Love Song Sunday: Morning Yearning

New blog feature! I'll be posting a love song I like every sunday (well, on sundays when I'm not traveling). To start it off, here's a little Ben Harper whose voice is just hummuna hummuna and this video rocks my world.

Ben Harper - Morning yearning
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End of a Kite

Well, Internet, I just learned that my Uncle Roger died this morning. My dad's brother. Of cancer of course. The big C. And we knew he was sick. He's been struggling for a while and went into the hospital this weekend without much hope I guess.

I didn't know Roger that well. He's lived in Montana my whole life and so sometimes I'd see him and my Aunt Cheerie on the occasional Christmas eve when they could fly out. I even think the last time I saw my uncle was 11 or so years ago when my grandma died. But at least my memories of him are good. Can't say that about all of my dad's family. And my dad seems to be doing well, but I know that's bravado.

I know my dad's big brother picked on him, but my dad has been closet smoking since he was like 12, just like his big brother, so it's got to be sobering.

Anyhow. Roger didn't even want a service at all so I guess his Montana family is scattering his ashes this weekend. I guess I respect that. He was a quiet, private kind of guy so I can't imagine his death being any different.

My dad's family is such an enigma to me. Strange. So much I could say that would paint them in a box. But impossible to nail down their real essences.

Well, enough of that.

Here's a song that touches my soul:

The Killer of Love

I am so tired, Internet. So freaking tired. Having trouble getting enough sleep and under some pressure, I'm really beginning to drag. I've been fighting off a monstrous headache ALL AFTERNOON and it's starting to make me loopy. And it's only Tuesday! Joy!

That aside, things are good. It's raining right now and I just love the sound of the drops hitting my window. Makes me happy in my heart. ♥

see?

Plus, I was going to have to work Saturday, but that was canceled and now I have a whole weekend off! Oh the possibilities. I could take my car in. Or get some basic shopping done. Or do laundry. Or garden. Or take myself to a movie. Or, or, or. So many options! Where to even begin?

And this weekend I bought a ticket to Portland to go see Love Interest for a weekend in February. Which is uber exciting! I cannot wait. And I'm tempted to shop first so that I have cute new things to wear. But I'll try to resist. I should save my money. I won't buy anything I don't need. Or maybe I'll just buy a couple of things. Just to be cute.

And I inadvertently picked Valentine's weekend, as he pointed out to me. But of course, I wasn't thinking of that. I was thinking of the first weekend I had free which also had the cheapest flights, not of the day that kills love. Okay, here she goes again, you moan, is there a holiday this woman actually likes? Well, as a matter of fact there is, Internet. I like New Years and Halloween and my birthday. What? My birthday is a holiday. It's labor day too. Every year, they let out school for my birthday. Hello!

Anyhow, I'm just not a huge fan of the day of Valentines. The best February fourteenths I've had were with girlfriends, getting facials, or going dancing. And the worst ones I've had were on dates. I realize that for the rest of the world, Valentine's is the worst for the singletons, those who have their faces rubbed in their singleness by Hallmark and One Eight Hundred Flowers. And we also assume that the coupled-ups bask in their rosy bliss and soak in the smarmy holiday like coffee cake. But I've just never seen it that way. When I'm single, Valentines passes like any other day. For the last 4 years, I've celebrated V-day at a performance of the Vagina Monologues. Sometimes I wear pink. Whatever.

But for couples, isn't there too much hype, too much pressure, too much everything? Why this one day? This one day with pink heart confetti, raunchy greeting cards, and bad chocolate? Why ruin something potentially special and wonderful with an insane amount of pressure to be the most perfect yet somehow most cheesey? I don't get it.

I've never seen much romance, but I'd like to think it exists and I'm sure to the core of my being that it doesn't exist on Valentine's Day. Or maybe it happens to some people sometimes, as it would organically happen on any other day. But contrived romance? I think those two words kill each other. And thus, Valentine's Day is the killer of love.

Sorry, Saint Valentine, wherever you are. Your holiday sucks.

Nevertheless, I'm still excited about this weekend in Portland, even if I'll be there on Valentine's Day. I have a hunch that it will still be awesome.

Being Political Now

Warning: I am in a little bit of a "mood." You might be offended. If your fragile ego can't take a little political ranting, then you would be advised to read another blog, perhaps one about babies. Or unicorn poop. If you keep reading and are still offended, too damn bad. Get your own blog. This one is mine.

