Damned poker analogies

Staying in the hand solely because you’re pot-committed, especially when you’re holding crappy cards and you’ve got nothing on the board, is usually a really, really bad idea, especially especially when it’s down to calling an all-in.

Then again, being blinded to death is also pretty painful.

And how many times do you let yourself re-buy, given that there are no limits, before you come to the conclusion that this simply isn’t your table? How to walk away?

Oddly enough, I’ve never won a Sunday-night poker game unless I’ve re-bought. This coming from a girl who doesn’t believe in second chances.



To the man who broke into our house yesterday,

In the aftermath of the emotional chaos that ensued upon coming home to find everything turned upside-down and misplaced, I suppose I should be, as the police and friends have been telling me, grateful that no one got hurt. I know how annoying my mother’s dogs can be, and I’m amazed that you managed to pilfer through every single room while they doubtlessly barked incessantly at your intrusion, without feeling it necessary to cause them physical harm. Or perhaps you simply didn’t get the chance, and that’s why one of the kitchen knives was lying in the downstairs guest bathroom– did you drop it there in your hurry to get away?

I admit I had reservations about suspecting you of anything wrong as we neared our house and saw you in your car, saw you pull out of our driveway and disappear. I thought maybe you were simply lost and were utilizing our driveway as a place to turn around and find your rightful destination. But then I realized that our garage door was open, that the door leading into our house from the garage was open, that the lights in the house were on, and that one of my scarves was dangling from the closed trunk of my car, a scarf that had previously been lodged underneath a computer I had been planning on returning later that afternoon. Clearly, something wasn’t right. I wish I had been able to see your face through the tinted glass of the old white Ford Escort you were driving (with California license plates reading 5MLY291), but then again, maybe I don’t. Fewer details to haunt me.

Were you infuriated at your failed burglary? Were you working alone, or did you have an accomplice who was keeping an eye out for us, and if so, was he the one who jumped over the back wall and left behind an article of his clothing snagged on the stucco? I have to admit, I’m impressed with whatever means you used to notify yourself of our sudden return home, as you reacted quickly and successfully escaped, though not entirely without leaving traces of yourself here.

I say traces. Who am I kidding? Fingerprints or not, you left yourself in every part of the house, if only in the form of a vague, uninvited presence. For all the items you were planning on taking– items you bagged but never got the chance to throw into your car and instead were forced to leave in the garage– you certainly did a thorough ransacking of our residence. Did you make the mess in a desperate search for items that would make this risk worthwhile, or did you do it out of spite, a way to punish us for housing more junk than valuables? Did our lack of expensive goods make you seethe? Did my lack of designer clothes and accessories drive you to hurl the contents of my dresser across my room, to overturn my bed and knock over one of the clothing racks? Did you scorn me while you did so, cursing the girl who chooses to waste all her money on books instead of Prada?

I should be grateful. I could thank you for leaving my plants, my books, my cats, my pictures. I could thank you for not breaking any glasses, for not smashing any windows; I could thank you for leaving the stuffed elephant and bear alone in my car, for not "spraying the walls with coke or with piss," for not standing your ground when we interrupted your heist and attacking us with that knife. I could thank you for not trying to take those knives, as they were my birthday gift to my mother this year. I could thank you for not doing any lasting damage, for not leaving the house in a worse state beyond disarray. But somehow, all that feels on par with a girl thanking her rapist for not killing her, for not leaving her impregnated. As much as I have to be thankful to you for, I’m still overwhelmed by your ruthless violation of my life. For better or for worse, you’ve taken away some of my trust in this world, in this city, and you’ve turned me sour against the race of man. You’ve instilled a paranoia in me I’ve never wanted to carry.

I wish I could be a better person, but I can’t help but hope that you try to rob another house, that you break in while the owners are still home, and that they shoot you. A better person would just be happy you didn’t make off with any of the filled bags; a religious person would leave it in the hands of God to judge you– but I’ve never claimed to be a saint. I judge people. I’m judging you. And I don’t particulary care for what I’ve come up with.



They will see her waving from such great heights


As The Cake gets older and bigger, her jumping prowess increases accordingly. Lately, she’s been discovering the joys of level-hopping– particularly in the kitchen, where she likes to perch on top of the cabinets.


