This and That

Alcohol has this amazing way of at the time making you feel absolutely invincible and witty and fantastic. The next day, as it wends its way out of your system, it will make you feel like a giant ball of failure. I definitely feel the latter today. I somehow got accidentally drunk on a Wednesday night. Yep. Accidentally. Not my fault. 2 beers with the amazing and fantastic Linds, in town on a short jaunt from New Hampshuh, somehow turned into knowing vaguely that I went to a certain bar last night where I'm sure I had a beer but no recollection today of actually being there. I win at life. And I lost my credit card. Again. Geezus H Christ, Lisa, get your shit together.

Which is kind of funny because I HAD been feeling together. Probably the effect of NOT drinking and not going out. I need to go back to that. Thinking of a six month cleansing sabbatical after LSU plays in the National Title Game. I was applying to jobs, focusing on some goals, trying not to panic about not having any money at all. But I backslid into bad behavior and now I'm doing research for my "client" (I can't have a client. It feels weird. So quotes.) and feeling like I am never ever gonna be a good lawyer. That's amazing.

Anyway. I started two very different posts yesterday but could never manage to finish them and found them boring. One was on how no one actually understands the first amendment and how that makes me want to kill them and the other was a reflection on my dogs. You're welcome for not hitting publish. Instead, I have some random thoughts I'll spit out in list form.

1. Unsolicited endorsement: I don't consider myself a music person. I like pop music, I don't think too much about new hip bands, and I can't tell you the last time I saw a live show of any sort. My interest is very passive. But I was watching a TV show the other night and this song by a band called the Lumineers was played at the end and I fell in love. I've listened to it at least 2 dozen times, if not far more. I'll probably hate it at some point and never want to hear it again but for now it's on an endless loop. So listen and I hope you like it too and if/when they play here, I plan on going and being hip and listening to a live band.

2. About that TV show: I was watching Hart of Dixie. It's the sort of ridiculous CW fare that I am knowing for loving (though I was on the Veronica Mars bandwagon long before that was cool). I make no apologies. I even sort of think they are attempting to get a little bit of Southern culture right with the main hang out bar being called the Rammer Jammer, a reference to the University of Alabama. Rachel Bilson is freaking adorable. (Even if my college roommate tainted my view of her by saying that when they were in HS together she was a bitch. I still am a bitch so I won't hold that against her.)

Jaime King is also in this show where she plays the over the top kind of Southern girl that Hollywood gets wrong. She is never not in some floral patterned summer dress with so much mascara on she can't possibly keep her eyes open. Her focus is Junior League and other silly festivals, all of which she treats with the utmost importance. And something about this character just grates on me. That sort of over-simplified sorority girl thing that doesn't actually exist in the South. I also don't really get the characters motivations and why I'm supposed to care about her or why she's with the guy she's with (a major plot issue on the show) other than that's just the way it's always been.

After watching the show on Monday, I off the cuff tweeted how I was annoyed by the stereotypes of the character and wish she'd been more complexly drawn. Don't give it a second though.

Last night, as I'm half in the bag already because I was drinking and hadn't eaten since breakfast, a response tweet shows up. Jaime King has taken exception to my characterization of her character. First of all: my criticism is not of her acting. It's of the way the character has been drawn. I'm smart enough to know that she's not the one that writes the character, just imbues the words with life. Secondly, if I looked like Jaime King, what some bitchy insignificant girl in San Francisco thinks of my character while I get to be, ya know, JAIME KING, wouldn't matter. In the least.  Seriously. I WISH I looked like this, lived in Hollywood, was doing well in my career, made out with Scott Porter for work. (Actually I'd rather make out with Wilson Bethel but that's a different issue.)

But, in the way that I do, I've now been obsessing about what about the character bugs me and been thinking way harder about it, giving it far more creedance than I should because I somehow managed to upset Ms. King. So: the character is frivilous and silly and focuses on all these pageants and causes while absolutely ignoring those around her. I really, as mentioned, don't understand the relationship she's in and would like background on those choices. She is obviously in love with someone else so sticking with this current guy rings false and I don't like the lack of guilt at her cheating. Her hatred of big city living isn't well explored. I get enjoying small town life but the hatred of big city life just because is narrow minded. I do appreciate that she loves this small town and wants to protect. The constant gowns are silly and the hats and the...look, this is 2011. Let's not pretend all small town Southern girls are so stuck in a time warp. The Southern girls, the fierce Southern girls I know, are far more complex than is being portrayed. All that said, I think the character does have true heart and her love for her town and protection her family are admirable and interesting qualities. The mother issues and being conflicted about love even while rushing headlong in one direction are areas that have potential to be really interesting.

Yeah. That's a lot of words on a CW show. That I actually really enjoy. But, ya know, I, silly girl in SF, somehow managed to upset a Hollywood actress so I thought I'd attempt to clarify my stance. The internet is really weird you guys. But since this is apparently how it works: if Chris Evans would like to contact me and hang out, I'd be down. Also: I want to marry Brooks Laich. So. Let's make that happen, mkay, internet?

3. Speaking of shows: That season finale of Sons of Anarchy was total crap. You owe your viewers more respect than that, Kurt. It was such a poorly drawn, easy out on the season long storyline it was insulting. But Justified is back soon and that will make me forgive FX a little bit.

4. I'm putting this here just because I don't want to forget it and I have the worst memory ever, even though it feels braggy to me: Linds and I were having a heart to heart over a pint yesterday, first time we've seen each other since May even though we gchat almost daily and we're just talking about life and all things in general and Linds says, "You seem like you've matured a lot in the last few months." I said something self deprecating like, "Which makes zero sense because I haven't actually DONE anything." And Linds said, "No! You have. You're really takin this time to consider the kind of person you want to be and making changes. That's really important." And I thought, "Huh. There's probably some truth to that." It made me feel really good! I'm on the path to not being a total screw up, apparently. Then I got drunk and acted like a jerk so there is still mad work to be done. And I really suck at this whole "being a lawyer trying to figure out the kabillion things they didn't teach us in law school" thing. So. Yeah. Baby steps?

