I used more CAPS because apparently that’s how it’s done these days

Her hair and makeup look really, really good, and the shot at 4:30 has her in such pretty lighting. The whole thing reminds me vaguely of Shakira’s video for "Underneath Your Clothes" and the guitar is reminiscent of Extreme’s "More Than Words." And though it’s borderline earworm, seeing as how I’ve had it stuck in my head for over a week now, it’s a pretty little tune.


Things that, after nine days of obsession and contemplation, I still do not get about the video for Fergie’s "Big Girls Don’t Cry":

  • She’s left her dude, that guy who played Jess on "Gilmore Girls." *This* much, I get. But *why* did she leave him?
    • "I hope you know," Fergie sings plaintively, "That this has nothing to do with you." She reassures him across the distance of time and space: "It’s personal, myself and I."
    • And yet right after the scene outside with formerly-Jess and his gangsta homie-bros, where they are doing something of which she clearly does not approve, she begins packing her clothes. WHAT THE HELL WERE THEY DOING? (Besides messing with the car.)
      • Buying/selling drugs? All *I* saw was an exchange of *money,* and god knows that a LOT of things are surreptitiously paid for with folded cash. Sex? Perhaps formerly-Jess is secretly gay, or is willing to provide homosexual services so as to fund his rock-n-roll musician lifestyle?
      • So, wait. She sees him engaged in something she doesn’t like, for whatever reasons, and that prompts her to leave. HOW does this have nothing to do with him, again?
  • What’s with the shot of her ripping something out of a magazine? Is this a video that can only be appreciated on a 54” HD display?
  • And *what* is the *deal* with the *car*? Is it HER car? Is it HIS car? He’s shown driving it first, she’s shown trying to get the keys from him and he’s refusing in that "Hell no you’re not driving my car, you crazy dame" way. But then she LEAVES in that car. While he’s ASLEEP. And there was that shot of her little journal left on the coffee table, which might imply she was coming back, except she threw all her stuff into the car before she drove off.
    • WHOA. Did she just jack his vintage-y car which may or may not have been paid for with money obtained through under-the-radar blowjobs?
    • And if she *did* jack his car, then how the hell does she expect him to get to the airport? And I know she expects him to get to the airport because she *confesses*: "You’re probably on your flight back to your home town." Hope he’s got some friends with reliable transportation who are willing to come get him at a moment’s notice. Or maybe his house is on the bus line?
    • Unless… is that, like, new drug slang? "Flying back to your home town" = getting high off X/heroin/cocaine? I’m not exactly in the loop with street pharmaceutical vernacular.
  • "It’s time to be a big girl now / And big girls don’t cry." Yeah, and big girls also don’t try to make out with their boyfriends in their frilly underwear and act like nothing’s wrong and then five seconds later, pull a disappearing act while he’s passed out. Well. Bitchy big girls do, maybe.
  • Did… her music player (slash-phone, whatever) say "Fergie" on the screen when she paused it? Wait, wait, *what* now?
    • Was she composing lyrics? Was she composing the lyrics to THIS song in that litttle book, and that’s why she left it on the table for him to read? Because she knew he’d have some time to kill while he waited for his friend to come pick him up and take him to the airport? I bet that line about him already being on his flight pissed him off something good, then.
  • Is she frustrated because she doesn’t get formerly-Jess aroused, because he chooses to sleep or play his guitar instead of respond to her half-naked self pressing against him? And that’s why she leaves? Because she doesn’t know if she can take being in love with a man who isn’t all that certain about his sexual orientation? Because then the whole "It’s not you, it’s me" line sort of works. *Sort* of.
  • No, that can’t be it. I guess drugs? Why else would she refer to her relationship with him as "calamity" and "the dark ahead"?
    • Then again, performing sexual favors for money isn’t exactly legal. And outside? In a public space? That’s certainly a violation, something about lewdness, right? Indecent exposure? Does that constitute jail time?
  • That bridge: so she’s already played the "It’s not you" card. And now she’s following it by playing the "But let’s still be friends!" card? After skipping out on him and taking his car? Sigh.

*I* could use some clarity myself, here, Ferg. Or Internet. Whichever.

(Reminder: Commentaries that do not have corresponding concrete details are rendered invalid. Jane Schaffer should’ve taught you that much.)


