Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Photo of the Day: Princesses

I am such a creeper. Some day I am going to get punched in the face for these shots. Anyway, at Disneyland last Sunday, these two Disney princesses in pink caught my eye. 

They remind me of my cousin and I. We practically grew up at Disneyland and we had to match and wear the best Disney gear. Of course it was the eighties, so that meant Little Mermaid shirts and neon baseball hats that said "Fresh Mickey." Mickey was fresh. Dope. 

Monday, June 28, 2010

Plethora of Periods

I have this chronic condition. It's debilitating sometimes. Interrupts my quality of life. I should get a prescription for medical marijuana for this condition. Or lithium. Do they still prescribe lithium?

I have The Period.

Yeah, so the boys might not want to read on. Just sayin'.

Started my period today, which means I spent a better part of my day at Disneyland yesterday stressing about starting and dealing with the insanity that comes just before I start. Seriously, the time right before I release the craken of blood is what I like to call the Hormone Death Trap Vortex of Insanity and Pain. Not to mention how effing inconvenient it is to have cramps and a case of the crankies and have to keep checking to see if you've started while you're also trying to live your life and even have fun (imagine that!).

Side note: I did have fun yesterday! It was just dampened by my fucking period. Yo.

Don't get me started on how much The Period sucks big giant sweaty monkey ass. I can't think of an upside. How to explain for those who don't have The Period (though if those lucky souls are still reading, I'd be damn surprised.)? I've already mentioned how Period is such a wimpy ass title for what it really is. How about the All Consuming Week of Pain and Horror and Blood. Sound right?

This is probably because of the "plethora," or my "morbid condition due to excess of red corpuscles in the blood or increase in the quantity of blood." Or perhaps it's just a plethora of blood itself. Or a plethora of insane fucking hormones. Or a plethora of cranky pants. Or a plethora of pinatas

Note: these symptoms differ in type and severity from woman to woman. Beware the man who assumes PMS. I say this for your own good.

This is my experience:

Cranky Pants. Most of the time (though not always), I know The Period is coming (even without a calendar) because I just want to cinch up my cranky pants and settle into a spectacular pout. I want to revel in my snarky nature, make fun of absolutely everything and drip disdain at the rest. I'm really happiest at that point curled up in bed in my fave pink sweatpants with my hair piled on top of my head, watching terrible movies, and eating ungodly amounts of ice cream and chips. Oh the sweet and salty (but I'll get to food in a bit). The Cranky Pants lasts into The Period, but really morphs into something more evil once it's actually begun. Then it's like an entire closet of cranky pants. You could even say I have a...plethora of cranky pants.

Pregnant Belly. I bloat. Like a motherfucking pregnant blow fish. Never mind that I feel fat and unattractive, because I wouldn't want anyone touching me anyway (ew), but the fact that I'm two sizes bigger just adds to the endless discomfort. And with a belly like this, I'd like something to show for it. Something like, oh, I don't know, how about a goddamn fetus? Instead I have water weight. A plethora of water weight. Who wants to coo at that? I'll tell you who. Nobody. Surprising, I know. I know. But, the one upside is my boobs get huge. Well, not huge by normal standards and certainly not by Hollywood standards (as Pam Anderson doubles over in laughter at my "huge" boobs), but huge for ME. Not that that matters, because they're so fucking tender that if someone touched them right now, I might punch him in the Larynx.

Vice of Death, aka cramps. Oh the motherfucking pain! I've had a plethora of horrendous cramps since my very first Period. It's because of some complicated medical reasons I need not bore you with, except to say that they are awful. As a teen, I'd get cramps so bad I'd pass out. Be debilitated for days, walking was difficult. I manage them now, but it still fucking hurts, feel like someone is squeezing a vice around my entire midsection whilst a little Nazi is kicking me from the inside with steel-toed boots. And THAT makes me cranky as all hell. Which brings me to...

The Screaming Banshee. Once I'm in the throes of The Period, I am in so much pain (a plethora of pain) that I cannot deal with any stress or extraneous thinking. Cannot. Deal. So don't bother me with it. Don't bother me with it. Also, don't touch me. Maybe even consider not looking at me. Otherwise I may just transform into the Screaming Banshee and carry your soul to hell.

Then there is hormone brain. I believe I may have mentioned earlier the plethora of hormones? Oh yeah, there's a plethora all right. Of crazy-making, brain-frying hormones. I've heard some women talk about pregnant brain...well, I don't know anything about that (obviously!), but I do know that during my period, an evil little army of hormones starts switching off the synapses in my otherwise brilliant brain and I cannot think to save a dying unicorn. I mean, really. I probably shouldn't be allowed to drive at this point, but how else is a girl to get to work? Where I will need to do things that require more thinking? That will most likely have to do with using my out of service brain?


It's a miracle of evolution that humanity still exists even with The Period. I'm just saying it's amazing this many men still live into their reproductive years and women actually mate with them despite the plethora of hormones and banshees and cranky pants and vices of death. I really do feel for the men of this world. They have no idea.

No. Idea.

Oh yeah, I was gonna talk about food. Eating. Yup, The Period makes me want to hoover up vast quantities of fat content and salty calories like a hungry, hungry hippo on death row. It's disgusting. And also amazing. There is never a plethora of food in my house so there is also always a level of disappointment when I realize that if I want to calm the hungry beast within, I will have to leave my lair. And that will probably require shoes. And a hat, if I don't want to scar children for life.