5. Linds and I were talking about one of our law school classmates who lives near her in New England. Linds said, "I can't hang out with her because she's too optimistic. Does that say something about me as a human being that I only like dark twisty people in my life?" The funny thing is that I knew exactly what she meant. I've known some sickeningly saccharine people in my life and I just want to punch them. I told her I didn't think there was anything wrong with her because it made perfect sense to me. When you're THAT optimistic it feels like a disconnect from reality. Sometimes shit just sucks, yo, and if you can't admit that then that's...weird.

6. Hey! The trailer for that movie that was filming in SF where I met Jason Segel and Emily Blunt is up! That's cool.

And that's all I got for now, kids. I'm gonna go fail at being a lawyer some more while staring at my red sparkly Christmas nails. It's kind of nice to have football wrapped up for a month so my superstitious nature gets put at bay and I can actually do something besides purple. It's the little things...

Holidaze

I hate the day after Christmas. Everyone is all good cheer and Christmas carols and present wrapping for a month. The sun rises on December 26th and pfftt that is all over. The light rock station is light rock again and not a marshmallow world in the winter. There are no presents under the tree. There is no good cheer left and nothing to look forward to. (Except for a bowl game on January 7th.)

This year, then, I suppose the fact that I was extremely hungover on December 26th was a good thing. Or at least had an upside. I barely left my bed. My mom came in my room at 3 p.m., after I'd been in and out of dozing all day and said, "It smells like drunk people in here." "Yeahhh...I'll take a shower." And that was pretty much all I accomplished yesterday. Apparently I was way into the holiday spirits the previous night.

Hawaii Update

Edits made below in fancy colors so if you already read it you can skip to the parts you haven't read.

I can barely type this as I am hungover like whoa and LSU is motherfu*!#ing losing to Arkansas on a end of half play by Ryan Mallet that just...gahhhhhhhhh.

Anyway, I thought you all might appreciate a quick update on our island adventures. Um. There aren't really any. Well, okay, here's what happened: my brother isn't here because he got sick and was ordered not to fly. I actually feel bad for him. I have thus spent three straight days with my mother and my stepdad and sort of wanted to kill them most of the time. It wasn't particularly fun. I haven't even swam in the ocean yet! And right now I'm, well, hungover in my room watching football. When the game is over I'll rectify that.

On Wednesday we arrived here, took naps after snacking at the Cheesecake factory and went to late dinner at the amazing Duke's. Went to bed early because we were all exhausted.

Thursday we woke up and went to breakfast at this place my mom likes. My dad and I have this thing about waiting an hour for eggs: don't. They're fucking EGGS. Give me $4 and I'll make you my own in fifteen minutes. So that wasn't fun. At all. Except that the food was actually good. And everyone here is so fucking friendly. SO FRIENDLY. It's hard to be pissy when the waiter is all like, "How's it hanging brudda?" So the food was good. But I WAITED AN HOUR FOR FUCKING EGGS! 

We went to the pool that afternoon where my mother had a wee bit of a meltdown. And I almost got in a fight wanting to punch the guy at the pool bar, where I ended up fortuitously for the last five minutes of the Saints/Cowboys game. Dude says, "I was just in New Orleans. That place is a shit hole. I'm never going there again!" Ohrly? It is? Did you go to Port of Call and Irenes and Frenchman Street or did you just drink flavored sugar water rum at Pat O's you giant douche? Fuck you. About ten minutes later he would say, "Yeah, I'm from Dallas. I hate the Cowboys, I'm not a fan at all, but I'd like them to spoil everyone else's season." Well. There you have it. THat just about explains everything about you, doesn't it? Douche.

And then to dinner buffet at the Royal Hawaiian. That was tasty and fun. We again called it an early night, the time change screwing with us, and woke up early Friday. Oh, also: I worked out. In the gym. On Thanksgiving. I figure this is good for the stupid amounts of mai tais I will drink this week. I also almost got in an altercation leaving the gym. Some people are island people. Some aren't. I'm guessing all these asshat tourists aren't. I'm getting onto the elevator when man moseying the fuck off it gets in my way. I happen to catch the corner of his foot on my way to make the already open elevator. I mumble excuse me but he doesn't hear this apparently. As the door's closing he says, "Well EXCUSE you." Fuck you, asshole, I SAID excuse me. You were the one in the way! Kind older southern lady on the elevator asks what that was about, I explain and she says in her amazing drawl, "We could take him." Ha! Thanks! Mom says after those two events that apparently I can't go out in Hawaii by myself. 

I had one thing I wanted to do here: go to the USS Arizona memorial. Because I'm a military nerd. This was MY thing. My stepdad totally hijacked it the second we got there. In fairness, he is also a military nerd. He's like a lifetime member of the WWII/D-Day Museum in New Orleans. And my mom wanted to go to the mall that afternoon. I had told her I didn't want to do both in the same day but this was vetoed. Anyway, we go to Pearl Harbor and I'm feeling rushed and we go to the USS Missouri and take a tour but then have to rush back on the bus to get back to our shuttle boat for the USS Arizona memorial. I don't like being rushed. I wanted to enjoy the USS Mo more. I'm about to lose it, but quietly and thank god for smart phones so I can tell others of my dilemmas. Then: Twist! It's too windy. They can't shuttle people over to the USS Az anymore. So I don't even get to go. GAH! But we go back on the bus and head to the Pacific Aviation Museum which wasn't impressive and I'm starting to loosen up because *spoiler alert!* I LOVE planes! I am later not bothered by this because someday I will be admiral of the Pacific Command and can go to Pearl Harbor whenever I want. So there. 

So anyway, in the midst of my text message bitching with my dear friends, I finally had enough yesterday and decided it would be a BNBD night and I would loosen up. We go to the mall, which ended up, despite being the mall the day after Thanksgiving, pretty fun. There's a restaurant at the mall that overlooks the ocean. And a Mai Tai bar in the middle of the bar mall. Life could be worse. And I spent a ton of money I don't have on stuff at Macy's. But tax here is only 5% as compared to the 9.5% in CA so really I'm saving money. On stuff I don't need. Whatevs.