So Haiti. What has happened in Haiti is awful. And I'd hope that Californians wake up and realize that if a 7 point something earthquake hit here, we'd be on our own and preparedness is the only way to survive. But I have resisted discussing the tragedy there because I didn't think I needed to. Most people care, I think, and give what they can in the face of utter destruction. At least, they are beginning to. And I didn't think it my place to climb on my soapbox and fundraise or whatever. This blog is typically a "me" show. I thought I'd keep it that way.

BUUUT, now I have something to say. Two major points, actually, if you'll indulge me, Internet, for just a bit.

I stumbled across a Facebook discussion on a friend's wall today. And no offense to this friend (I do think his heart is in the right place, even if we disagree), but I think this echoes the larger misconception. This discussion circled around the idea that America suffers enough with homelessness and hunger and disease that we should fix our own problems before we help Haiti, that why do the stars come out of the woodwork now when so many people need help in our own country at home? And I think that argument is valid to an extent (even if my friend didn't phrase it in the most sensitive way). I am the first to shout about the lack of caring in New Orleans even 5 years later. I am the first to complain about the sorry state this nation is in, despite being the richest nation in the world.

But that doesn't mean that in the face total destruction and devastation, we sit back and do nothing on the basis of some kind of selfish principle. We don't say that because we've fucked up NOLA, we say "fuck Haiti" too (which one girl actually wrote). That just seems so naive to me. Haiti needs help NOW. We can afford it. They don't need bodies right now. They don't need volunteers. They need funds. And WE CAN AFFORD IT! $5 a person would help get food and supplies to the starving and injured. We spend more on our morning coffee and we're supposed to say that because no one gives to America's homeless we shouldn't give that little bit to another nation?

Right. Instead, just go buy another coffee. Then all the homeless around the globe will be starving equally. Mustn't give if you can't give to all, right? Foolish.

But isn't this a good place to start? Give to Haiti now (and Bee Tee Doubleyou, if you don't earmark your ARC donation for Haiti, they can use it for anything, even domestically. I know, I used to work with the Red Cross) and then give to your local homeless shelter tomorrow. Spend a day at a food bank. Take a week and build homes with Habitat for Humanity. And if the celebs are coming out now to give, don't let them stop! Use this momentum to keep our royalty giving. Pressure them with social media. Trust me, they'll want the good press.

Instead of bitching about what Americans do for others and not their own, get off your rich American asses and do something about it! And yes, you're rich. I don't care how poor you are (and I've been pretty damn poor), you're still 100 times more wealthy than the average Haitian. Do you have access to clean water? Well then you're a millionaire. Can you afford to eat (and not everyone can)? Cut your meal portions in half. Take the money you saved and give it to a good organization. Don't disparage those for doing good if you don't do something your damnself!

Aaaaaaaand now on to my second point.

Pat Robertson, you should burn in hell. There is so much I'd like to say to this man. But mostly I'd like to hit him in the face with his own Bible. To claim that Haitians have brought this on themselves because of a pact with the devil to drive out the French is disgusting, asinine, and completely specious.

*breathes in deeply*

First of all, soooo we're then saying that the French colonizers were so much more holy than the Haitians who revolted to claim their island back? Is that right, Pat? Slavery is more Christian then? Riiiiight.

And for that matter, even though 80% of contemporary Haitians are Roman Catholic (still going to hell in Pat's eyes) and don't actually practice Voodoo (which, for the record, has nothing to do with devil worship), this earthquake has been coming to them for what, two centuries? God likes the tension to build, does he?

And even if you buy the argument that voodoo is evil and the Bible is true and the Christian God is all powerful, doesn't Pat's argument lose water if you actually READ the Bible? Because I'm pretty sure there's a second half to that puppy. Pretty sure that whole part that makes Christians Christians, you know, the whole CHRIST part, the whole crucifixion, die for your sins part? That whole second half pretty much did away with the whole wrath of God thing, the whole fire and brimstone thing. Negated. That homeboy Jesus supposedly died a most horrible death so that the big Man wouldn't destroy cities or flood the earth anymore. AND wasn't there this little part where that Jesus dude talked about loving one another or something? Something like that. I wouldn't know. I'm a lowly heathen.

That is, if you buy that.

Which is where I'm a little confused, Pat. I thought (stop me if I'm wrong here) that you are a Christian Evangelist? Aren't folks like you always talking about the Bible? Or are you onto just writing your own scripture now? Hrm. You may be right. The Bible is a little old and tired. Ancient text and all. How about we just make up the rules as we go? All bad things happen to evil people and only good things happen to the righteous. Make a deal with the devil in the 19th century and have your nation destroyed 200 years later. AIDS is the pox of homosexuality. And if you have sex, you will get pregnant, and die.

