I don’t imagine London Fog does too well out here

Upon arrival in Honolulu, where I’ll be for the next week to do family rounds, one of the first things I did was have me some good ol’ shave ice.

Contrary to what some think, shave ice is not the same thing as a sno-cone. Shave ice is to sno-cones what The Guy would argue Milwaukee custard is to Las Vegas custard; the latter is always a poor, poor imitation of the former.

And, out here? The best best best shave ice is served on top of azuki beans and vanilla ice cream. *Heaven.*

I’ve been taking pictures of all the greenery; the plumeria tree outside the house here is in full bloom and the colorful flowers and birds all around make for good photography subjects. Hopefully, neither my camera’s nor my phone’s batteries die while I’m out here, as I failed to pack chargers for both. (Further examples of how I suck at packing.)

I love Honolulu– I love the fact that the Ala Moana mall is so comprehensive that it puts out its own magazine; I love that the majority of models used in ads out here have significantly more meat on their bones than traditional European and American models do. The Asian-ality that pervades this place is a haven for me, for my short stature and round(-esque) face and disdain for warm clothing and socks and shoes. Temperatures for the next week read a steady 81-high/62-low, which basically means hello, sunshine and humidity and warmth!

This is the land of pianomo rolls and Leonard’s malasadas and geckos and Sharka and short people and flip-flops and free 30-minute ukulele lessons at the mall daily. A girl could get used to this sort of thing.

Shine on, you crazy diamonds

There was no "fashion" category by default, so I just created one (’cause that’s me, Fashion Girl, on top of seasonal fashions and retail and accessories, yessir, I’m the fashionista o’ fab and I write about fashion ALL THE TIME so naturally I need a "fashion" category), except still trying to shake off that flu bug (it’s been a week, body, GET OVER IT ALREADY) and not having slept much, if at all, last night– I forgot the "h." And I was so amused by this that I deliberately left it that way.

[side note: "fusion" doesn’t require an "h," and neither does "precision." Why does "fashion"?]

Fasion: Fashion of the Future. You heard it here first.

Or– Fasion: (def) n. 1. A branch of the fashion industry that eliminates any irrelevant and/or extraneous articles and accessories. 2. Bare bones fashion.

This is so totally going down in my personal dictionary, right after "dizzified."

Anyway. The whole point of this entry was:

All these purses and bags with mirrors and reflective sequins and other shiny crap on it– why? WHY, I ask you? Pretty soon, I’m going to have to become one of those people who not only wears sunglasses, but wears them *indoors,* and Beauford, that don’t sit well with me ‘tall.

The End.

[edit: two more up-and-coming-trends of the verbal kind? "Too cool for public television" (courtesy of Nat) and "That is SOOOOOO fetch!" (courtesy of "Mean Girls," which I recently saw for the first time and which has all-encompassingly instilled in me a deep-seated woman crush on Tina Fey, SHE IS A COMEDIC GENIUS).]

[edit edit: the aformentioned phrases are only to be said, under penalty of death or silent treatment, whichever is handier at the time, while in Blonde Mode, which is identified by the following characteristics: glazed-over and widened-in-perpetual-surprise eyes, too-big smile, weird jerky head movements esp. side-to-side, hair flipping, overly high-pitched voice]

I p-pledge allegiance

kitkat style: hey, it got dark
kitkat style: what the hell?
MaxPower702: yeah
MaxPower702: thats called a sunset
MaxPower702: in A-merica
kitkat style: B-Merica got overthrown
MaxPower702: C-merica still doesnt have plumbing
kitkat style: M-Merica has a speech impediment problem amongst its citizens
MaxPower702: d..d…ddo nn nnnnot!

The day she whips out a flag is the day I’ll start worrying

The Cake, in typical cake fashion, has a penchant for heights; she’ll climb anything she can sink her claws into, and even sometimes things she can’t. Her jumping skills get only better by the day, and one afternoon, I just know I’m going to come home and find her sitting on top of a door or, better yet, the ceiling fan.

But her favorite perch of all time is still a human shoulder. She can and will (and usually does) climb from the ground up when possible, hooking her claws into one’s pants and grappling her way up to the shoulder in a spiral fashion. If you’re sitting at the time, then she just jumps into your lap and makes her way up from there.