This post participates in:

header 150x150

Shout out to the Nerd Mafia! Which I discovered through Taming Insanity. They started this word game WOW! and I couldn't resist participating because of this week's word. Can you guess what it was? It's one of my favorite words of all time. 

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Love Song Sunday: Warm Whispers

How about a little Missy Higgins this Sunday? I have such love for this singer and I had a very, very hard time choosing a song of hers to share. There were so many, I considered picking 4 or 5 favorites and sharing them all. That wouldn't have been overkill at all.

At any rate, here are some links to the other songs I thought about sharing: The Special Two, Secret, Steer, and Where I Stood (which I sing a lot at karaoke).

Warm Whispers is ultimately the song I chose because it's simple, lovely, something everyone can curl into and find a little warmth like a cat in a patch of sun on the stairs.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

Photo of the Day: Petticoat

So I realize I take tons of photos of my roses, but it's because they're just so damn photogenic, even from below. And this one's undergarments are especially lovely. Think this counts as an up the skirt shot? Shhh! Don't tell. It'll run my rep.

Friday, June 25, 2010

letters to the people in my town

Dear Annoying Guy Who Almost Caused a Car Accident This Morning,

Learn the difference between a dirt bike and a street bike.

Dear Lady Standing in the Doorway of the Walgreen's,

You stay still and I'll go around you.

Dear Spanglish-Speakers in the Sandwich Shop,

I love you. Don't ever change.

Dear Drivers Going 50 Through the School Zone,

Just because they're teenagers, doesn't mean they too can't not die at the hands of your monster truck.

Dear High Schoolers,

If you jaywalk, cars will hit you.

Dear College Students,

If you jaywalk, cars will hit you.

Dear Officer,

When you stare at me, I can't tell if you're contemplating arresting me or checking out my ass. Will you please let me know if I should be paranoid or flattered?

Dear Little Boy Standing in Front of Me in Line,

That cute way you're sucking on your stick of gum like a lollipop? Keep doing that. Girls will love you for it one day.

Dear Nice Teller at the Bank,

You're nice and all friendly-like. I appreciate it. But I kind of don't want to tell you my life story. I just want my cash, mmmk?

Dear Plant Lady,

You're weird. Stop touching my hair.

Dear Neighbors With a Screaming Child,

When you take your child outside to have a tantrum, his screams don't really compliment the sounds of my TV shows. Except Fringe. And House.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Photo of the Day: Mythical Beast

This is one of my neighbor's many cats, which I will not miss in the least when I move. Especially this asshole here who like to taunt and hiss at my cats through the screen door,  the fat bastard. He's very elusive, however. Or, as a guy I once dated said about himself ad nauseum, he's aloof. 

So the other day, as I was walking to the recycle bin and I saw this guy nestled there beside my house like a unicorn on some medieval tapestry, I couldn't resist snapping a shot. And would you look at that tongue. My friend says he looks demonic. 

Wednesday, June 23, 2010


Oh man, Internet, I am absolutely incapable for delivering a coherent and/or funny post right now because I've been stricken with The Headache. I get migraines sometimes, I do. And I'm not above medicating, but truth be told all I have is Pamprin in my house and with my head this shitty, I really do not belong behind a wheel of a massive piece of machinery. Thus, I will not go to the towns to fetch medicines

Though I've been told I'm funnier when I'm sick, I can barely make myself spit out complete sentences. It took me six times to log into my email this morning so I could tell my colleagues I wasn't making it in. Seriously. I'm. A. Motherfuckingmess. 

So I've just been trying to sleep, which is hard because it's also motherfuckinghot and I have a motherfuckingcat who is stoked that I'm home and keeps crawling all over me (note: I am going to be a terrific mother someday). 

Cat: purrpurrpurrpurr *crawlingalloverme* purrpurrpurrpurr 

Me: get the fuck off me, cat! it's hot and you can't sit still and my head hurts and you're not fucking helping. 

What did I say? Terrific. Mother. 

At this point, I'm feeling like I might tear out my eyeballs to make this headache stop, except I'm not exactly sure how that would help. But it sounds reasonable so I'm considering it. Don't judge me. 

On another note, it's been a big last two days for me. I got Twitter married to PretendWriter AND I now also have a Twitter mistress, one miss LizzyDanger. Two in one day. I believe congratulations are in order. I'm officially either a pimp or Bill Henrickson or both. Don't ask. It's just an absurdly funny thing and we're all running with it. It's why I love Twitter. But I am registered at Ikea and I expect all new furniture any day now. 

This post is derailing fast, so I'll leave you with some shameless self promotion. IF you lurve my blog, you should also be lurving my Facecrack page. And IF you likes my Facecrack page and you also have a blog, let me know and I'll promote your blog on my page. See how that works? Love. So much love. Conditions: You must "like" my page. And don't post your blog on my page, yo. That's just rude. Just email me the link at awesomecrazylady at gmail dot com (with your name too). I will read it when I find some time (so TRY to be patient) and I'll link up a post that I particularly like. Mmmmk, pumpkins? 

And here's a funny picture of a chimp (this is a chimp, right?)

