the pile. Or maybe it wasn’t at random, at all; when I emerged from the bedroom with it on and met The Guy at the threshold of his bathroom, he stared at me, almost in disbelief:

"That’s my most expensive sweater."

(Turns out it’s cashmere. And I happen to be one of the most accident-prone people in the world. Oops.)

Close enough to cupcakes

In the fall of 2001, I began my life as a college student at the University of San Diego. It was late August and I had just arrived at my residence hall, eloquently named "Missions A."

I had applied to live on the Science floor, a four-bedroom suite. It was considered a "suite" because there was a large common area in the middle, but there was no kitchen, and that kind of sucked, though we *were* on the top floor, and that was nice because we had the view of the Tecolote Canyon and sorta-kinda Sea World/Mission Bay, but there was also the hassle of having to haul heavy items up and down those steps. Yeah, that sucked.

So I moved in. I was, as were all the other bedroom occupants, sharing my room with another girl. She seemed friendly enough; I was bio/pre-med, she was chem/pre-med, and we’d e-mailed a few times to each other before to help break the ice. We had chem lab together and decided to become lab partners.

And while I have to admit that I had really started to lose it by October, not even two months into the semester, and while I’m sure I drove her absolutely bonkers with my whole really-starting-to-lose-it behavior, she was kind of nuts in her own realm. In short, it quickly became apparent that we were not quite suited for each other as far as roommate harmony went.

But: in the beginning, in the honeymoon phase of our roommate-ship, she introduced me to a website that to this day still warms my heart, and nearly four years later, I’m glad to see that it’s still up-and-running. Over the weekend, I showed it to The Guy, and I’m on the way to getting him hooked.

It’s a site that makes you proud to be an American, to be a citizen of a country that gives its people the freedom to go out and do things like this, to make such touching and deeply enigmatic and moving statements about life, love, and loss– all through the medium of sugary, high-carb breakfast items.

I share with you now:

Muffin Films

(in association with: Big Bunny— listen to the theme song and you’ll be singing the end bit for days– and the Traffic Cone Preservation Society.)

Watch them in sequence. Or at the very least, don’t watch the finale until you’ve seen the other 11 films.

Mmm, cupcakes!

It threatened to rain all Friday and Saturday, then POURED on Sunday (I just stood at the window for a good ten minutes on Sunday evening, watching the lightning strike and flash and streak, and listening to the thunder rumble and crack and boom and growl, and muttering under my breath: "We’re all gonna die… we’re all gonna die," while shaking my head in dismay and resignation). So, no fun report from Rehab. And next Sunday, I’m working all ding-dong day long… what a bother.

But, big things are happening. Something big-and-life-changing this way comes, and I’m not talkin’ bout a bun in the oven (whew!), though for some odd reason I smell cupcakes baking right now (darn those festive neighbors). And while I’d love to write about it now, I’m on my way to bed. I just wanted to say hi, and to give reassurance that, in face, we all did NOT die. But seriously, you shoulda heard that thar thunder, and boy howdy, them raindrops was soundin’ like bullets fer a while, yep yep.

(Why has a Southern twang infested my posts recently? There must be a bug going around. Confound it all.)

When all else fails, here are two key lessons learned, lessons which I took away from our poker game on Sunday (as well as a not-too-shabby pot– my third win!), lessons which I will forever keep near and dear to my heart, or until I forget them, whichever comes first:

  • Jesus: He’s adhesive!
  • Puffins taste better with something… wet.

But now, I know, and so do you

Fact: Taking a one-hour-long kick-boxing aerobics class while wearing a thong, is SUCH a bad idea. Always choose the bikini cut over the thongs and the hipsters and yes, even the boyshorts, when it comes to such cases.

Fact: Taking a one-hour-long kick-boxing aerobics class while wearing no underwear at all, is such a WORSE idea. Even when you’re wearing full-length pants and run no risk of indecent exposure.