I swear you can't make this shit up! And I'm not even a Christian. But at least I've read the Bible. I'm sure that's more than most "Christians" can say.

So what have we learned today, kids? First of all, before you bitch about the state of the world or your country, do something about it. Second of all, before you open your mouth, do a little reading in your subject matter first. Third, don't be a douche. Fourth, if you are a douche, I will punch you in the mouth.

The Sound of Trains

Most people, normal people, sane people (read: people unlike myself) usually hate to live near train tracks. They hate the sound of the train blowing its horn at all hours, the rumble of the tracks. Now, I don't want to live in a shanty next to tracks, so close my whole house, excuse me, shanty shakes every time a train barrels by. I'm not that crazy.

But I love the sound of trains. I think it's because my little cousin lived somewhat near tracks when we were kids and after oh so many nights spent in little girl sleepovers, I not only got used to the sound, but was comforted by it. I loved being at Lindsey's. It was a happy place for me. So the sound of trains takes me right back to that comfort. I now live in a place where I can sometimes hear trains and it's something I hadn't heard in many years. But if I can't sleep or I'm stressed, hearing a train melts all that away. It's crazy.

Just now, I was feeling a little overwhelmed and exhausted. I'm mired in several projects both personal and work-related and feeling a smidge in over my head. Feeling like I'm just one person and good god what I would give for a clone of myself to follow me around and share my load and anticipate my needs. Because that's how good of an assistant I'd be. Hell, I am a kickass assistant. Combine an anal retentive need for organization with this laugh and you have assistant perfection.

Incidentally, I don't think it's a coincidence that the word "ass" is in the word assistant. Take that how you will, but I think being a bit of an ass is a necessary ingredient for a fantastic ASSistant.

Where was I? Oh, right! So I am the best at supporting others, but who the hell will anticipate my needs, handle my organization (as well as I can?)? Who will keep ME sane?

I was in the midst just now of that reel of overwhelmedness (like that word I just made up?) running on a nonstop loop through my brain and I heard a distant train blow its horn. And just like that, it was gone. I didn't feel all crazy over whel med anymore. I don't feel any better about all the things I need to do, but I just wasn't thinking about any of it. It was all gone. In the wind. Just like that. Comme ça.

Like magic. Now, I don't normally talk of the magic of childhood, though I do believe that's a very lovely and real thing. But I mostly don't feel my childhood was very magical. I had a sucky ass hard fucking childhood. But there are some things that stick out palpably from pure childhood happiness: the scent of chlorine in the morning (I spent most of my happy times at a pool), the feel of plastic (like Barbies or Legos or Thunder Cats), the smell of old books and the feel of their worn spines, the taste of vanilla, the touch of newspaper print (from reading the paper with my dad), the sensation of freshly clean sheets straight from the dryer, the feel of a dance studio floor under bare feet, the texture of a horse's muzzle, the sounds of a kitten's tiny mewl, a hundred songs from musicals I performed in or sonatas I danced to or eighties pop stars I emulated, that salty sandy layer that coats your feet at the beach, the smell of pencil shavings and a brand new eraser, or the sound of trains.

Photo of the Day: Alien Head

I am feeling all out of wit a la moment, so I'll keep this brief. I took this at the Chinese Gardens in Portland and my friend thought this branch looked like an alien head. I think she's right. When I meet my first alien, I hope it looks like this.

But Wait!

Well, I guess I could only ride the high for so long, Internet. I have had a craptastic day. And on my day off no less. I truly expected today to be a lazy, breezy day, but noooo. No. Instead it was one of those days when every tiny thing goes wrong.

It started harmlessly enough. I had today off because I worked Saturday so I planned on sleeping in. Until I woke up at 7 am, that is. Now, to be fair, that IS sleeping in an extra hour than usual on a workday. But today was not a workday. Today was my day off. And I was up. At 7. Damn it. So maybe I started the day slightly cranky.

Second major annoyance: I spotted a kickass job online that I would be suited for, spent a good half an hour filling out the online applications, then the company's server decided to flip out and erase everything I'd written. Fucking fuck fuck.