Either he's been given a hard math equation to solve or someone just told him he's adopted. 
The line between distraught and confused is a thin one. 

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Photo of the Day: No One Nose

I didn't have a great day today. Was once again, as usual, a complete idiot and fuckup and I should really be freelance already so I stop causing harm to others. And then I swam a good 20 laps after work (and I swam hard), but still didn't feel better. Plus I found a suspicious mole this morning and have convinced myself I have skin cancer and am about to lose my benefits so will die a painful death in a homeless shelter (I might be slightly melodramatic).

But you know what does make me feel a little better? This absolutely scrumptious photo of my Hobbes' nose. Don't you want to rub your face in the soft, white fur? I could smear frosting on that pink nose and eat it all up.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Random Thoughts of a Crazy Lady

Did you know that there is actual awesome sauce? There is. Really and truly. My tweep MeredithBlumoff found it for me:

Isn't that just the coolest?


Bad drivers. Bad. Drivers. I am convinced my stress levels would decrease dramatically if not for bad drivers. My town is full of them. People who don't use their handy dandy easy to use turn signals. People who don't get the stop sign rules. Seriously people, you take turns. That's how it works. You don't just pause and go without looking at the other cars around you! That's how you almost slam into Andrea's front bumper almost every morning and give her a great start to the day. And I wonder about all these asshole drivers. I mean, are these people that rude in life? Are they cutting in line at the grocery store because they just have to get to the cashier first, interrupting their colleagues at work because they just have to speak first? Really?


Hyperbole and a Half. This is my most favorite new discovery. If you don't read this blog, you are missing out. Missing. The. Fuck. Out. It's beyond highlarious. And this post? THIS POST made my whole damn day. Here's a teaser (in case you needed further convincing):


Fuck student loans. Fuck my motherfucking student fucking loans. Fuck them. Long story long, I'm about to be unemployed by my own volition and need to put my loans in forbearance.

Loan company A, which we'll call A for Assholes, pretty much assfucked me today because I can't apply for a suspension until the next payment is due (someone tell me how that makes ANY sense at all?) and that date happens to be when I'll be making the arduous trek along the Oregon goddamn trail in my covered wagon and two oxen (aka my two fucking cats). While fording the river, I'll need to magically produce a cell phone and fax machine and apply for a goddamn loan suspension. Fuck. Me. And the Assholes.

Loan company B, who we'll call Lesser Assholes, laughed in my face telling me that I used up my one forbearance when I was unemployed the first time (aka when I had just graduated college and realized I wasn't even qualified to clean toilets). But I wizened up on that one. After hanging up and bawling at my desk out of sheer frustration, I called back (still sniffling, thank jeebus) and got a kindly sounding lady who took pity on my soul and gave me a whopping 3 month forbearance (whoopdefuckingdoo) for a fee. A not small fee. But a fee still less that my loans. And hell, if I'm not working in 3 months, someone adopt my cats and stick me on the corner in ripped fishnets and clear plastic shoes.


Which brings me to my mantra of the day. Instead of majoring in English Lit, which basically qualifies me to write witty blogs and sound smart and pretentious at book club, I should have majored in stripping. Seriously. Shit would have paid for itself by now. I mean hell, what are the downsides? Okay, so I don't think I could hang upside down on the pole (vertigo), but I am a kickass dancer. Okay, so I don't have the requisite tits, but I do have one hell of an ass AND pushup bras are a miracle of nature. But the one thing I can't get past are the fucking godawful shoes (I love that spellcheck counts godawful as a word). I could dance half naked on a pole upside down, but the shoes? The come fuck me plastic platform shoes? That goes against my principles. A girl has to have standards.


Eh. I'm about to get an unwanted visit from Aunt Flo anyway. What, you ask? Well, if you have to ask, you're probably male. And if you're male and still reading this blog after the gyno visits and descriptions of my vibrator (whose name in now Rosie, bee tee double you), you must not scare easily. Aunt Flo, boyos, is a not so creative euphemism for my period. I just hate that word, period. It makes it sound so tame, instead of the crazy making, fat inducing, excruciating pain that is bleeding from my hooha every month.

Still there? You win! I'll spare you for now (for now) and just say this: I'm reaching the point of time before my period where I get super snarky. So don't take it personally unless I tell you to. Then you'd better fucking take it personally. I'm now getting an idea to dedicate a whole post to Aunt Flo. Whom I hate so much.

Why men read my blog is beyond me.


Many people who seem to like me (have yet to completely understand why) have expressed their dislike for the big move I am about to make. And it has its downsides, to be sure. I don't have a job waiting. I'll be further away from my dad and cousins and some lovely friends I've made along the way. But, I need to go. And I need to leave the place I live now. Here, I often feel that my job is my whole life, not because I'm a workaholic, but because I don't have much else to fill my life with. But I need to be more than my job. I have to be more than my job. While it's so sweet that you guys are so unhappy to see me go, I need you to support this move, support my desire for a full life, with happy-making things beyond what brings in a paycheck.

With that thought, here's a Jesca Hoop song that I'll be singing for the next 3 weeks:

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Love Song Sunday: Don't Miss What You Never Had

I discovered the irresistible Sara Schiralli through Weeds, of all things, the other night. She's got this song Bang Bang, which just rocked my world. Rocked it hard. I was sore from all the rocking. So don't come a knocking.