Mom wants to go to Roy's that night, I need a shower, I get all dressed up because I am going out tonight! BNBD baby! (For the uninitiated that is the acronym for Booze and Bad Decisions, something has evolved from conversations with my stepsister and I. It is both a horrible horrible misguided rallying cry and an excuse for the feelings the next day. It started by me saying, when extremely hungover, "OMG I smell like booze and bad decisions.") Mom calls and says she's not feeling well, she's gonna stay in. But I'm dressed. But now I lack courage. It's HARD being a girl! Going out by yourself is scary. But I text and look for courage from my usual posse of folks and head downstairs to the hotel bar where after two mai tais I have a little liquid courage. The bartender, apparently recognizing that I'm alone at a bar, gives me a list of Chinatown bars that he says are awesome and full of locals and not stupid Waikiki bars. Because Waikiki is like Fisherman's Wharf. Very few locals places there. But a cab? To go to bars where I don't know anyone? This sounds sketchy. So I head to the one bar I swore earlier in the day to the adorable girls at the jewelry store mentioned when I asked where to drink that I wouldn't go to. A bar so awful, so fratastic Jersey shore debauchery that even undergrad me would have eschewed it. A bar...just...I have no words. Senor Frogs. God help me I was at Senor Frogs in Waikiki. I have never been so convinced I was going to be date raped at a place. It's totally date rapey there. Thank god it was early and I'm a girl so that the bouncer let me bypass the $10 cover because that would have just been more than I can handle.

I sat at the bar, made friends with the one adorable bartender, texted my step sister, drank her special cocktail (bicardi limon and tonic, which I changed to soda). And then made friends with a bunch of short Air Force guys who were in town for one night on their way to Guam tomorrow. (Ohhhh and why were they were going to Guam from Travis all of a sudden in the midst of Thanksgiving? I wonder...) At this point I'm beyond just liquid courage and into liquid stupidity. So yeah. There *may* have been some drunken dancing to bad pop music in Senor Frogs. There may have been some making out with an Air Force guy. And I have no idea how my directionally challenged self managed to make it back down Waikiki to her hotel but I did it.

And now I am hungover and useless and even typing the word mai tai makes me want to throw up a little. Thank god for a) room service and b) Dr Pepper available in the lobby of my tower at this massive hotel.

Now if only LSU can figure out how to beat the freaking Hogs...

LSU fucking lost which is all sorts of annoying but that's okay Imma go eat some Kalua pork for dinner and imagine it's tasty Razorback. Also, in my hour at the pool I had the following conversation with my mother:


Mom: There was a girl out here earlier who had an Oklahoma Longhorns shirt on.
Me: Oklahoma Sooners or Texas Longhorns. There is no Oklahoma Longhorn.
Mom: Whatever. I don't know. It was orange and had horns on it. 
Me: Texas Longhorns. 


You think in all my years of college football fandom something would have rubbed off on her but nooooo. At least she supports me watching it all day in my hotel room. And okayed my hungover ass ordering a burger from room service. $18 burger. Plus $12 room service delivery charge. Now the most expensive burger in the history of eating burgers. But she said it was cool. Nom nom nom nom. 

One of these Sundays...

I won't be massively hung over and be an actual real live grown up. Someday. Maybe.

First: A thanks to my incredibly amazing fantastic supportive couldn't do it without them friends. And my family too. No group of people can make a girl feel more loved even in abject failure than these amazing folks. Thank you thank you thank you thank you for coming to support me and watch football with me and love me in spite of myself. Seriously. Y'all ROCK. Hard.

And now: for a time line of my Saturday.

7:30 a.m.: woke up far earlier than I am accustomed to because bar stuff was seeping into my brain.

9:00 a.m.: Left room, started getting ready for the day.

11:30 a.m.: Go to Hooters to pick up chicken wings because they are, in fact, my guilty pleasure.

12:15 p.m.: Get to Michael's house. Eat a few chicken wings, drink beer, eat jello shots. Should be noted that I had not actually eaten anything prior to this point.

12:30 p.m.: Watch football with Michael, Chuck, David and Sara, Cheryl, Beth, and...wait for it...Doug. Eat more jello shots. A lot more jello shots. I have no idea what happened during the game. It's almost a complete blank spot, except I know that we won. Vaguely.

5:00 p.m. ish: Realize I am completely drunk and need a soft place to land. Somehow manage to get down to Chuck's lower level apartment and pass out on his bed. Note: mixing depressed emotions and alcohol generally has adverse effects. Thank god he never complains when I pass out in his bed. Which I've only done twice, btw. I have no idea when or where everyone else was or when they left or what happened but everyone let me sleep, as far as I know. So thanks for being there and sorry if I didn't see you on the way out.

9:00 p.m.: Wake up after sleeping through a thunder storm, which, for those of you not from here, is a completely rare and pretty awesome occurrence. Go back upstairs to the couch and rub my temples, leaning alternately on Sara and Chuck. Have epically awful text message conversation with The Boy. That one is now scorched earth, and honestly? It's about time and thank god and I shoulda done it myself a long time ago but now I get to be the slightly injured party about except, ya know, screw it, whatever. When I text Andy and Irene about this later their comments make me once again grateful for amazing friends. When I say to them he broke up with me via text Irene responds, "Um, is he even in a position to do that?" Andy says, "It's like a dude in the ocean yelling 'Fuck you Titanic!'" So we will now thoroughly be moving on, not that I hadn't mostly already. But seriously? Fuck him and his timing. This is the same person that on the second day of the bar exam told me he didn't want a relationship. That couldn't have waited 24 hours? And now I've failed the bar and you're calling shit off? GFY, dude. Note to self: I deserve way better.

David and Sara decide around 10 that they are going home, and now that' I'm hung over and not drunk, I'm going home too.

10 p.m. ish: I decide I want to see what my dad is up to. So I drive to his house instead of my own house, but all the lights are off. So I drive to my house. But not before I drive by Philly Club. Twice. Before deciding its just better to go home. Good decision time!

