The San Francisco Three by Three (SF 3×3)

is at 6 p.m. this Friday, December 18, at Kezar Stadium (map):

I’ve been pitching this idea to friends for almost a year-and-a-half now (ever since Megan wrote about it), and it’s finally happening. Ben and Kelly are promoting it on their site, dailymile (a “social training log for runners, triathletes, and cyclists”), but if you’re on Facebook, you can RSVP for the event here.

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The puberty rule most definitely still applies

I was digging through one of the many old boxes in the closet of my old bedroom earlier this week and stumbled across a couple of notebooks. Among other things, in them was a folded sheet of paper from 8th grade. This was written on the back side:

HSR:

Never date a guy who:

  • is in band
  • is on the swim team
  • doesn’t have hair on his legs
  • is on the baseball team
  • has a squeaky voice
  • hasn’t hit puberty yet
  • doesn’t have a mind of his own
  • is totally oblivious to you
  • is a golfer (major)


"YES" sports

football (?)
track
tennis
volleyball
soccer
basketball (???)

I don’t know what "HSR" means, but it was underlined twice and written in really big letters, so clearly it stands for something important. "High School Rules," maybe?

I read this and wanted to die out of embarrassment. "Never date a guy who hasn’t hit puberty yet." I mean, WOW. At 12 years old, I was already setting the bar pretty high for myself. And what’s with the sports preferences? Not to mention the elimination of band dudes. NOT TO MENTION I don’t think I’d even been at GJHS for a full calendar year at the time. What the fuck was I basing all of these dating rules *on*?

But maybe the best, best part is at the bottom of the page:

skaters = ?
previous drug user but no longer = ?
guys you don’t know = ?

Seriously? "Drug user"? OKAY THEN.

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!

The Myspace factor, continued

So! I woke up at five to handle the ugly demon of hell that is currently my stupid Myspace inbox, thinking that surely no one would be online anymore and I could respond to the existing messages without getting slammed with new ones at the same time–

–and I was absolutely right.

[INSERT. SIGH. OF. RELIEF.]

My threshold is apparently five (5) messages before I get tired of being friendly and start relying on an abundance of exclamation marks and smiley faces to mask my jaded irritation. Is it jaded? Maybe just cynical. But you’d *think* that someone who "would really love" to get to know me, would have thoroughly read through my profile, seen that I keep a blog, then visited said blog (i.e., this thing) to get a better idea of my personality. That’s one of the major benefits of blogging– it keeps me from having to tell a billion different people the same damn thing over and over again. Optimizing time and maximizing efficiency– WHY IS THAT SO HARD TO GET?

Only 27 more days of this.

And, of course, the few people I *do* want to send me messages, never do. You people suck. Except you, Justin, leaving me three comments in a row. You! are fabulous. And I mean that exclamation mark with all my heart.

The Myspace factor

When I made the resolution to respond to every e-mail I receive this month, I figured I’d also play nice and do the same for all the Myspace messages I randomly receive.

I don’t typically use Myspace to meet people. In fact, it’s pretty safe to say I don’t use Myspace to meet people, period. I use it to reconnect, sure, and I use it to stay in touch– but other than that, I won’t message strangers just to say hey (all right, two exceptions to this rule).

For the longest time, my profile picture was of my cat. I changed it once to an old headshot, then switched it back after I got too many messages from guys I didn’t know, telling me that I was "hott xxXXXxxx" and asking me to "hit them up" when I got a chance.

Only recently did I upload actual pictures of me, and even those were limited and from the shoulders up. And then this weekend happened and I was very enthusiastic about my pirate wench twirly-skirt outfit, and some of the pictures of me in said outfit turned out half-decent, so I uploaded one. Because pirate wench twirly-skirt goodness deserves to be shared with the world.

This was the evening of July 1st. In the span of 20 minutes, I received 37 messages. From strange guys.

As per the resolution, I’ve begrudgingly written back to everyone who has sent something in the direction of my inbox somewhat following Newton’s Third Law, which means people (okay, let’s be honest, *guys*) who only bother to write, "hey," will get a response of, "hi back!"– etc.

Unfortunately, I have to be signed into Myspace in order to write back, and the longer I’m signed in, the more cluttered my inbox becomes, which means I have to stay online even longer to write back to the new messages, which means I’m still signed in– you see the cycle. I’m sure the traffic would die down by at least 90% if I just changed the damn picture, but in regards to this project, that would be cheating.

Folks, it’s going to be a LONG month.

Update: I just learned that Myspace shows me as online (i.e., signed in and using Myspace) when I’m not. I’m about ready to pull the plug on this stupid project of mine. Me and my dumb ideas.

Celebrating the beginning of the ending of 2006, Part the Second

The short version:

1. Accept compliments and praise without feeling the need to qualify, correct, or flat-out reject them.
2. Acknowledge what I want, even in the face of being turned down.

The long version. I don’t recommend reading it unless you have an hour or five to kill. I didn’t bother editing it because writing it gave me enough of a headache.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have e-mails to write.