Right. Sorry about that.

Anyway, this song is also rockin' in its own awesome, quirky way. I just love her voice, so throaty, so raw. I'm sorry for the lack of video. There is some live footage of her, which I highly encourage you to check out (because she is fucking adorable), but the sound quality was less than fantastic.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

Photo of the Day: Baby

Back in April, someone gave me a mini-rose bush as a gift (I keep accidentally calling it my baby rose bush) which I then potted so I could take it with me to Portland. And it's just begun to bloom. Don't you love the peach shade on these tiny roses? So precious. So sweet.

Friday, June 18, 2010

Grandpa Joe

What's the name of that movie? My dad the hero? Or my father the hero? Well, that's just kinda how I really feel about my dad. Today is my dad's 63rd birthday. Which means I'll be razzing him endlessly about being OLD. 63 is not that old. It's not old at all. But that's the shtick between me and my pops. And I've had him wrapped around my pinky since I could talk. To this day, all I have to do is tilt my head and make bambi eyes and coo "Daaaaad," and he'll say, "What do you want?" and acquiesce to my ever whim. Works every time. Works on traffic cops too. Not that I know. I've been told.

Well, when I was little, I was a shameless daddy's girl. When my mom was being crazy or whatever it was she did, I would grab any opportunity to pal around with my dad, whether it was running errands, watching his company basketball practice, playing soccer in the dirt in front of our house, hanging out at his job, coloring or reading under his feet at his choir practice or Red Cross board meeting, playing with the Resusci-Annie (the little baby dummy was my favorite) while he taught a First Aid/CPR class, or just riding around town.

Sunday mornings were spent with doughnuts (I always pissed him off because I would lick the chocolate off and give him back the doughnut) and the newspaper. He would turn first to the comics, which we'd lay out in front of us on the floor as I sat in his lap, and he'd read each panel until I was old enough to read to him. As I got older, after the comics (which were essential), we'd go through the paper searching for typos and errors. Dad was training a little editor.

I was proud of my dad. In second grade, we had alphabet show and tell all year. I brought him for D for Dad, F for Fireman, and S for Scientist. He visited many, many of my science classes with his lab coat and glasses and unkempt hair (the hair wasn't part of the costume; he just hasn't combed his hair since 1969) and dazzled my classmates with chemistry tricks and bad jokes. He brought the fire engine to school and let the kids climb all over it (I was always popular on those days).

Did I mention my dad is a jokester? No, that's not accurate. My dad is a punster. If there is a pun to be found, he will find it. Even my dad isn't around, I'll still often find myself thinking of what lame joke he would make in any given situation. It's pathetic really.

Have I mentioned yet that my dad is also this phenomenal actor? He is. And he can sing too. He's only ever done community theater and, truth be told, I think he's okay with that. But had he pursued it, my dad could have been a successful stage actor. Indeed. I don't know when he started, but his reputation at the local college theater and in my town was well established before I came along. As a result, I grew up in the theater and, my crazy stage mom aside, some of my best memories are playing in green rooms and getting to watch my dad perform from the catwalk or control room. When I was in plays with him, even though I didn't really want to be on stage, I loved going to rehearsals with my dad every night. I always memorized all of his lines (He didn't ask me to; I just did while listening to him.) and run lines with him in his spare time.

Not only was my dad a chemist (he works in a lab at a cement plant and quarry), he is also a retired fire captain. I always called him Smokey the Bear, because if there was smoke in the air, my dad would jump in the car and smell the fire out. Most people are fascinated with fire, but by my preteen years, I just found it an annoying thing my dad made me watch. Really, Dad? Another fire? Can't we go home? Saved by the Bell is on! Fireman couldn't compete with Mark-Paul Gosselaar.

By my teens, my dad was just an embarrassing old man who looked like Grandpa Joe from Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (he still does) and who scared my friends. His shtick was acting like a grump. Ask my dad who his heroes are and he'll say Scrooge and the Grinch. Yup, that's my dad. It's all a joke to him though. My friends used to call the house (days before cell phones) and he'd answer, "WHADDAYAWANT?" all gruff and then laugh when they'd hang up. Despite that, my friends always loved my dad. He's really just a giant kid with a mustache and unruly grey hair, so he fits right in.


But my dad's not exactly perfect. Who is? He has a short temper, so my learning to drive years were hell. We joke about it now, but those sessions always turned into shouting from him and tears from me followed by a vow to never drive again. He is also this math genius, doing all sorts of magical mathy spells in his head that I couldn't even begin to comprehend, but he is a shite teacher. Math tutoring sessions always began with "Why don't you get this, it's easy," and ended with me in tears and shouting that I was sorry he got such a stupid daughter. He didn't think I was stupid, but he honestly didn't understand why anyone wouldn't find it easy.

He hates to travel. Hates being in a place where he doesn't know where anything is. The minute I learned to drive, I took over driving in new places because my dad would get so stressed out. Even just to Disneyland. Hell, I have lived in my current town for 5 1/2 years and my dad still doesn't know where anything is because he refuses to drive here.

My dad and I have gotten very close in my adult years. I'm his escape and happy to be so. We have our rituals. When he visits, we go to his favorite crappy chain restaurants and I'm okay with that because he pays. We have a standing date every weeknight at 7pm: if both of us are at our respective homes, we play Jeopardy over the phone. I always kick his ass (but only because his memory is slower now). Friends even know to not call me between the hours of 7 and 7:30 because it's Jeopardy time.