But: 10:30 p.m. ish: I get home and the score report telling me just how badly I failed the bar is on the kitchen table. Ffffuuuuuuu. I can't handle this. I don't want to be alone in my house for this. I want to be around alcohol and other people. I want crown and coke. This may have been a flimsy well designed excuse to go back to the bar, but, whatever, it worked. Bad decision time! So I go to Philly Club anyway, which is mercifully empty of people I went to high school with and parents friends and assorted idiot boys who can't handle me. I sat at the bar, ordered a crown and coke, and stared at the score report hoping that the longer I stared at it, it would morph into something that said I passed. It didn't. And I was alone and sad and my zen acceptance of yesterday was all gone and then I thought I might cry. At a bar. By myself. Which would have just been epic levels of patheticness. But then the bartender asked me if I was all right and the guy standing to my right asked me what I was reading and we laughed and drank and in one of those random the universe knows what it's doing moments I met a guy who had also failed the bar on his first try, a year ago, and passed on his second try and knew EXACTLY what I was going through and who listened to me rant about it because he had been there in a way that the brave face I'd been trying to keep up with everyone else didn't need to be kept up and I talked too much and said too much and was my usual overly honest self but guy was cool with it and now it's 2 a.m. and I was starving and ate Carl's Junior and we watched Sportscenter and yeah, ya know, yeah, awesomeness, yeah. So. That.

So: football, drunk, pass out, hungover, drunk again, BNBD, home. 24 hours of what can only be described as undergrad levels of retardation and let's hope being upset about the bar is mostly over and we're all moving on now. And by we I mean me. But for today Imma just gonna lay here with my mouth still tasting of crown and coke and cigarettes even though I've brushed my teeth several times.

Tomorrow: we get up and we do it better.

Remember when I was all...

"Dude, that guy is a total ass and I'm NEVA gonna talk to him again"? Yeah. That sort of gets thrown out the window when it's 3 a.m.

But to back up: I had no intention of doing anything yesterday. I was in my pajamas all day watching crap football. After the burning, searing shame of the previous weekend, I was taking a break from alcohol. Then I got an IM from Beth saying that she was bored. And so the adventure began...

I suggested that we go watch the LSU game at the LSU alumni bar because it wasn't on anywhere else. (I later learned it was on ESPN 3 and I could have watched it from the comfort of my own home, but whatever. You would then be deprived of all THIS.) We get there for the second half, have a drink at the bar, then sit with Sara Y and her boyfriend at their table and make friends with the other LSU people once Sara and her boyfriend leave. We watch the Cal game with them and found out that the Brickhouse (I believe?) is the unofficial LSU bar (that was some bullshit, btw, Cal, you should have figured out a way to win that one). Props to the LSU guy whose name I totally didn't get who went toe to toe with me in football knowledge and didn't balk at me being a girl.

Beth and I decide we need to go eat dinner and were debating some place around where we were, in the decidedly touristy Fisherman's Wharf area. And Beth has an aversion to seafood. So I finally decided, fuck it, she would LOVE Lorenzo's. I haven't been there in like a year, and usually alert Lorenzo ahead of time when I coming, but it's like 9 at night, so why not?

We walk in and are given the royal treatment. Lorenzo is eating at table but seats us, moves my car for me, and we begin the eating all the fantastic food I have come to enjoy there.

Oh, earlier in the night, Beth and I had discovered our mutual love of Carrier. We end up discussing this endlessly.

This will also lead to proving true what Andy told me about recency and confirmation bias, which he defined thusly:

You think you never see it, but then see it a lot: Confimation bias.

You see something once and recently, and take it as representative of the whole: Recency bias.

The reason this will matter is that as soon as I wrote a blog about wanting to join the Navy, started saying it out loud, it suddenly seems to be everywhere.

As Lorenzo comes over to say Hi to me and have some chit chat and I apologize for taking him away from his table, he tells me it's a customer that came in three years ago with the Blue Angels and is a pilot. My eyes get big. Beth's eyes get big. It was completely serendipitous. Beth and I enjoy our meal, as Beth is totally molested by the waiter, and then Lorenzo calls us over to his table, with the two couples, and we proceed to spend the next hour and a half or so talking with them.

The FA18 pilot totally tolerated all of my ridiculous questions. We discovered that he was on the cruise when Carrier was filmed, told us what a ridiculous shit show filming was, listened to us talk about who was hot and who was not. Said some less than savory things about the female pilots but also that they were awful pilots. He told us how horrifying it is to land on the aircraft carrier at night, but that some of his best missions were night flights, as it's infinitely easier to drop bombs then. He even knew the pilot that I talked to that night at Bar None during Fleet Week. Apparently the aviation community is small. His wife was fantastic too and tolerated us as well. Mostly me. Tolerated me. Beth is far better behaved than I. The other couple were also phenomenal, a guy who called himself a farmer, but was married to a lawyer and flew his own plane up from Lemoore (a city outside Fresno) just to have dinner and spend the night in SF. The navy pilot, call sign Bo (or Beau? not sure) was being deployed in two weeks on an aircraft carrier. I can not thank him enough for his graciousness.

Beth mentions that she wants to meet my brother. So I text him and find out he's at Bar None. We head over to the Marina. It is...ridiculous. But we end up having a lot of fun. Or I do. It's, I don't want to say odd, but I feel bad for Beth who is a non-drinker as I get progressively drunker, louder, more obnoxious. But she didn't complain and seemed to be having conversations with all of Doug's ridiculous friends who were there: Charlie, Derek, Chuck, etc. One guy who wondered why I didn't remember him from high school and insisted I should even though the reverse wasn't true. I don't know what that was about, things get admittedly hazy around then. I also vaguely recall dancing to a country song with some red headed guy. Weird. But it was...fun, actually. Doug and I didn't even fight. Oh, and I was purchased a shot of Jameson. I did not feel like throwing up. I threw the shot on the ground and put the glass back on the bar. Sorry for wasting liquor but, yeah. Oh oh oh! And I just remembered that Nate Schierholtz and his girlfriend were at Bar None. Talked to the girlfriend, not him, in a display of being, ya know, cool.

Beth and Doug are now friends. I was surprised to realize that my brother in his own quiet way had been following Beth's blogs ever since she wrote the piece about my dad. He knew exactly who she was. He has promised to try and get her an interview with his friend, a certain Giants closer that it annoys me to no end that he knows. I hope I get to tag along because I SO want to meet him.

Bar None finally closes, and thank wonderful Beth for driving us back to her place. I take over driving duties from there, find my way home, drive past Philly Club in West Portal even though it is 2:30 a.m. because I am a) an idiot and b) a glutton for punishment but then have enough sense to just go home. But you'd be silly if you thought I was done. I open my computer and have opened a few tabs in Safari but am not really paying attention. And I'm in the process of texting TB because...well...ya know...when my phone rings and it's him. But then he hangs up. So I call him back, "Did you just call me?" "Yeah. You're logged into [dating site] and I was messaging you but you didn't respond." "I am NOT!" Look at computer. "Oh. I am. But I wasn't paying attention to it...can I come over? I was in the middle of texting you when you called." "Come over."