The best part about watching this is her attitude. Whether it’s a six-inch or a four-foot trek north, the determination in her eyes is unmistakeable, unwavering, undeterred– and she flattens her ears back as though to say, "I’m gonna do this, one paw at a time." And she looks for all the world like a scrawny little man trying to scale a huge mountain with a tiny axe.

Once victorious, she scans her surroundings in one sweeping glance, blinks to signal to the troops that one-a.m.-and-all-is-well, then without so much as a "So long, sucker!"– she’s leapt back down to continue exploring her floor-level terrain and to keep those renegade household items (pens, lamps, chairs, walls, other pets) in line by ruling with an iron paw.

She would make Machiavelli proud, this spitfire would; she don’t take no shit from nobody, not her reflection, not the dishwasher, not dogs 30 times her weight into whose mouths she could fit with room to spare. She just stands her ground and growls her warning to back off, and if that has no effect, she springs into action with claws and teeth bared. At two-and-a-half pounds, she knows full well how to run her world.

It makes me want to get a bumper sticker: "My cat can beat up your kid who can beat up their honor roll student."

This message has been paid for by the National Institute of Vegetarial Diseases and Research

Sean: balls, on the other hand…
Sean: I hate my balls.
Me: I think balls are just given a bad rep. Maybe they just need to be given a chance.
[…]
Me: If I had balls, I would dress them up in glitter to make them all pretty.
Me: Or for Christmas, you could attach little jingle bells to them.
Sean: That is a fasmaTASmic idea.
Me: You could learn to walk and make them jingle to the tune of a Christmas carol, and then your balls would be spreading Christmas cheer!
Sean: My balls know how to sing "Oh Come All Ye Faithful."

[later]

Sean: I’m glad to hear you got a new pussy, that’s cool
Me: Yeah, I’ve still got the old one, though.
Me: But they don’t get along very well, so I try to keep them separated. One of them just starts spitting and growling when the other one gets too close.
Sean: You should maybe see someone about that.

This one’s for you, Ded

Oh, memories.

The new Littlest Pet Shops suck. But the originals were pretty cool.

I had the dalmation on the right, these hamsters (there was actually another run connected by a tube, and you moved the hamsters through the tube with a magnet stick thing), and this zoo set. I think there used to be a lioness in it.

That dalmation came with an aqua carrier with a pink door, a newspaper to line the carrier, and a little red brush. When you moved the brush, the magnet in it triggered the magnets in the dog, and its tail "wagged" as a result.

And the day my mother gave it to me was the first day I ever met Ded.

We also played with Polly Pockets, all the darn time (when we weren’t engaged in Baby-Sitters Club reading marathons). She had, among many others, the school, and I had, among many others, the flat, the fairy star, the pizzeria, the church and the bay window house. Oh, and Fashion Star Fillies and Grand Champion horses. Yeah, we had those, too.

And Legos, we played with Legos, unless we discovered a spider in the bedroom the night before Sunday School, causing us to flee to her father’s office and sleep on his leather couches, or unless we discovered the cat had thrown up a liquidy, puce-colored mess underneath the bunk bed ladder, causing us to stare blankly at the spot, wondering whom we could wake up to clean it off the floor.

That bunk bed, by the way? That bunk bed had Aladdin-themed sheets and comforters.

It truly was a fabulous childhood, and I’m thankful for it every darn day of my life.

Happy Thanksgiving 2005, everyone!

Another day, another stupid cell phone

I’ve written about my little Samsung phone before, and I’ve also written about testing the V3. I returned the V3 mostly because:

1. The call history features were pathetic (10 dialed/received/missed compared to the Samsung’s 30)
2. The lack of a status light was turning me into a paranoid nutcase
3. Panther’s iSync wouldn’t recognize the model and Motorola PhoneTools doesn’t run on OSX

And also, I suspected Cingular would lower the price once Christmas got closer.

But as a result of trying out the V3, I have to confess that what I’m looking for in a phone has changed substantially. The list is pretty much this:

1. Bluetooth
2. A decent still camera feature
3. Decent stock ringtones
4. A STATUS LIGHT (seriously, is Samsung the only company that utilizes these anymore?)
5. An alarm clock with a snooze feature
6. A one-touch "silent mode" button
7. Clamshell design
8. External color LCD
9. Call lists: 30 all calls, AT LEAST 10 missed/dialed/received
10. Speakerphone is nice
11. Internal antenna designs are nice, too
12. And so is world-band capability

I used to hate camera phones. HatehateHATE camera phones. And now, it’s a requisite. Goddammit.