Men have come and gone in my life. My mom is a disaster. But the person who has always been there for me, always supported me even when he disapproved, always teased me mercilessly is my dad.

I learned to have a sense of humor from my dad. I learned that a man can sing and cross stitch and bake and still fight fires and play sports. I learned that kicking the washing machine probably won't fix it (that dent is proof, Pops). I learned that getting lost can actually be kind of fun (so stop stressing). I learned that it's the little rituals that keep people together. I learned that sometimes even the most brilliant people don't get any recognition for their talents and to just appreciate what you have. I learned that it's not about perfection, but in finding joy where it exists. I learned that success won't ever fall in your lap, so you have to chase the things you want in life.

Happy Birthday, Dad

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Chicken Dance

I have been challenged by some AD loving Tweeps (mainly @TamingInsanity) to a chicken dance off. And I plan to step up to this challenge.

What is this you ask? Well if you're a fan of Arrested Development, shame on you. You should know. You should know.

But for the rest of you poor saps who have lived your lives Arrested Developmentless (which is a sad, pathetic existence), here's a clip:

I can't decide if I want to do the Gob chicken dance or Lindsay's chicken dance. Gob did do it first. It's classic. But Lindsay's looks like fun. 

So I am polling you, Internet: which chicken dance should I do? On film? For the world to see? 

Why god why am I doing this? Oh yeah, I love Arrested Development. And Twitter. And making a jackass of myself. 

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

tonight at 11

Are you ready for my big news, Internet? Are ya? huh, huh huh? Are ya?

In a month, I'll be a Portlander (is that the right term?). *applause*

I submitted my resignation today. And I'll put in my notice on my house tomorrow. No, we still haven't heard back from the potential landlord, but I didn't want to wait any longer. And I think this place will work out. If not, we can figure something else out, but I'm not worried.

SO, watch out, Portland. This girl is on her way. Portland employers, I hope you're ready to hire me. Friends in Portland, you're on call to help me move in. mmmmk?

Oh man, I'm SO excited!

I also realize I'll never truly fit in in Portland because of my thick ass Southern California accent.

as if

Now I'm on the fast track. This weekend is my dad's birthday. And then I have some last things to go through to sort for keeping or selling. The next weekend is my garage sale and a trip to Disneyland (I have a free pass for my work with Habitat for Humanity). The next weekend will be all packing to go. The next weekend will prob be my going away party and more packing. Aaaaaand the weekend after that? I'll be in PORTLAND! Woot!

Other than the short time I lived in Paris, I've lived in Southern California my whole life. And I am so ready for this move.  I turn 30 in a few months and I mean it when I say that I am totally ready for 30. Ready for the next chapter of my life. And moving is a huge part of that.

In celebration, a video that literally had me gasping for breaths I was laughing so hard when Coco showed me this today. This guy is utterly hilarious. I truly think he has a future in stand-up.

And cerebral palsy is the sexiest of the palsies. And no Atlantis is too under water of too fictional.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Photo of the Day: Leafy

This is a leaf on my rose bushes. I've been experimenting lately with my flash. What do you think? I think I like how vibrant it turns out and how crisp the drops look. 

Monday, June 14, 2010

cross your fingers

It's my day off, Internet. My day off. And I had grand plans for today, but I'm not sure I will accomplish any of them. Well, I have to leave the house at some point to buy food. My fridge is sadly empty right now and screaming at me to feed it. And I did take a shower. And...I've not accomplished much else.

I don't want to leave the house yet because I'm waiting on an important phone call.

Last Friday (I worked all weekend long, if you'll remember), my bestie in Portland, the one I'm trying to find a place to live with so I can move my sweaty ass northward texted with some big news, texted me. I knew she was looking at a Townhouse that day and she was going to text how it went. It went well. We like the place. So we're putting in our application today. And I'm waiting on the landlady to call me so I can answer all her questions about my rental history.

That was one piece of a satisfying weekend.

Even though I was working long days (but sometimes work can be fun, especially in my job), this weekend went really, really well. I'm tired to be sure, but I was very pleased with the weekend's activities and productivity.

On Sunday, I got the sweetest, most unexpected, most unnecessary surprise. I work with a large group of volunteers and they all know that I've been trying to move to Portland. So this Sunday, they surprised me with the sweetest thank you and farewell and good luck which included a bottle of wine from the Willamette Valley and a card they'd all signed . I never expected it and I was very touched. Very, very touched. These people are too, too sweet and I'll miss them immensely when I move.

Good people make life great.

And then, after I was done working on Sunday, I went over to the Target to get soap and wandered over to the World Market for a bit (I like to peruse World Market and pretend I can afford the cool furniture) and buy some European candy. And what did I find for the first time ever? Kinder Buenos! Before you scoff, you need to know what a big deal this is for me. Seriously. Kinder Buenos are my favorite candy in the entire world. I lived on them in France (really, I'd eat like one a day) and they're notoriously hard to find over here and World Market has never carried them before. Totally made my day! Don't ask me why they're called Kinder Buenos. No clue. As far as I know, they're not made by children, but they are, in fact, quite bueno. Mmmm the hazelnutty goodness of Kinder Buenos.