And there you have it. But just so you know this is still me and I have, despite being admittedly awesome about it all previously, become fed up with the BS, yelled at him for a good fifteen minutes when I arrived. "You're an idiot. I totally deserve better. I should not be here..." And then. Then I pulled out of my ass one of those arguments that I don't even know WHERE it came from but probably has a ring of truth to it, "You stopped talking to me because you actually LIKE me and that scares you!" Pretty sure this was agreed to. Pretty sure it's irrelevant. I'm treating this like any other...ya know. I'm not getting on this crazy ass merry-go-round again. I'm more cynical and more cautious now. It's just not worth my time. I got plans for my life now, yo, and they don't involve being distracted by guys that don't treat me like I'm worth a damn.

I'm going to continue pretending that thing that's happening on Friday isn't happening and have a pretty busy week ahead of me.

So yeah. That was my Saturday night. And it ended up being pretty ridiculously epic. So thanks, Beth, for the random IM at 3:30 on a Saturday afternoon to get me out of the house.

"You got a friend in me..."

This song suddenly comes to mind. I do far less stupid shit when in the company of my compadres, my amigos, my homies. And they also say amazing, fantastic things to get you right where you need to be.

Saturday night was full of epic stupidness. Crushing rejection. Moronic...something. It was FAIL. And it was my own doing. I made a drunken ass out of myself. What else is new? Wait. Actually. I don't always make an ass out of myself. And when I DON'T make an ass out of myself is when I am with my amazing friends. But I was solo. And solo me is all kinds of retarded. I won't get too into it (most of you know the highlights), but yeah. Let's not do that again, mkay?

Oh: but LSU beat Bama and THAT was fucking awesome! Strutting in my LSU stuff after a big win always makes me happy. Strut strut strut strut. Oh, also, Michael? This. And this. Remember the chance of rain is....NEVER! When the sun finds its home in the Western sky...it is Saturday night in Death Valley! (This made me think: I don't really want to celebrate passing the bar. Fuck the bar. I want to celebrate with you guys watching the Ole Miss game. Will send out an email later...sorry for the digression, everyone else.) Dave didn't realize what a huge LSU fan I was. He made an off handed crack in an email and I came back full force. He was taken aback, that I got upset about that and not the other cracks he made. Um. Yeah. Then he was on the phone with Chuck yesterday while I was screaming in the background. He couldn't believe it. Then today, as I was in my comfy LSU sweatshirt and purple Uggs, he laughs that my nails are painted purple. Why is that surprising? Yeah. He had no idea. We are gonna change that.

I also adore that last night the conversation turned to Michael, Chuck and I going on a trip to a game next season. I told them I already had Florida circled on the calendar, though may have to change that for the grudge match against Auburn. Maybe attending the *no jinx no jinx no jinx* bowl game if it happens to be in New Orleans.

Even after Saturday night, I still had Sunday plans to be back at Michael's to BBQ with Dave, Sara, Chuck and Michael. I woke up pretty sure I was still drunk. My inability to even contemplate tying my shoes leads me to believe that was probably true. My failure at buying ice also leads me to believe that was true. So I show up, talk to Michael and Chuck, mention the failures of the previous night to which Chuck says, "Don't take it to much to heart." Something I appreciate. I also think he worries about me occasionally which I also appreciate. Michael wants the details and listens, offering his own take and advice. Again, I appreciate that. There is never any judgement or telling me I'm an idiot (I got that part covered). They're just my friends.

And then Sara and Dave showed up. I haven't seen them since...Labor Day, I think. And I'm talking to Sara about nothing in particular, I make some offhand remark about being slutty, she makes sort of a concerned face, says not to devalue myself that way, I say I was joking (kinda) and she says, "I thought you were like seeing someone...?" And I say, "Funny you should bring that up. It sort of just fizzled, for whatever reason, but he texted me last night and I gave him what for that I think he deserved." Sara stops and says, "Ya know...I hope you're clear about what you deserve. Because you're like really cool and awesome and chill and you just really deserve to be treated well." Dave is sitting there and sort of starts to laugh and be like, "Whoa!" I look at her, and I know she's really genuine in that moment and I say, in all sincerity, "Thank you. Really. I needed to hear that."Sara and I also talked about the fact that I don't really have a plan for my life. She says that's amazing and being open is really great. I liked her perspective on it because it mostly scares the crap out of me.

Sara is a counselor and she just has this amazing way about her, of saying the right things at the right time. I told her that I try to be that way but that it's not always easy and that some of the behavior I'm not thrilled with but I know why I'm doing it so there is a level of self awareness there. So it was a great moment and I realize that I adore having these people in my life. I feel like I should thank the friend that is no longer my friend for that, because it all traces back to her.

The lesson is: have your friends get your back. Don't go all loan wolf on this shit. 

In essence: I love you guys. *single tear, slow clap*

Cruise Control

I silently made a vow to myself (how else does one do it?...I mean I didn't blog about it, I suppose, or get all Scarlet O'Hara on the field), that I would get out there a little bit more. Spend less time staring aimlessly into the computer, screwing around, doing nothing. Well...I was feeling a little bit like this scene (one of my all time favorite movies, by the by). Apparently when I made this vow I didn't realize how much alcohol it would involve. I suppose it doesn't have to involve alcohol, but, well, it has. Not that I'm complaining.


And ya know what? It's been flipping FUN! This sort of post grad school let's relive undergrad rebirth? I'm enjoying myself. Immensely. I don't know if it's Indian Summer, I don't know if it's putting most of the various things that have happened in the past behind me, becoming more fully in charge of who I am...I dunno. But it's working, you guys. (More after jump...)

ZOMG! Women have sex and talk about it TOO!

About a week and a half ago a "scandal" broke out at Duke University. A female graduate had the audacity (and stupidity) to write about her conquests while at college. Well, write about is an understatement. A 42 page power point presentation of 13 Duke athletes she had sex with in college. She sent it to a few friends, who sent it to a few friends, and ya know, now the whole world knows about her screwing Duke athletes. Including Good Morning America.