And for those of you who don't live in Southern California, we've been having stormy weather all week. That, I should tell you, is a good thing in my book. I like thunderstorms and rain and cold. Yesterday the power went out at work, which was a total trip. And today was even stormier. We had hail and lighting and all around fun. Until water began gushing in my front door, that is. And for a little perspective, I am totally traumatized by flooding because my parents' house seriously flooded my senior year of high school (anyone remember El Nino?) and we were all homeless for like a month. So I do not like flooding. Luckily, the storm abated a bit and I was able to sop most of it up with all the towels I own and mop up most of the rest. A bit of my carpet is still pretty saturated though and I have a pathetically small fan doing its darndest to dry that out. Lame.

Which brings me back to the power outage yesterday. I had thought my house was spared, but I must have had a surge apparently. Because one of the plugs in my bathroom has ceased to work (I discovered today) and the breakers in my house are all fine. I have yet to find a moment to call the landlord about that. But, the surge must have fried my cellphone charger. It charges no longer. That's okay, though, I thought, because I have a car charger. So I had a dentist appointment today at 3:30 (which I barely made because of the flooding) so I'd charge my phone in the car and run by Target to get a new house charger.

But wait!. (hey, at least the dentist's appointment went well) The adapter that lets me charge in said car charger is completely MIA (I now have looked EV ER EY WHERE!). But, it's okay. *breathing deeply* There's still Target. After my appointment, I went to Target.

But wait! Target didn't have shit in stock. They did have a USB charger with adapters for phones, so I grabbed that and went home. I should also mention at this point that because of the madness of the day, I hadn't eaten since breakfast. And I can't go that long without eating. But there it is. A cranky, frazzly me low on sugar and short on patience. Winning combo right there.

But wait! The Target adapters don't fit my phone (even though the package said one would). That was about when obscenities flew into the air like an aria written by a pirate. It was beautiful. But I knew my phone would die within a few hours, so I went to the AT&T store. Where it was insanely packed. What, did everyone's chargers die yesterday? So I waited a half an hour (sans sustenance) for some jackass to grab me a charger.

But wait! My phone is apparently so insanely old (what, 2 years?) that they don't make my charger anymore. BUT, they do make adapters and I have that USB thing I bought and my car charger still. Done. We made sure the adapter fit my phone, I bought that shit, and left.

First things first, I ate like I'd just climbed Kilimanjaro and then went to plug in my phone. MOTHERFUCKER! The adapter doesn't match any of my charger devices. So, I am where I started. I have no charger, a few hours left on my phone (and my phone is my alarm clock), and about the patience to deal with this one more second. I think I may just let my phone die. What the hell? It may make things easier, that's for damn sure.

her bags are packed

Oh I've been so lazy about posting, Internet. There is so much going on that it probably would have been smart to download it all at the end of each day, but I let myself get lazy. And then I worked all day Saturday, which wasn't bad because the people I work with can be pretty awesome. But I was still too tired and lazy afterward to write.

So I settled into a nice evening of Cheez-Its and Chuck and then Love Interest called and we talked for so long. So long, in fact, that the end of our conversation was spent a little dreamily on my end. Which, to be sure, was awesome. I tell you, I have never had such great phone conversations, ever. I am so totally in trouble with this one. When we hung up, I went right to sleep and had fantastical dreams. Can't complain about that one bit.

But I'm sure you're feeling a little neglected, Internet. I should share with you more. I'll try to do better, je promet.

And I should tell you that 2010 has been kickass so far! Seriously, I've been charging through my days on such a high. It's so exciting. It's so fucking exciting! D'you hear me? So. Fucking. Exciting. I swear to all things unholy.

And since I finally talked to my boss about it on Friday, I might as well tell you that I'm trying to move to Portland. I'm in a lease through May and I have a huge project at work that I'm leading that I need to complete (the goal being in May), but Boss and I discussed that I'd like to relocate my behind to the rainy place that beckons to me like cheese beckons to the French. Okay, that was a bad simile, but you get the point. So get over it.

Boss said that he'd help me with references, etc. So at this point, the only thing holding me back after my lease is up is a job. I've got to find a job. And let's face it, my current job is so perfectly suited to me. If I weren't moving, I wouldn't leave. So I want to find something similar if at all possible. I have a few leads right now and spent a good two hours today updating my resume, writing cover letters, and applying to jobs. Wish me luck!

I talked about this with Morgan the other day and I have to say that, while I am not made of stone and I am certainly capable of neuroses and fears (as you well know), I am not scared at all. I know this is the right thing for me. It just feels right. I am following my instincts for once and I don't think they'll let me down. I feel confident down to my toes.