Hold on. I need a moment.




Okay, I'm back. Thanks for waiting.

So, long story short, good weekend. Please cross your fingers that we get this place! Do it! You're not doing it are you? Do it! Thank you. I need all the positive energy and good wishes that I can get right now. I really, really want to get this place!

And now you can return to your regularly scheduled programming.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Love Song Sunday: Obsessed With You

For a change of pace this Love Song Sunday I thought I'd share a highlarious song about stalkers. Good times, right?

I totally and completely and literally love Orion Experience. I listen to them to wake up in the morning, when I'm running, when I'm driving long distances. They're just a really quirky, funky fun power pop band. Their songs make me happy in my heart.


Thursday, June 10, 2010

Margaritas, Weed, and Slut Signals

So I guess this is the point where I write a very witty post and have the entire Internet drowning in tears of laughter. Except I am suffering a mild case of writer's block. I have feelings. I do. And I'd want to write about them if I had any urge other than eat a lot of food (well, hello cookies and cream ice cream, where have you been all my life?) and watch episode after episode of Weeds.

Not that I've been sitting at home all week (after work) just watching Netflix and stuffing my face. That's just what I'm doing right now. Last night, I got to go out to dinner with a long-time friend Laura and we gorged ourselves on delicioso Mexican food and drank one too many margaritas, which would have been fine if the 2nd one hadn't been so damn strong.

Point to note: Tequila and Andrea don't mix.

I wasn't drunk, but tequila makes me sick to my stomach. So after dinner, I held my queasy belly and watched episodes of Weeds. Damn that show is awesome! How had I not discovered it up 'til now?

Where was I? Oh right, dinner with my friend. Laura is total awesome sauce and I've pretty much though she was the bees knees since senior year high school drama class. Hells yeah. Sometimes there is nothing better than greasy food, alcohol, and chatting with a girl you've known forever about your slutty days (I'm not sure which of us was sluttier. It was a close call.).

Note: we are old ladies now (Happy 30th, Laura! I'm right behind ya!) and have left our slutty days behind us. Maybe it takes until your late twenties to realize that quality not quantity is a saying for a reason. I thought I should point this out since I know how all manwhores have sonar for the word "slut" and come running like Batman to the Bat Signal. Like a Slut Signal.  And I didn't want to get anyone's hopes up.

Um yeah.

So I work long ass days all weekend so I won't be posting until Sunday most likely. Unless perchance I get home one night with the overwhelming urge to write and then I'll just post like a blogger on meth. It will blow your mind, because you won't be expecting it. 

You'll be like, man, that crazy lady is blowin' my mind with all this unexpected posting right now! 

I know, your friends will say, she's like a some kind of blogging diva

And I'll bask in my glory. 

Of course, that prob won't happen since I'll be dragging my ass to bed the minute I get home. If I remember to wash my face and/or brush my teeth, someone should give me a medal. But that won't happen because I live alone. And all my cats care about is that I feed them. Asshole cats.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Photo of the Day: Reflection

Market street in San Francisco is chock full of reflective surfaces, a cityscape funhouse of buildings within buildings. 

Oh, BP

I won't lecture. Just watch. Trust.

aaaaaand discuss:

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Sun Baby

Have I mentioned lately that it's hot here in sunny So Cal? I did? Well, it bears repeating again. It's hot. Damn hot. I realize that some like it hot, but I am having trouble finding any joy in hell itself.

You know how people who live where it snows a lot just hit their limit of snow? Like, so many years pass and they're done. Finished. Must move where it doesn't snow. Well, I've hit my limit of heat, of sun. After almost 30 years in this insanity (and I grew up in a desert, so it got hot, yo), I have hit my limit. Check. Got all the vitamin D I need. I don't need it to get above 75 ever again. Done.

I always wear sunscreen, because I grew up swimming and in the age of skin cancer and I want to take care of myself. But on days like this, I always feel like it's never enough, like maybe I should have slathered on 4 more layers or so of SPF 30. At this rate, I'll still end up with skin cancer and die an ugly death (ugly because my face will be marred by melanoma). I'm not making fun here, it's scary. And also ridiculous.

On one of the last flights I took, the flight attendant looked like a goddamn saddlebag. I could tell she was pretty at some point, with her nice smile and very coiffed, blonde hair and Tiffany charm bracelet. But I could not get past her unnaturally brown, leathery skin. *shiver*

I do not ever want to look like that.

So I slather on the Coppertone and hope for the best. Like I said, I was raised swimming. My mom was a pool manager my whole life, a swim instructor, and both my parents were life guard instructors. I was in the pool before I was walking. It's one of the best things of my childhood. I was a natural fish and took my first jump off the high dive (with help) at 2.

So it's no surprise that I spent most of my life in the sun. In the water under the sun. I'm sure some cancer is brewing under my skin by this point.

But I do still love to swim. If there were a decent indoor pool in my town, I'd go there instead, but they're uncommon in a place that gets so much sunshine. And the local pool where I like to swim laps opens in a week for lap time. I cannot wait. I won't get the full summer's use (moving to Oregon at some point soon), but I'll go after work as many days as I can.

There are two forms of exercise that I have always and will always love: dance and swimming. I like to run, but this is a recent development in the last 2 years. But dancing and swimming are my great loves and for two completely different reasons.