And ya know what? Good. For. Her. Now, emailing it to friends not expecting it to get out amongst more people is perhaps a little naive. Maybe being SO detailed wasn't the brightest idea. But, as someone has been in trouble for her own writing, I think it's fantastic she had the balls to do this.

First off, if a guy did this, there would be a few eye rolls, a couple rib jabs amongst friends, and everyone would snicker. They would tell us, "That's just boys being boys," and shrug their shoulders. The besmirched reputations of every girl on that list would go ignored. It wouldn't even be IN the media. In fact, pretty sure Tucker Max's whole shtick is exactly this. And there are guys out there who aspire to BE the next Tucker Max.

So why vilify a girl for doing it? I wish she hadn't apologized. Maybe apologize for naming names, sure, but overall? Own it, sister. (I hate apologies generally. I hate the "I got caught doing something I wish I hadn't and now I'm going to rehab to amend my ways" thing.) We have a problem with thinking that women could be those in control of their sexual identities, and not just the victims. I'm sure the Sexualization of Women in America is a thesis somewhere in a Women's and Gender Studies major.

Guess what, America? We take control, too. I actually have a list similar to hers, in which I've named names. Its password protected and private but the 3 people that have access could easily ctrl c and publish it if they so desired (it is extremely outdated, for those interested). If not for a general squeamishness in discussing explicit sex (thanks, Catholic school repression!), I might have something similar to this girl.

And I wish I'd been this girl in college. (The decidedly ineloquent Drew at Deadspin defends her with a similar sentiment.) Screw as many Duke athletes as possible? Awesomesauce. I bet those guys have amazing abs. As long as it was a conscious decision and she wasn't a victim and she made a choice, which it seems she does. She seems to own ALL of it. A very healthy sexual identity. If she did it because she enjoyed it? I have no problem with it. I knew enough cleat chasers in college. I didn't respect the girls that only went after athletes (girl from Omaha who chose LSU because we had the "hottest baseball players at the CWS every year), but I certainly wouldn't have complained about bagging an athlete or two, some of them ran in my circles (in fact, just recently relayed the story of my own LSU baseball player, though I didn't sleep with him...though if you've heard me talk you know my basic theory is I regret the ones I didn't sleep with more than the ones I did. He counts).

The point is: America needs to get used to women being as much in control of their sexuality as men have always been entitled to be. That we can snicker and high five each other in the locker room just as much as any guy can. That it's not all relationships and babies and getting married for us either. Wasn't Carrie Bradshaw supposed to show that to the world? Right up to the part where she got all whiny, neurotic and relationship-y herself, I suppose.

Basically, Karen F. Owens, I say come out of hiding, write your book, get your 15 minutes of fame. Stride of pride, baby, stride of pride!

When I die...

scatter my ashes in Tiger Stadium.

I realized my flaw with travel writing is that so much insanely funny, awesome, ridiculous stuff happens and I don’t record EVERY second of it so what I end up blogging when I get home is just a litany of “we went here, we did this.” That’s not very interesting. Especially when the best part of writing is the introspective part. There are a couple of solutions to this: 1) Bring a film crew (which was thrown out there, as Kathryn and I are hysterical together), 2) Take pauses to write while traveling (maybe plausible when traveling solo, but usually when traveling I’m out, ya know, DOING stuff), or 3) write epically long pieces. Which is what is going to happen now. I’ll even figure out how to use a cut just so you can break this up. You’re welcome.

Boring

Michael told me yesterday the new blog is boring. I don't completely disagree. There are several reasons for this:

1. There isn't really anything going on right now. Seriously. I'm in post bar limbo. After the Southern California debauchery, I've been keeping a low profile. It's Sunday. I'm watching Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead. I'm not exactly setting the world on fire here, folks.

2. A certain level of contentment has been reached. This does not make for good writing, as there is a lack of conflict. (Or: not wanting to bitch endlessly about crazy girl brain relationship stuff.)

3. ... I forget what 3 was for. Oh yeah! I am obviously a little snake bit after what happened last time. As I laid out in the first blog, I'm trying to have broader appeal. Chuck made a comment last night that he hates being part of something that he doesn't have control over. My response remains and has always been: while he's a character, he's not the star. This is exclusively my perception of what happens to me. And these are my friends so what happens when I'm with them becomes fair game. I also don't think I've ever painted Chuck or Michael in a negative light. The only person I ever had a problem with is...someone who I'm definitely not friends with anymore. Still: I'm trying to be respectful of that.

4. I have been avoiding conflict like the plague. I just try not to be home anymore. I don't want to hear my mom and stepdad go on and on about about police stuff (yawn). I don't want to deal with my brother or my family issues. So I just...don't. For my sanity. As Dad has made a new motto, "You can't participate if you don't engage." We CHOOSE to participate in stuff, become entrenched in it. So I've decided to just NOT. But again: lack of conflict, lack of material.

Point is: I'll concede. It's been kinda boring. I'm also trying not to dwell on the fact that I'm waiting for bar results. It makes me want to drink. Heavily. Because I think about what happens if I fail. What happens if I DON'T fail. Anyone who asks me about the bar exam is risking me killing them. My aunt last weekend kept saying, "No, really, how do you think I did?" I have no flipping idea! And if I think of all the things I didn't write that I should have, it TERRIFIES me. So I try not to think about it. And I told both my aunts that I absolutely would not discuss it. Nope. Not gonna discuss it. Never happened. Wait for me to freak out on November 19th. Then I'll discuss it.

But: yesterday was fun. Irene came over and her and I went to Yancy's for beer and football where Chuck and Michael joined us. We I watched the LSU game. Michael rolled his eyes and asked, "Is this OVER yet?" No! It's not! Gloriously! I got told we were done watching football after the LSU game. But! But! TN Oregon is still tied! Oh well. We were going to go eat at Park Chow but ended up instead at Pasquale's Pizzeria. God I forgot how great their pizza is. After that I drove us all back to Michael's house.