First and foremost, I'm moving for me. I want to be in a place that suits me and Portland, I believe, does. If I hate it, I'll eat my words, but I doubt I will. Also, my best friend is there. She and I haven't lived in the same state for almost 12 years. 12 YEARS! It would be awesome to be near her, to drop by her house after a bad day, to share meals and laughter in person. I'm getting goose bumps just thinking about it! And I know that Morgan and her squeeze want to end up there as well. Now, if only I could get my other friends to move there, life would be perfect, right? And then there's Love Interest. He's there and while I wouldn't say I'm moving for him (see above reasons), he's an incentive. A really delicious incentive. He knows that, Internet. I told him.

With all that said, in Hypothetical Land, if the circumstances were completely different, I would move for a great guy. I would. The cynical feminist inside is cackling at me right now, straight mocking me and my idealism. But barring moving to somewhere awful, the right guy is worth it. And I've now sat at my computer for the last 10 minutes thinking of ways to expand on that, but I can't or shouldn't. You either believe that or you don't and nothing I say will change that. I know what I feel is important to me and that's all I need to worry about, really.

Photo of the Day: Marooned

Now, Internet, you have seen one of the coolest things I've seen in my young life. Now we've shared. Don't you feel closer to me now?

Last week, in Astoria, my friend and I learned of a shipwreck. So off in search of it we went. I made a point of looking up the history (because I'm a gigantic nerd) which I won't bore with with except to say that this ship was the Peter Iredale and it came aground in this spot in 1906. And isn't it freaking awesome? Um, yes. Yes it is.

Photo of the Day: Whimsy

I took this shot at Ecola State Park in Oregon last week and I just have to say that it's so unabashedly feminine and sweet that I can't help but love it. I want to put this on a bedspread, paint this on the wall of a little girl's bedroom, or blow it up huge and hang it over my bed.

foolish mortal

What to say, Internet? What to say? I really, really want to tell you all about my fantastical trip to Oregon. Want to tell you about the things I saw and the food I ate, the funny shenanigans my friends and I got into, and the amazing and inexplicable things we stumbled upon. I want to tell you that I have the inklings of love with Portland, a really cool city, a place I really, truly want to be. I want to tell you about the 400 plus photos I took, not counting film. I want to tell you about the sights, the smells, the mist on my cheeks.

I want to tell you all these things. I swear.

But I am too distracted. I just can't seem to help myself. I haven't slept well in days because I just get so giddy and excited that I can't turn my brain off, not that I even want to. I'd rather think about the butterflies swirling in my head than drop off, so that's not much of an incentive for my brain to cooperate. And perhaps the lack of a full night's sleep has made me a little loopy, but when I think about my last days in Portland, I can't help but curl up into my 13 year old me and giggle uncontrollably. I am totally screwed.

I know what you're thinking, Internet, and you're wrong. You think I met someone in Portland. And that couldn't be further from the truth. I met him last year. Hah! So there. And I truly do not want to reveal too much. My life is the All Humiliation Network on here so I'll be discreet. For now. MWAhaha! Seriously though, just because I flay my life out for the world to dissect does not mean that I don't respect others' privacy.

AND this is so insanely new that I don't want to say too much for fear that the gods will take it away. Foolish mortal, they laugh, if only she had shut her huge maw. Teach her to tell her business to the whole world. Crazy lady. We must punish her!

Nonetheless, I can't help but feel totally happy. And so, even though I'd rather not write about this, I'd rather savor it with my girly friends, I just can't help it. It's what is on my mind, yo. It's not my fault.

And I have to say, in the last hour and a half since I started this blog, took time out for a conference call, and played phone jeopardy half-heartedly with my dad, my uterus has taken me hostage and is now employing some kind of medieval torture as punishment for my caprice and utter lack of sensibility by wrapping a fiery belt of indescribable pain around me, which is washing any inkling of happiness in river of utter misery. (And WHO wins the award for the longest sentence ever? Moi!)

See? The gods ARE punishing me! Damn this girl needs some chocolate stat (I'll eat my weight in fudge and call you in the morning). And possibly a straight jacket. Because every moment I let this post get any longer, I just prove myself that much more insane. If that's even possible. And yet I keep writing. The words keep pouring from my fingers. I cannot stop myself. Somebody tell the poor guy to run for his life from the crazy lady with rogue ovaries and possessed fingers.

Good god in hell, I sound attractive.

In a last ditch effort to save my dignity, please enjoy a song that I have been totally crushing on by the Orion Experience. Oh, baby!

Raindrops and Surprises

Home from Portland today.