I dance because it's an escape. When you dance, you cannot think about anything but the steps. Your brain has to be completely focused. And once you learn the steps and muscle memory kicks in, you're thinking about the music and technique and presentation and a million other things. Whatever thoughts you had before cannot exist when you're dancing.

I swim because I can think and swim at the same time. Swimming is a completely natural process. I kick and a stroke and my body glides through the water with very little effort from my brain. So if I want to think things through and get my head straight, I swim.

But there is of course how glorious my body feels doing both of these things. Glorious.

Monday, June 7, 2010

Photo of the Day: Le Penseur

Another San Francisco shot. This guy was sitting next to me on these steps at Union Square and I couldn't get over how schmancy he was dressed and how pensive he seemed. I have no idea who I didn't get caught taking this. I kept sneaking one surreptitious photo after another, trying to get a decent shot. I like this one. It's very Rodin-esque. 

Sunday, June 6, 2010

Diary of a Preteen Crazy Lady

Oh do I have a treat for you. Oh boy!

I have been going through everything I own to figure out what I will keep and move with me to Portland and what I will sell, recycle, or donate. In this process, I found one of my diaries.

It's worth noting that I used to have dozens of diaries growing up, all of them used up maybe 3 pages in and then abandoned. I guess journaling wasn't my thing back then. Maybe if they'd had the Internet back in the eighties, I would've discovered blogging and documented my young life in detail.

I have no idea what happened to most of those diaries, unfortunately, but today I discovered this one. I have no idea when I wrote this, because of course I didn't date it. But, considering the content, I'm guessing I was about 11.

I really and truly wish I could scan this and show you my most private preteen thoughts in all their ridiculous glory, but my scanner isn't working. You'll just have to believe me that I had awful handwriting. It does make me proud to note that my spelling and grammar were quite good. However, I may have overused the exclamation mark to the point of killing the damn thing. Poor exclamation mark, in the punctuation ICU. Someone send it flowers.

Description: the outside cover is a floral fabric (of course) and the inside cover is pink with black marker smudging out some inscription (no idea why). My name is scrawled in magic marker. Paper clipped to the first page is a card bearing the addresses of the agents of Leonardo DiCaprio and Eddie Furlong, I presume just in case I wanted to send them mail (remember when we sent actual mail?) and profess my undying love. There is only one entry (of course) and this is what it says word for word:

Dear Diary,
 I heard that it helps to write your feelings out, so here I go!
Today I realized that even though I absolutely love Eddie Furlong & Leo DiCaprio, I love Josh Baroni more! Josh goes to my school & is so popular! He's way out of my reach, but he looks just like Leo! (sort of a quoinkydink!) They're both Major-Babes! I'm talking totally fine, here! 
besides that, I've had a pretty boring day!
                             - see ya,

Yeah. apologies to Josh Baroni. If you're reading this, Josh, I'm way cuter now. I have an ass. Can't say much about my boobs. My feet are in proportion to my height. My skin is decent and I brush my hair. Oh, and I got my braces off in 1999.  I also don't fall in love with 3 men at the same time, let alone with celebrities.

It's amazing, really. I was quite a smart girl. A bookworm. I won science fairs and speech meets. Yet, this is what I felt was the most important thing to record for posterity.

This is why I'm still single, btw.

Love Song Sunday: Fuck Was I

Okay, so maybe I'm not in the mood yet for a song we can all swoon over. So shoot me. Listening to those syrupy sweet songs, I just want to provide some commentary, be the voice of reason.

no, no it's not like that. she doesn't love you. just give it up already. it's not gonna happen.


So, I did bring you the lovely vocal stylings of one Miss Jenny Owen Youngs. This chick is pure awesome sauce and this song is total salve to my wounds. Not that this is how I'm feeling per se, but it makes me laugh and cry all at the same time. The frankness of this song is just too good for words. Sometimes you just need someone to tell it like it is.

Enjoy, yo.

Saturday, June 5, 2010

Random Thoughts of a Crazy Lady

After a long ass two weeks, I am in shock over the weekend. What should I do with myself? Making human contact is out of the question. I'd really like to be outdoors, but it's roughly 100 million degrees centigrade outside. And I really should get some work on my house done. But for now, I'll veg and re watch Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog yet again.

Whomever invented that Axe shit should be shot. And men who wear that Axe shit should be shot. And by men, I mean 13 year olds and men who think they're 13. Listen, boyos, the goal is to attract a female (or a male, whatever your thing is), not stun them into submission. Your goal is to get a reaction, but if that reaction is nausea or vomiting, you fail. If she passes out, she didn't swoon over your manly nature; no, she passed out because your hideous odor assaulted her senses and she'd rather be unconscious on the pavement than smell you for one more second.

I would like to marry this pint of Half Baked and have beautiful, chocolatey children. It would disturbing and wrong on oh so many levels, but I don't give a flying fuck. It's delicious. And always gives me what I want. And never tells me it doesn't love me. Until I reach the bottom of the pint. Which then sucks.

What is a flying fuck anyway? Is that like the mile high club? Or is it like how birds have sex mid-flight? Can Superman do it?

Have I mentioned how hot it is here? It's HOT! Unbearably hot. Hideously hot. I. Am. Melting. Yes, I am a witch. You're just figuring this out?