Oh! I had parked a couple blocks from the bar. When I got back to my car, there was a Black BWM SUV double parked, blocking me in. I was parked in front of a super crowded Chinese restaurant. There were a group of people watching us, wondering what we were going to do. Now, had I been alone, I probably would have just fumed and waited. But I had an audience. And a few cocktails. And I said, "I'm gonna march in there and make that person move!" From the back seat, "DO IT!" So I get out of the car. To the group of people out front watching to see what happens, I look at them and say, "That your car?" They all shake their heads no. I say, "Well I'm gonna go in there and find out whose it is..." I open the door to the restaurant and immediately look back at them and say, "Yeah. Sure. Let the ONLY white girl in the place go handle this." They laugh. I am standing in the front with a bunch of people waiting for tables. Everyone is being pretty soundly ignored. I look around. I notice in the back there is a counter which is presumably to-go food. I march back there. I say, "Anyone driving a black BMW SUV?" A bunch of kindly faces shake their heads back and forth. Until the only OTHER white person in the place, a bro in cargo shorts and flip flops says, "Yeah! I do." And I say, "Can you move your car please?" "Yeah! Sorry! I thought this would take like...a minute. Thanks for waiting though." I'm thinking, "What's the alternative? Go THROUGH your car?" So: Yay assertive me!

Michael's house, a few cocktails, a bit of chit chat. It's all...well, my favorite thing ever. But it's getting late, Chuck is yawning, I decide it's time to go. I go the long-ish way home (instead of heading down Lincoln, I head back along Junipero Serra to Sloat). At Taraval, with Irene in the car I say something about, "I'm tempted to go to the Deuces...just because."

The Deuces is awful. Truly awful. It used to be the go to place whenever everyone came home at Christmas and Thanksgiving. I haven't been there since my 1st year of law school when a frienemy was a complete bitch to people I'd known forever and her for only a semester of law school. But Irene encouraged so, why not? Irene and I walk in and I LITERALLY have to climb over the outstretched feet of the guy who I hung out with after a wedding in June. Known him since grade school. Fortunately he left so I didn't have to make chit chat. Also immediately saw a friend of my brother's who I haven't seen in probably five years. We stand their awkwardly at first thinking, "This was a TERRIBLE idea." But they have Magners. And we love Magners. So we stay for another one. And then another. Chat for a long while with bro's friend, catch up on our shared high school experience and some people we know mutually.

And then this guy comes over. Kinda cute. Red head. Says something about football on Sunday to which I give my standard reply when asked about the NFL, "I don't know. My god plays football on Saturday." This leads to an in depth discussion in which I naturally showcase that I know what I'm talking about. Then guy busts out with something that is either an amazing line or real talk: He's got a radio show. Just at the college but whatever. And he wants ME to come on and talk sports. Because I "have a good voice for radio, not to squeaky or shrill. Just really nice." WHAT? Wait, come again, what? I'm at a dive bar. In the Outer Sunset. On a perfectly quiet Saturday night. And you want ME, who most guys abjectly dismiss or don't care that I know about sports, to come on and TALK about them? Dude. Tell me when and where, I'm there. Again: we'll wait to see if this was a total line (although, why? He didn't hit on me. At least not blatantly), but there ya go...

Came home, watched some of Sherlock Holmes, wrangled the dogs and went to bed. Now sitting on couch debating how much longer I can eat junk food and do nothing. Tomorrow. Tomorrow we are back to the gym, healthy eating routine. Today? I got about 8 more hours to gorge myself and be mean to my body.

SoCal will eat your soul!

I don't think anyone who isn't from Northern California can really understand the contempt that some of us denizens of the fog have for anything below, say, San Jose. Southern California is the 8th circle of hell. It's as close to the 9th as one can possibly get without BEING it. Oh sure, you may laugh. But I grew up hating the Dodgers, smog, and the freeway culture that exists down there.

However, every so often I forget this and think, "It can't be ALL bad. Like a eleven billionty people live down there. There are sunny beaches and al fresco dining and the chance to run into celebrities. Let's give it a try!" This is what led me to go visit my adorable 22 year old ex stepsister in Long Beach for my post bar trip. And holy mother of god, was I reminded that L.A. was not meant for me. So many lessons learned, so much money spent, it really would have been a better idea to just go to Europe. And probably more affordable.

I drove down. On this drive I realized that at the ripe old age of 30, my selective memory is already starting to kick in. I thought to myself, "This is the longest solo drive I think I've ever taken." All my trips back and forth to Louisiana were accompanied by others. But as I rolled down 101 I suddenly remembered, "Oh. What about all those times I drove Baton Rouge to Fort Worth to visit Chris?" Ah, how quickly we forget about our pasts. (In fairness, I made Chris drive this far more often than I did, but I did do it.) This was certainly my first solo trip to SoCal, but not the longest I'd driven alone.

My memory immediately got selective again when I finally arrived in Long Beach at my stepsister's apartment and we walked to her local drinking/eating establishment, Panama Joes (seriously, the 2.5 Yelp stars should tell you EVERYTHING). We walked in and the bouncer and the bartender and the waitresses were all like, "Yo! Kathryn!" And she told me about the ones she'd made out with and how it's her "SUNDAY FUNDAY!" place. I thought, "Damn, wish I'd been cool enough in college to have a place where everyone knew me and remembered my name. Sigh. I guess that's just reserved for cool, outgoing people like Doug and Kathryn..." It was a full five minutes before it dawned on me: Rotolo's. When I was Kathryn's age, crazy chick I was friends with at the time was dating the bartender. We drank for free. We stayed after closing. I may have maybe perhaps hooked up with the other bartender. And a bouncer. As with most things in college towns, Rotolos isn't even in the same spot it was when I was there, but for one glorious summer and fall, I owned that place.

Mostly being with a college kid in a predominantly college area brought up a whole flood of memories from when I was 22/23. I was jealous of her super cute apartment. "But she has WAY better stuff than I did in college!" And through no fault of her own, I was a little angry. Angry at her mother for being an uberbitch when *I* was in college, and my dad not kicking in cash/standing up to her. But ya know what? That's ridiculous. My apartment was twice as big and cost half as much. And it had it's own personality with the three couches and flower lights over the bed and the Power Puff Girl sheets. And I knew how to cook. Her fridge, on the other hand, was empty. She didn't have ketchup. I can't fathom not having ketchup. Then again, she's borderline anorexic and I could stand to skip a few meals...