Summer classes start next Monday

If you ask me, "Have you packed yet?" and it’s more than 15 minutes before I need to leave the house and I say, "Sort of," keep in mind that it’s the exact same response I’ll give you if you ask me, "Have you studied for your exam?" and it’s more than two hours before class begins, and that in said case, "sort of" means "no."

Although, in the off-chance that I’m being honest and I *have* started the packing process, I’ll tell you right now, the only thing in that suitcase is going to be underwear, and about ten pairs more than I’ll need on the trip.
This suitcase has been in my bedroom for four days now and I’ve just been eyeing it warily. If it could speak, it would be nagging me to start filling it, time’s-a-wastin’, hup-hup! And because in my head it’s doing exactly that– nagging me incessantly– just as any normal person would do in the throes of nagging, I’m ignoring it and doing everything in my power to not give it even a modicum of satisfaction.

I’ll probably end up with an armful of shirts, none of which are appropriate in regards to the local weather (which I never bother to check ahead of time because I have absolutely no faith in weather forecasts), every single pair of heels I own and no pants. But hey! Rest assured I’ll have PLENTY of clean underwear. So I just, you know, won’t go outside. Um. Ever.

I won’t have Kipper with me on this trip because, last I heard, he’s in the "buttoning up" stage of being fixed (yeah, STILL). I may or may not drive myself batshit insane as a result because I won’t have a 24/7 writing outlet. What’s that? Have I never heard of paper and pen? you ask, rolling your eyes in disgust. Oh, I have, but I usually only last about two paragraphs before I have to give up; my hand is too slow to keep up with my thoughts, and on top of that, I get horrible cramps because I’m incapable of holding a pen in anything other than a death grip.

Anyway: I’ll be home Saturday, so… yeah. Okay then? Okay! ‘Bye!

Somewhere between “Chicken chicken chicken” and “1984”

Two words: keyboarding dialect. Sort of like Internet-speak, with its el-oh-els and row-fils and oh-em-gees and jay-kays and bee-are-bees, except BETTER, because it’s computer crap used AWAY from the computer. So, you know. It’s SPOKEN. So, in a way, it would be like the REAL "Internet-speak," since the current one is really only typed out, except it’s not really "Internet"-speak because it has nothing to do, really, with the Internet; hence I called it a KEYBOARDing dialect.

Um… wait. Okay, wait, wait, stay with me here:

So, yeah! A keyboarding dialect! For example– grocers would inform passing shoppers that their bananas are only two shift-3s for a shift-4 and people would scan juice bottles to see if they contain 100 shift-5 real fruit juices. Rabbits would be henceforth associated with eating shift-6s and at night, people would go outside to gaze at the shift-8s (depending on the colloquialism; to French comic book fans, shift-8s would be the name of a funny little cartoon man who wears a Viking helmet).

Candy-coated chocolates that claim to melt in your mouth– NOT in your hand– would be renamed M-shift-7-M’s.

And Mac people would be distinguished from PC people because the former ask you to please go use the Xerox machine and make five Command-C’s, while the latter ask for Control-C’s. But because PC’s dominate the market, everyone will be referring to the fear of getting Control-Alt-Deleted when unemployment rates start rising and companies are issuing pink slips across the nation. And when the economy gets better? Stores will tape placards to their windows advertising: "F1 Wanted."

(And, no, Sarah, I wrote this BEFORE the Crown, so this is not an under-the-influence post.)

(Though, now that I think about it, I kind of wish it were, because I would feel a lot less LAME if that were actually the case.)


Five’ll getcha ten that I can wheedle him into letting me, too

It’s one thing for someone to come home to his apartment after a long day of driving and teaching, only to find that– much like a restless dog who starts chewing up everything in sight after too many hours left to its own devices– the sassbot of a girl who’s visiting for the weekend has liberally covered all the kitchen counter surfaces with crayon drawings of flowers, citrus fruits and a game of hangman.

It is quite another thing for that someone to not only magnanimously leave it all intact for the duration of the weekend, but to indulge it as well:

To his credit, the only thing he did when he first saw what I’d done to the kitchen– and he saw it as soon as he walked in– was smile, shake his head and denounce: "You’re such a *nerd*!" Which is true, but this was coming from someone who reads chemistry and physics books for fun.