Flying home on a very packed plane, I slip in my earbuds and turn my iPod to Ingrid Michaelson, wishing to hell I had that album we listened to in the car last night. I close my eyes and find that place somewhere between sleep and daydreams and images of recent memories, of the last week, of last night montage behind my eyelids. I smile despite myself. It's a sweet moment, one of complicated feelings full of excitement and sadness, hope and disappointment. The kind of feelings when something new and exhilarating is set aside for something old and tired.

I gather my things and follow the long line of tired people from plane to terminal. Suddenly, as I step into old places, I am the old me again. The me who is stressed, who feels kind of old and who will soon join the daily grind once again. I'd like to turn around, take the magic back somehow. To be someone delighted again, where "every part of me is amazing." To taste a delicious moment and hold it on my tongue as long as possible, the taste of it lingering as it melts.

And yet, the magic is not all gone. It lingers in bits and pieces, scents and sounds. And I can't help but feel unabashed hope. For the first time in a long time, excitement nibbles my ears and tickles my toes. Happiness is a lone finger tracing the contours of my face. Happiness is a chill wind ripe with possibility. It is air dense with fog collecting on my eyelashes and cooling my cheeks. It is scalding coffee and peals of laughter in the air. Happiness is something hoped for, yet unexpected, a surprise without a red bow. Happiness is an encounter infinitely better than a decadent dream.

I can't help but hold onto all that. I clicked with so many different things in Portland, to say the least. As I sat drinking margaritas with Morgan and Corey this evening, recounting all that happened. I couldn't help but catch the contagion of Morgan's effusive giggles and squeals for me. Morgan is having a love affair with Portland (yes, her boyfriend knows) and tonight we all saw each other there, living different lives than those we live today. Excitement sizzled and crackled in the air.

So at this point, whatever the universe throws at me, I'll take. Big changes are coming.

So watch out for this girl.

palindrome

I hope your New Years parties were fantastic, Internet, and that 2010 has been good to you thus far. I had a good New Year's Eve myself. I got all dressed up, tried to sit around with a pound of makeup on and a sparkly top, got quickly annoyed, washed the makeup off and put on a sweatshirt.

before I got un-cute

And I must say that I had a great time. A couple of friends came over to my house and we played games, watched the ball drop, and toasted in the new year with cheap champagne. Which is actually sparkling wine, because if it's not made in Champagne, France, you can't call it champagne. And I was glad I'd put on that sweatshirt. Much more cozy.

Crap. Does that mean I'm really getting old? I'd rather be comfy with a couple of friends rather than get sparkly and squeeze myself into something impossibly tight (which, let's face it, is unpleasant for everyone) and get drunk on the town. Hrm. I'm going to just say that I finally have my priorities straight. Yup. That's what happens when 30 starts knocking ever so faintly. You realize a couple of things.

What are those things, you ask? Well, Internet, the way I see it, you fall into one of three camps. You're either under 25 or over 30. If it's the former, you have to wait and find out for yourself. If it's the latter, you already know so stop asking. And as for the third camp? You're like me. You're past 25 (thank god) and not quite 30. But you're in the midst of all this discovery and shit anyway so you don't need me to tell you.

So there.

January 1st, 2010 was fairly good for me. I slept in impossibly late, watched the Rose Bowl (sorry, Ducks!), indulged in some Harry Potter and Heroes, and got a call from Morgan stranded at Union Station in LA. She and her squeeze went to the Rose Bowl via the Metrolink and despite all their research into train schedules, were stranded with no trains and one sketchass bus. So. So, I, without another thought, drove out to get them. They were so very grateful, but dude, what else was I going to do? Say, mmm sorry, I don't feel like it? No. That's not what good friends do. Good friends put on decent clothing (aka not pajamas) and drive their asses to where ever their friends were stranded. That's just how it works.

And if you're shaking your head at the screen right now thinking you wouldn't do that, that it's a lot to ask to drive so far to a downtown train station with the winos and hookers, well then you're a bad friend. 'Nuf said.

Oh and pee to the ess, do you know that today is a palindrome? 01022010! Dudes, how cool is that? Okay, yes, I am a dork. I realize. Moving on.

In less than a day, I'll be on a plane to Oregon to see my best friend and I couldn't be more excited. Watch out, rainy green state! This girl is coming! Poor Oregon won't know what hit it. Seriously though, SO EXCITED!

So I make no promises about posting for about a week or so. I know you'll live, Internet, if you try. Don't cry. Don't. You'll be okay. Be strong. Just know I'll always be in your heart. Or whatever.