I have been shamelessly hit on several times in the last 2 weeks. Maybe men can smell my vulnerability. Like I'm their prey. But I am here to tell you this: I am not interested and I will get violent if necessary. Not only I am I nursing a bruised heart, I have never and will never like being "hit on." Have some respect for me and realize that I am not going to jump in the sack with a total stranger, whether in person and even and especially if I am meeting you on the Internets. Back the eff off. Or I will hurt you. And you won't like it.

However, I am always taking applications for new friends. Well-written and grammatically correct applications will be considered, but not all will be accepted. Humor is encouraged. Assholes need not apply.

This past week, I had the awesome opportunity to participate in Lizzy Danger's Poetry Project. She gave me a line and I wrote a poem inspired by it. My line was: "look to the clouds for inspiration." It was a really fun experience and you can read my poem here. You should check out Lizzy as well. She's a really talented poet. I may even write another one.

If you haven't checked out my Facecrack page yet, you totes should yo.

Also, I in no way endorse that "yes on 16" ad that keeps running on my page. Californians, do your own research and vote. That ad has nothing to do with my opinions or political leanings. That is all.

Friday, June 4, 2010

Photo of the Day: Waves and Lines

On Market Street in San Francisco. It amazes me that someone designed this building, with its lines and curves and reflections, gently assaulting the sky. 

Thursday, June 3, 2010

because we live in the Matrix

In case you were worrying about me, Internet, here's a wee update: I am feeling a little better. With the gracious love of my dear, dear friend, I have taken one thing temporarily off of my plate. And you wouldn't believe how one tiny thing can much such a huge difference! I feel like a small breeze of relief is flowing in through one corner of my life. It's amazing.

Not a literal breeze though. God no. It's like 100 million fucking degrees here in Southern goddman California. Really, though, it's hot. And I hate it with the fire of my soul (get it? cause it's hot? heh.). Even though it's getting scary to make this move and all the details of it are killing me, I am so ready to leave this sweaty ass part of the world. So ready I am going out of my ever lovin' mind.


This thing I set aside is still going to happen, I've just asked for a little postponement until I can work other details out and catch my breath.

But ask me again how I feel tonight. I may eat my words when I once again can't sleep and end up screaming in frustration at my brain that just won't effing turn off. But I plan on sedation, so here's hoping for a full night of sleepytime.

And in celebration of taking control of my life and looking forward to the first great day in a while, here's a little brilliance (thanks to Cocomo):

If you don't watch the highlarious video, you won't get the title of this post. 
See how manipulative I am? Don't you love it?
No? Well then bite me.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Photo of the Day: Pair of Sols

I took quite a few pictures of people on the street last Sunday in San Francisco, but this is one of my favorites. Do I even need to describe why? I mean, they're so cute. And they just posed like that, as if I'd asked them to. With their parasols. How can I not love this?

cock up

I'm sorry, Internet, my dear, but this is going to be another whiney ass post. But have some cheese with my whine and do your best to enjoy it.

I have been such a fuck up lately. As my Brit friend puts it, a total cock up. Yup. And it's not like I'm usually this way, but I can't seem to keep my brain in my head. I'm just worn down by life lately, tired and stressed and also feeling blue. And I could use a little time to process what has happened in my life. Process and heal. And regroup my faculties.

But I just don't have that time. I've got a job to do and bills to pay and cats to feed and moving to accomplish (and all the insanity that goes along with that) and I can't seem to just breathe. And my therapist thought it would be good that I'm so busy, that I wouldn't have time to be sad, that it would keep my mind occupied. But that's not working. Because instead, my emotions are all haywire and I find myself angry or frustrated or all-out crying at the most inopportune times. I almost feel like a crazy person, trying to appear put together but my emotions completely out of my hands. It's been keeping me awake nights (fucking insomnia) and giving me migraines.

I'm not usually like this. But I can't regain control right now.

What I really need is some quiet to work things over and to really think about my life, even if that includes sadness. Maybe I need to really and truly feed SAD first in order to feel better. I need some old fashioned alone time to really explore myself and my feelings and feel how I'm feeling. I don't want to just press through and suck it up, because then my feelings burst out when I'm not prepared.

So anyway, I think that's why I've been cocking things up. Why I can't focus or employ my brain at its normal capacity.

And then my asshole cat escaped again today. And hid in my rose bushes. And looked at me with her goddamn bambi eyes as if to taunt me. Like, what are you gonna do now, bitch? huh? Little punk. And I've had a monstrous headache and was in no mood to coddle her. So I reached into the thorny ass rose bushes, scratching up my arms in the process, grabbed her by her scruff and she growled at me, took her inside and locked her in the bathroom for ten minutes (don't judge me. she's just a damn cat, not a child. you can't put a damn cat in time out.). But then it was so cute, because my other cat (the sweet, quiet, afraid one) laid by the bathroom door and laid his paws against the bottom of the door. As if he felt badly for her, as if he wanted to make her feel better.

Fucking cats, dude.

The little escapee. The bitch.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Photo of the Day: Art Meets Commerce

I took this last Sunday at Embarcadero plaza. This is perfect San Francisco. Art and commerce. Sculpture and high rise. Living together in one small space. Gorgeous.
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