Anyway; when he told me he was going to take a shower, I suppose a funny look must have passed over my face because he was on his guard in an instant. I denied anything out of the ordinary, all wide-eyed and innocent-like, but he still shot me a glance of suspicion before disappearing down the hallway.

I sat on the couch, holding my breath and waiting.

About fifteen seconds after the bathroom door had shut, I heard him burst out laughing.

And, I mean, I guess there are weirder things that he could have to put up with, things worse than me making ridiculous certificates and posting the one with his equally-ridiculous nickname emblazoned across it in big bold lettering on the Internet for all to see, things worse than enduring my vocabulary consisting of little more than "jelly beans!" for an entire evening– not because I *wanted* jelly beans, but because "jelly beans!" is really, really fun to say– or my enthusiastic clamoring for us to walk the four miles (one way) to Studio City to go to Pinkberry (and thank god he didn’t humor me on that one). [1]

And, yeah, I could see *some* logic in Jeremy’s suggestion that all this is tolerated in the hopes of keeping me "from putting an orange peel on his head," except when you think about it, it’s ridiculous to think I would ever attempt to make an orange hat for a human. Oranges– especially this year, after the bad winter crop– are too small for even a second’s consideration.

Melons, on the other hand– that’s a different story. That’s a story of infinite possibilities. Oh, man, can’t you just see it? Cantaloupe crowns and watermelon gladiator helmets…

Oh MAN. My fingers are itching in delight already. Hooray for summer plans!

Continue reading

Food (sort of): Pinkberry frozen yogurt

I’d read about the infamous Pinkberry franchise through a link on a 101 Cookbooks recipe for frozen yogurt and, upon visiting the Pinkberry website, discovered that they had a location in Studio City, which is right next to Sherman Oaks. So, naturally, I immediately began pestering B [1] about going to get Pinkberry because really? How could we deprive ourselves of such a delectable wonder? And surely it must be a delectable wonder because surely people wouldn’t consistently wait 40 minutes to stand in line for something that was anything less, right?

Wrong. People will. People will, in fact, consistently wait 40 minutes to stand in line for something that is actually kind of crap.

Granted, we only waited about 15-20 minutes and I was so enthused at the time that I had no qualms whatsoever about the line. He got a cup of vanilla with raspberries on top– I wanted to get the shaved ice thing, but then the guy behind the counter showed me how monolithically huge it was, so I settled on a small cup of green tea frozen yogurt for variety’s sake.

The texture wasn’t so bad– smooth in the quintessential soft-serve way– but everything else was just… so lacking, so disappointing, kind of like the last season of "Friends." It wasn’t even mediocre– the green tea was *horrible*– and I could never imagine recommending Pinkberry to anyone, which sort of makes me sad because all over the local media are raving reviews of the stuff.

And it SUCKS.

We came to the conclusion that people either 1) don’t know any better because they’ve never been exposed to quality freshly made frozen yogurt, or 2) have mass-deluded themselves into believing that Pinkberry is amazingly good for questionable sociological/psychological reasons. [2]

It’s possible, of course, that Pinkberry truly is exceptional and I’ve just trained my taste buds to consider lesser-quality frozen yogurt to be superior. It’s possible; I prefer my bananas and pears green and my brie cheap and subtle– but– I don’t know. I’m willing to concede my ineptitude in a multitude of situations, but here? Here, I just won’t– can’t– back down.

Boo to Pinkberry. Thus sez I.

[1] Those of you in the know might be squinting at the screen and thinking, "’B’? Where the fuck did ‘B’ come from? She may as well have just picked a letter of the alphabet at random– hell, why limit it to the alphabet? Throw in numbers and symbols and punctuation marks as well!" And, yeah, I’m thinking that, too. The last bit, anyway. I wonder how he’d feel about being referred to as ^, but then when you say it out loud, do you say "caret" or do you say "shift-six"?

[2] Which reminds me of the tagline for a Despair, Inc. poster: "None of us is as dumb as all of us."

Clearly, I needed the sugar

[re: dinner]

-So? Tacos? Pizza?
-Jelly beans!
-Jelly beans?
-Jelly bean pizza!
-Or… pizza jelly beans!
-Ooh, think about it. You know how you can mix and match jelly beans to make exotic desserts or whatever? What if you could do it for just normal food? You could have cheese-flavored jelly beans, bread-flavored jelly beans, tomato-sauce-flavored jelly beans, and then you could just mix and match and make a pizza, but out of jelly beans! A *real* jelly bean pizza!
-Pepperoni-flavored jelly beans.
-Mushroom-flavored jelly beans.
-Jelly beans! TACO jelly beans!
-Refried-beans jelly beans!
-Oh, that’s good. Bean-flavored jelly beans.