Anyway. Last week, the Samsung was getting all spotty with functioning properly, so before it kicked out on me and took all my phone contacts with it (in order to transfer the numbers from the phone to the SIM, every single number had to be option-copied, one by one, so I never did it), I stopped by a Cingular store to investigate a new phone that was available on the website, a Samsung which I just this moment have discovered is, um, no longer available on the site.

Which makes sense, because when I got to the store, one of the CSRs told me they didn’t carry it because it got pulled due to poor sales.

An hour later, I ended up leaving with a Sony Ericsson Z250a. Because it had lights! It had lights which, according to the manual, "notify you of an event such as an incoming call or a new message"! SOUNDS LIKE A STATUS LIGHT TO ME.

But then I discovered, after a couple of test calls and text messages and voicemails, that, lo and behold– upon receipt of a new voicemail, the phone lights up ONCE to "notify" you, and that’s it.

Also:

1. There is no one-touch dialing. Speed dial consists of entering the number, then hitting the "call" button. THAT’S TWO TOUCHES.
2. One contact can’t have more than one location number.  One home, one work, one cell phone– that’s all that’s allowed.
3. It actually requires conscious effort to flip open the phone, especially with only one finger.

Suffice to say, I’m a little annoyed.

But, I’ve got a month to see if I can live with it– I like SE phones because they’re quirky in design and their animations are always charming. The OS, however, is flaky– the screen indicator for new VMs tends to not turn off, even after I’ve checked my messages and deleted them– and the camera is VGA… so I don’t know. I might return it.

Especially now that I’ve been researching the V3i, which is supposed to be out in December. The Motorola logo on the front lights up, and I know there have been Moto phones in the past that have a status light option, so– could it be? Could it really, truly BE? I DON’T KNOW! But my toes start to curl in excited anticipation whenever I think about it (though I have read that the call history feature remains unchanged).

The phone’s design is the same (as opposed to the V3c, which is significantly thicker), but the camera’s been bumped up to a 1.3 mpx (and it now has video *capture,* as opposed to the V3’s limitation to video playback), and there’s AIRPLANE MODE! The Mpx200 had that and I didn’t think I’d ever appreciate it, but boy howdy did I. And no other phone of mine since the Mpx200 has had that feature.

There’s also a big to-do over the fact that the V3i is the second iTunes-equipped phone. Again, I couldn’t care less about music capabilities on a phone– but then, that was my exact opinion of camera capabilities before I owned a camera-phone, so… yeah.

I’m a bit of a phone whore, I admit it. But what’s a girl supposed to do when they keep making phones cuter and more appealing?

(And I know the NEC e949 is thinner and all and NEC phones are supposed to be super reliable, but I just don’t feel anything when I look at it. We could only be friends and never lovers; it just wouldn’t work out.)

Happy endings

Me: Well, I enjoyed what I saw, at least.
The Guy: It’s a good thing you weren’t there for the ending, anyway. He shoots June.
Me: What?! [hits him]
Andy: [singing] "I shot my wife in Vegas, just to watch her die."

One Flu Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (or, Flu Me to the Moon)

Monday began with me resentfully turning off my alarm at 8:45 a.m., head clouded with wisps and remnants of some bad-awful dreams.

The day passed in a haze. Night arrived and passed in a likewise fashion.

The Guy and I went out to see "Walk the Line" with some friends at 10 p.m. I can’t stop shivering because the damn theater is so cold. Fifteen minutes to the end, my head having been throbbing for maybe half-an-hour before, my mouth suddenly starts salivating in that this-is-not-a-good-thing way. I endure it– attempt to ignore it– for approximately 58 seconds before standing up abruptly and bolting from the theater, ducking into the nearest bathroom.

Minutes later, my (already empty) stomach starts to turn itself inside out. I’ve got that whole freezing-and-burning-at-the-same-time sensation going, can hardly stand up on my own (let alone walk), and am subsequently pissed that I missed the end of the movie. Stumble out of the bathroom, clutching the walls for support, and two feet away from the theater door, I collapse into a little heap and rest my head against the rough bricks.