And one morning, while The Guy was getting ready for work, he turned around from the sink to see this:


I’m still waiting, however, for the time when we come home and find her sitting on top of a door.

And speaking of The Postal Service, when I was in Honolulu, I heard another of their songs being used for a Kaiser Permanente commercial. This makes two (TWO!) commercials, now! (Their first was for the 2006 Honda Civic, maybe the hybrid? I don’t remember.) I’m so happy for them.

The upside-down mirror image of 55 and alive!

Happy birthday Jesus me!

That’s right, it’s my B-day, and I am finally at the ripe ol’ higgledy-piggledy hip-hop-hooray doo-dab age of twenty-two (22). This means I have been as legal as legal comes for a whole YEAR now, and I can still count every single alcoholic drink I’ve ever consumed. Which says something about either my memory or my lackluster drinking habits.

But anyway. It’s my birthday. (My big birthday wish? To learn how to snowboard. We’re heading out for the mountains on Saturday.) And as of today, this, my one-and-only 22nd birthday, the following items about myself still ring true:

(In no particular order)

  1. I like to eat my ice cream in a drinking glass or coffee mug, with a fork
  2. I use my right hand to write, and my left hand to do just about everything else.
  3. I peruse periodicals and publications from back to front.
  4. Food tastes better when it’s on my boyfriend’s plate.
  5. Whenever I want a dog or a puppy, I remind myself: when I’m ready to have kids, then I’ll get a dog.
  6. I really, really do not like my nose from a side angle.
  7. I have small hands, even for a girl.
  8. The only kind of hot tea I like to drink is green tea.
  9. I have a weakness for sesame seeds.
  10. I somehow cannot accept the fact that I absolutely hate Twinkies.
  11. I don’t like booze in any form or amount because I don’t like the taste.
  12. I don’t like sodas because I don’t like carbonation.
  13. I can only sneer on the left side of my face. The only way the right side will sneer is if the left side helps it out, and that doesn’t count.
  14. The F-word is much less obscene to me than the finger is.
  15. How I learned to keep track of what beats what in poker: Fuck is a worse swear word than Shit, and a Flush beats out a Straight. No joke.
  16. My humor is the kind that sort of takes a few moments to sink in before it really hits you, and I prefer it that way.
  17. For various reasons, I really could not stand our Improv troupe at college. Dead baby jokes never were my type.
  18. Gummi octopi are 8 times better than gummi bears and worms.
  19. I flew to the other side of the country alone to a city I’d never been in, to stay with a person I’d never even met before (ditto for his roommates), for a whole week, and I had a *fabulous* time.
  20. I’ve been the cheater and the cheatee, but never the cheated.
  21. I do crosswords and sudoku in pen, and if I happen to make a mistake, I abandon the puzzle.
  22. Neither beginnings nor endings are really my bag; I’m quite content with the middle section.
  23. I pick at my nails incessantly.
  24. I shed hair like a golden retriever. Possibly two.
  25. There’s something very satisfying about tweezing. Can’t explain it, there just is.
  26. Still can’t do long-distance relationships. I have a hard enough time doing relationships, period.
  27. The only way I will drink eggnog is by pouring a drink with a ratio of 1:4, eggnog to fat-free milk.
  28. Reduced-fat milk (1% or 2%) gets diluted with water before I’ll drink it, and that’s only out of desperation.
  29. Why yes, I *would* like some coffee with my cream and sugar, thank you!
  30. Caffeine puts me to sleep; sleeping pills keep me wide awake. Go figure.
  31. I am a queen of to-do lists and Post-It notes.
  32. I don’t particularly care for capitalizing letters; it seems a bit condescending.
  33. And also, that "Wheel of Fortune" show– they *pay* you for consonants, but you have to *buy* a vowel? Since when did vowels become worth more than consonants?
  34. I don’t wear a watch. Watches, so not my style. Correction: watch TANS, so not my style.
  35. Mustard is an abomination to the senses.
  36. I’m a computer/internet junkie, all-encompassingly.
  37. I studied French for four years, but I’d still get spit on if I ever went to Paris.
  38. Foreign languages I have always wanted to speak (or read/write) fluently: French, Spanish, Italian, Japanese, Korean, Welsh, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew.
  39. Languages I speak (or read/write) fluently: English.
  40. I’m not all that interested in celebrities’ lives.
  41. I love elephants, giraffes and monkeys, especially in the stuffed and squishy version.
  42. Calvin & Hobbes: best comic strip EVER.
  43. I love too quickly, too easily, too freely. My heart takes its beatings but rarely learns any cautionary lessons.
  44. My first draft is my final draft, and has been ever since I had to start turning in compositions. For this reason, I usually skipped my English classes in college when I knew it was going to be a group-work-constructive-criticism day, and I still got A’s on my essays.
  45. I can turn nearly everything into a metaphor for nearly anything. The perk of being an English major.
  46. I can’t KIT for the life of me, but then, neither can my friends, so there’s a mutual understanding.
  47. Remember what the word "Mufasa" did for the hyenas in "The Lion King"? That’s what the word "bling" does for me. Oof. Even just typing it, I cringed. Next on the list? "Chillaxing." Oh. My. God.
  48. I am utterly obsessed with cell phones. How do you become a cell phone reviewer for those sites? ‘Cause that, THAT I would so not mind doing.
  49. Mac over Windows, any day (except days when I want to run programs that aren’t OSX compatible).
  50. I dislike shoes and I detest socks.
  51. I can tie a knot in a cherry stem with my tongue. Amazing!
  52. My favorite colors are still light blue and silver.
  53. For my last typing certification (which I never received, those scammers), I measured at 84 wpm.
  54. I am incapable of pulling off the beanie look.
  55. I am perpetually cold, even in summer.