Obviously, his has his *real* name on it

Before I post anything else related to this past weekend, I just want you to see what I made while I was in San Diego:

I made this primarily because:

  1. I had little else to do at 3 a.m. in a city that isn’t 24/7 friendly (in Poway? Even the GROCERY STORES ARE CLOSED)
  2. What’s the fun of being Level 5 Certified if you don’t have a certificate to show for it?

The first thing I did when we got to his place was open my laptop and show him the image– had I been able to connect to a color printer in SD or had his printer been working, I would have presented him with an actual paper representation, but alas, digital had to suffice. But soon, soon he’ll have a proper tangible certificate, and it’ll get framed and hung on the wall right next to his college diplomas, except a little higher up, because *clearly* being RHL-L5 certified is a hell of a lot more impressive to and influential in society than a Master’s.

I don’t know if I’m just lucky that he’s so easygoing and agreeable with my oddball little antics, or if I just keep trying to push the envelope in oddball little antics to see where his breaking point is– or if he even has one. To date, I don’t think I’ve even seen the guy go through the *motions* of a blush.

Anyway. Once I get over the mind-boggling complexities of reaching ALL the way over to my left to get the camera out of my purse, reaching ALL the way over to my right to get the card reader out my suitcase, then putting it all together to get the pictures (read: crime scene evidence) onto this here computer, you’ll have more testimony to his ever-steady good humor when it comes to me.

Hope your weekend was as enjoyable as mine was, Internet!

I confuse “sliding scale” with “slippery slope,” too

He had to be up early this morning because he’s teaching a class today down at CSUDH, and it just felt unfair to go back to sleep after he left, especially since I’m a good part of the reason why neither of us slept well. Stupid crazy-ass dreams; I kept dreaming everything was a recipe. Even *he* was a recipe– something like, 1-1/3 cups cooked spinach.

I’m pretty sure it all had something to do with the roasted garlic from last night’s dinner. But anyway, here I am. Awake. On a Saturday. At 6:30 a.m. Listening to "The Chillout Sessions." I wouldn’t be surprised if in two hours, my conscience gives out and I’m burrowed back under the covers, knocked out. Oh well.

We stopped by a bakery (slash-deli-slash-restaurant) after dinner because we are nothing if not dessert fiends: Solley’s. Do you know of this, this lovely place that I keep wanting to call Sotheby’s? He claims it’s owned by the same people who run Jerry’s Deli, but apparently that’s another SoCal thing, so that means nothing to me.

But! This deli! It’s a Jewish deli, which just means it’s the best *kind* of deli, and bakery therefore– lots of matzoh and challah and bagels and rugelach abound. He got some monstrously rich Snickers brownie, and I got a seemingly middle-class apple pastry thing which turned out to be heavenly. The filling is almost like a cheese Danish except a little less creamy and not nearly as sickeningly sweet– almost resembling ricotta, I guess? And the pastry is somewhere between a turnover and a croissant, and the whole thing just radiates this intoxicating apple scent. Mmm.

I’m so close to the Hamlet and it’s tempting to go there later today, especially since he’ll be gone for lunch, but probably I’ll just end up at Gelson’s.

Three more hours until Borders opens.

What? You want MORE? Dios mio, your insatiable lust for words!

Megan wrote an outstanding review of "Spiderman 3":

…And there were times when a little talking would have averted a lot of
getting thrown around. Like, when he first meets the Sandman and the
Sandman is all “I don’t want to hurt you.” That was such a great
opportunity for dialogue and communication. Why didn’t Spiderman ease
his stance a little and say “What I’m hearing from you is that you
don’t want to hurt me. Can you tell me a little more about that? What
is going on with you, my friend?”

And you should go visit her and read the whole review. I adore Megan. A lot of what goes through my head on any given day on any given subject, she unknowingly writes and posts about, meaning all *I* then have to do is just quote and link to her, saving me a buttload of effort. One o’ these days, just you wait, I’m going to meet her for real. Maybe I’ll actually get the balls to do Pie Contest this year. We’ll see.