By the time I’ve pulled myself up again and reached for the door, it opens from the other side and people start filing out. Behind them, I can see the credits rolling on the screen. I make my way back inside and see The Guy and our friends descending from where we were sitting, my purse hanging from The Guy’s arm. He walks over to where I’m leaning on the back of some seats and asks if I’m okay; I shake my head; he takes my hand and I basically squeeze the crap out of it until we get to his car. I. feel. like. shit.

We get back to the house, I literally *fall* onto the couch and attempt to pass out, favoring oblivion to sickness. After realizing there’s no way I’m going to try and get upstairs, The Guy brings me a pillow and asks if there’s anything he can do for me. I say no, but thank you, and that’s that.

Morning: Another night of bad dreams. The place where I accidentally burned myself with a curling iron a few days ago has started to scab over and peel and it itches like a mother, while simultaneously hurting to the touch of air, like a mother. No fever so far as I can tell, my body doesn’t ache all over, but none of my muscles are willing to do more than protest.

But, what? A 12-hour bug? Or had it simply been incubating for days, explaining the bad dreams (I only get them when I’m sick) and the off-color Sunday-Monday combo?

I’d like to chalk it up to food poisoning. But that’s only because I’m still pissed at Napoli Pizza for screwing up my order, overcharging me, then not doing anything to compensate me for royally screwing up my order. I did not, for the record, tip the delivery guy. And the food totally sucked ass.

So actually, whether it was responsible for all this or not– Napoli Pizza is now officially on my shit list, right underneath Mr. Hot Dog. SO THERE.

When kindness does more damage than good

It’s a little hard to accept– okay, no, it’s REALLY hard to accept– sympathy when it’s the last thing you want to hear. Further complicating matters is realizing that all these people have been holding back these negative opinions of a situation and are only confiding them to you because they think it’ll help you feel better.

I was born by default a Lakers fan; years and years ago, I was a die-hard fan of the Raiders; and then in 2000, I was enlisted as a Dodgers fan. Since, all three teams have pretty much gone to shit, but I continue to be loyal to them (okay, only partially true, I’m a bit attached to the Padres after having lived in SD, and after the NBA finals of 2004, it’s now difficult as hell to watch a Lakers game without wincing) and I defend them against all the naysayers. I insist that it’s just temporary, that in time, they’ll go back to being as great as they once upon a time were.

Yet it seems, the more I defend them, the harder I defend them, the more skeptical people look at me, the harder they argue against me. I end up feeling like an idiot rooting for a lost cause, a delusional nut instead of an optimistic fighter.

They try, goddammit. I know not one of those teams is going out to each game only half-willing to try and win, I know not one of those teams isn’t doing everything they can to rise above their dismal past. But each game, each season, seems to be progressively worse, and how long is a girl supposed to wait for things to get better? How long does she wait blindly in the dark, when she’s given so few signs of hope, signs of hope for a brighter future? Signs of a return of what used to be?

And if she does walk away, how does she ignore the feelings of guilt that her unhappiness may be something that isn’t even the team’s fault, that their poor performance is just a result of bad management or political influences or such-and-such conditions?

But then, they’re hardly the same teams since I first started to support them. The roster for the Dodgers has changed so drastically that I can watch a game and not recognize a single player. Everything I worked so hard to learn about the team seems a moot point, now.

Sometimes, it’s tempting to just give up on team loyalty altogether. I’d rather just enjoy a game for the sake of the game and athleticism, but that would seem to make me something of a fair-weather sports fan. And that’s not particularly true. I’m capable of weathering bad times, I’m capable of fighting, and fighting *hard,* to keep a relationship intact– I’m just limited in my capabilities to do all this with few signs of reciprocation.

A die-hard fan would support unconditionally. Yet, as previously mentioned, the more unconditional my support is, the more withering glances I get from others.

And sometimes, I wonder what the hell kind of difference it all makes, anyway. My cheering for the teams hasn’t made them any better, and if I were to suddenly become a Broncos or Bulls or (god forbid) Marlins (that’s right, I said it!) fan, the Raiders and Lakers and Dodgers would hardly be affected. I am, as a distant and unknown fan to them, after all, simply an afterthought to everything else they have to deal with– if even that.

Life need not be so damned complicated at 21.