Smutch smutch

Occasionally, one discovers that living in a desert does spoil you occasionally. See, food doesn’t get stale in Las Vegas, which is one of the few benefits of making your residence a city of "dry heat" (read: OVEN). One of the drawbacks? Leave a bag of bread out in the open, and in a few hours, voila! Toast!

But down here in San Diego, there’s an essence of life these quaint folk like to call "humidity." It’s what causes millions of girls to look in their mirrors every day with a resentful look and pout furiously, "I HATE MY HAIR!" It’s also what turns cereal from fresh-and-crunchy to stale-and-smutchy.

And I always forget this, but by the time I’ve remembered, both cereal and milk are already in the bowl and a spoonful of it is already in my mouth, and I didn’t have years of "starving children in Africa" stories hammered into my brain as a child for nothing. You’d think, however, that pouring milk onto cereal would make the difference between fresh and stale rather negligible, as doesn’t milk make the cereal all soggy no matter what? You’d think! But you’d be thinking incorrectly, because somehow, you can still tell. Especially if you’re me.

All the same, cereal’s cereal and it’s what I eat, even though right now I’m not allowed to have cereal, according to the Red Cross lady. I’m supposedly donating blood on Thursday (blood donors get two [TWO!] free [FREE!] tickets to Penn & Teller, o-wa!) and I guess cereal depletes the blood of iron? Even though it’s an iron-fortified cereal? I don’t know. In any case, I’m heading over to the GNC to pick up some iron pills. One never can be too sure about these things.

At least I’m not convivial

When I call someone (the cat, for instance) a booger, is that really just a euphemism for "fucker"? Because "booger" sounds an awful lot like "bugger," so actually, wait, maybe it’s a euphemism for "sodomizer."

But that would just sound awkward: "You sodomizer! Get the hell out of the Christmas presents! No, don’t chew that, DON’T CHEW THAT, LEAVE THE WRAPPING PAPER ALONE, LEAVE THE CHRISTMAS TREE ALONE, WILL YOU–?"

Um, gotta go.

“It never gets cold in the desert,” MY BUTT

Saturday morning (12/17) brought quite the surprise: our very own ice skating rink!


Okay, not really, but the top layer of The Guy’s pool and Jacuzzi froze over completely, and I thought it was kind of cool. If not total justification for sitting in front of the heater for the rest of the day in protest of how darned cold it was.



“The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time”

One of the best parts of "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time" (Mark Haddon):

"I also said that I cared about dogs because they were faithful and honest, and some dogs were cleverer and more interesting than some people. Steve, for example, who comes to the school on Thursdays, needs help to eat his food and could not even fetch a stick. Siobahn asked me not to say this to Steve’s mother."