Celebrating the beginning of the ending of 2006, Part the First

I know it’s already July 2, but given yesterday’s events, I think retroactively, this still works.[1]

For the month of July, I’m forcing myself to speak more. At some point in high school, I stopped being THAT GIRL, you know, that hyperactive always-smiling, always-laughing non-stop chatterbox who oh-my-god-does-she-never-shut-up? was forever in motion, both her body and mouth. I found that observing others, watching the world around me, was much more fascinating. Everyday life was already packed full with others’ voices– instead of contributing to the noise, I found joy in simply taking it all in.

In the years since the conversion, I’ve found myself less and less eager to make small talk, or sometimes, to talk at all. It drives some people I know absolutely nuts, and more than a few of them paranoid when we’re on the phone with each other ("Hello? You still there?"). It got to the point where I hated having to get my hair cut, because my stylist would always insist on making me talk about myself and my life and I never knew what to say.

In some cases, it’s a matter of being overwhelmed. I have no simple answers– everything always "depends"– and as my thought processes strain to formulate a response to a question as simple as, "So what kind of music do you like?" the monstrous numeration of query results becomes too much for my brain to reasonably translate into speech, my vocal cords thereby shut down and, left a mute deer in headlights, I give a helpless look and shrug. Too much to say– information overload– D0ES N0T C0MPUTE– what’s a girl to do, except retreat back into my mind where all the words are, only in thought form? As that Death Cab line goes: "And it is true what you said / That I live like a hermit in my own head."

In most cases, however, it simply is that I love to people-watch, love to witness human dynamics and interactions at play.

[Two hours later]

No idea where I’m trying to go with this.

Here’s the thing: my last semester in college, I had an English professor tell me that I was a good writer and the essays I’d written for a prior class I’d taken with her were fine and all, but she felt I was only developing theses with which I was comfortable. She insisted– near-demanded, really– that this time around, I explore topics I didn’t necessarily understand from the outset. In short, she wanted to watch me *struggle* with the topic in the essay itself. To forget all the rules and constructs regarding writing and analysis, to explore the unfamiliar and uncomfortable and, hopefully, bore through my walls and emerge an even better writer.

I don’t know about the "better writer" bit as far as overall effects go [2], but I did produce some of my best-ever essays for that class as a result of her guidance. I was plagued by anxiety and uncertainty most of the time ("I want to include this observation but I don’t know how to incorporate it without–" "LORA! JUST WRITE IT!"), but I gritted my teeth, complied, and have been nothing less than amazingly grateful to her since.

And I’m wondering, have wondered on and off for a long time, what other potential I have locked away within me, aspects I can’t access because I hold back too much in situations that make me uncomfortable. This isn’t so much an experiment in carpe diem as it is an experiment in personal reflection. Deliberately make myself uncomfortable for a month (what’s one month?) and see what happens. I’ll either grow as a result, or become an absolutely confirmed champion of solitude.

As for, what exactly are these situations, etc. that make me so uncomfortable? Glad you asked! But this post is running too long as-is, so I’ll address them tomorrow. I think.

[1] Three posts in one day? Yeah, because seriously, my legs. will. not. cooperate. And I need them to work later tonight. Bother.

[2] See Part the Second.

Looking for locals

My goal for this weekend is to make headway on my two (real-life and for-serious) community projects, Assassins: San Diego and Pac-San Diego. It’s kind of backwards this time– I’m not having trouble with the content, but with choosing a good design. One of them is going to have a horizontal tabbed nav bar, since that seems to be all the rage these days. I’d really like to do a tongue-in-cheek Web 2.0 design, but… we’ll see.

Anyway. The meat of this entry is:

If you (the person reading this) live in San Diego (a city of southern California that lies close to the border of Mexico) and play well with others (people who are not you) and are always up for meeting more "others" with whom to play– PLEASE LET ME KNOW. Through comments or IM or e-mail, whatever.

More info:

this is the best

Gemma: When you stop speaking, it’s like stopping eating. The first day, there’s something thrilling, and new, before the pain begins. The pain where you want to give up, where you can think of nothing else.

Then the second day, you feel wretched, the third delirious, and suddenly there’s no appetite, it shrinks, it shrinks, until the prospect of speaking, the thought of words retching from the mouth, how ugly and gross it seems.

[…] But the silence. Listen, how rich it is, how pregnant, how full…

Pause.

What do you remember, when all is said and done? A kiss? The taste of someone’s lips? A view, a breath, a tune? The weight of your grandmother’s coffin? The veins on your mother’s legs. The white lines on her stomach.

Don’t speak for a day and then start looking. The senses are sharp. Look at the world about its business. The snarl. The roar. Skin stretched over the teeth. The madness. […]

"Cigarettes and Chocolate," Anthony Minghella

The introspection of silence is the condition of all educated social
intercourse; the exteriorized caricature of inwardness is vulgarity and
talkativeness…

"The Present Age," Kierkegaarde