When she went to work on Thursday, I made my way to the grocery store. I stocked up on stuff for us to eat. Well, for me to eat, because Kathryn barely eats. I have started making a trick out of discovering what she will eat and gorging her on these things. One of things she will eat is guacamole. And I make excellent guacamole. I bought us stuff for roast chicken and caesar salad. And beer. Truth is though, I left and most of it was still in her fridge. I was going to give into her way of life way before she came around to mine. Because despite an intention to make dinner that night, we ended up eating chips and guacamole and going out. Her guy friend came over. They went to the liquor store. They started drinking straight from their bottles of liquor. I drank beer. I may be older but this makes me wiser and staying away from hard liquor is always a good idea.

We were going to go to Panama Joe's to start but Kathryn's guy friend was wearing Dickie shorts and apparently those are verbotten at night. Wha? Way to discriminate. We went to the other bar down the street. Second Street is basically the strip you find in any town. Cute boutiques, restaurants, and college bars. Liquor was vastly cheaper in Long Beach than it is in SF. Immediately upon being in a crowded bar on thirsty Thursday in SoCal I was reminded of it's differences to Nor Cal. While Nor Cal is generally laid back cool, with a splash of pretentious trying too hard not to try Mission Hipsters and Marina douchebags who are all from IN, OH, and TX anyway, SoCal is all hair product, tans, short short skirts, and general cheesiness. Nothing about the place is genuine. Nothing. Especially the breasts. So as Kathryn's other friend showed up and she flitted around, I told her guy friend to not dare leave my side, lest I be swallowed by these masses. Um. Yeah. Choose your words carefully, dumbass. We drank giant beers in giant cups. Her friend Jen joined us, who was hysterically funny. But it just...doesn't quite fit, ya know? I am not So Cal. So Cal is not me.

And as much as I feel ridiculous and insecure and way too old for this shit when in So Cal, Kathryn does more so (except the old part). Which murders me. She's equally as funny as I am. More innocent. Ridiculously gorgeous, although she needs to gain a good ten pounds. So when she says, "I have a love hate relationship with the beach because I love being here but it makes me MORE insecure!" I want to both smack her and force feed her a cheeseburger. "But!"

Recently, when talking about male/female relationships with a friend and my dad, my dad said, "You're schtick works." I didn't question it at the time but since then I've wondered, "What IS my schtick? What did he mean by that?" I've come to the conclusion that what he meant is just me being me. So Cal makes me insecure. Everyone is very pretty. Artificial, as mentioned, but pretty. Tall leggy blonds everywhere you turn. Many of you received texts or were bombarded with my use of gchat on my cell phone about how all this prettyness made me feel. Special thanks to Andy for putting up with neurotic me for six days and the regular ass kickings. When I get past that and remember to be just me, things tend to work better. Sure, I may be surrounded by leggy blonds, but can they say anything interesting?

This, however, all turned into a shit show. The night of drinking on Thursday. Mimosa's at Schooner or Later on Friday. Very little sleep, very little food. Veronica Mars marathons. Balboa Island. Mutt Lynch's. SUNDAY FUNDAY! (Kathryn doing jager shots before 1)...I thought of blogging a play by play but frankly, it's just way too much. And way too much that has to be redacted. Let's put it this way: if I ever run for office, a lot of what happened over the course of the last week would be enough to seriously help the opposition. I lost my Ray Bans in Disneyland. For the second time this summer. Lost my sweatshirt somewhere. And probably a good dose of pride and dignity. I bought carmel apples at Disneyland (a tradition). I was twenty minutes on the freeway getting the hell out of Southern California before I remembered they were in Kathryn's fridge still. Awesomesauce.

I was definitely feeling the burn after awhile and hating that my karma/chi/place in the cosmos was all out of whack in Southern California when Andy reminded me: It's not like you're a child soldier. I literally laughed out loud. He was right. Shut up and be glad you GOT a vacation, even one with quite a few hiccups. So it was a damn good time. A crazy time. A liver murdering time. At times frightening. This kid is going to KILL me in a month in New Orleans/Baton Rouge. I am going to start preparing now.

Some highlights:

1. "Booze and bad decision tour 2010!", Kathryn. Booze and bad decisions is my phrase for whenever I am hungover and the dog is sniffing me like crazy. "What? I know, I smell like booze and bad decisions." Angela even jokes about it with me now. "Oh, booze and bad decisions?" Kathryn has turned this into her motto. She wants to get a tattoo that says B'N'BD (as we've decided that is it's acronym). I am making t-shirts for New Orleans. If you can't beat 'em...

2. Friday, early afternoon at Schooner or Later, after all night Thursday drinking:

"Do you want a mimosa?" - K

"Not really...okay fine." - me

"A bottle or just one?" -K

"OMG! Just one!" - me

"It's $14 for 2 or $18 for the whole bottle..." - bartender.

"Fine, the whole bottle." - me (We would consume two bottles.)

3. Disneyland, text from my mother: "Are you okay? I haven't heard from you." I text back that I am fine, thinking, "OMFG, I'm 30. I haven't talked to you in four days, if I was dead or in jail, you'd know." I get a text from my brother a half an hour later. My brother who never ever texts me. "Call your mother, she's worried about you." Dude, you're kidding me right? I text him back, "Already did." In the mean time, my father who is pretty in the loop and who I have been talking to all week, I text saying, "You have GOT to be kidding me!" He says that yes, it's ridiculous, because my brother just called him OVER THE POLICE RADIO to get a 910 (well being check) on me because mom was worried. The whole SFPD now knows I haven't called my mother in four days and they were scared. There, fine folks, are your tax dollars at work. City wide services to track down one 30 year old for not calling her mom. Who, btw, I didn't live with through most of high school and only sporadically talked to during college. What does she think I was doing then? And who would NEVER pull something similar on her son. Oh, double standards, how awesome are you? Hysterically enough, my stepsister's twin sister texted her the previous day, "Call mom. She's worried." In fairness, maybe they should be worried. But still: Seriously?

4. There were these super skanky vivid video girls dancing with the guy in Mutt Lynch's I thought was GORGEOUS. We walked in and were at the packed beach bar and I saw him and went, "Holy geezus." He was in the military. He HAD to be. There was no way he wasn't. I eye him. I talk about him. I am WAY too sober/chicken to talk to him. I notice he's wearing a Ravens hat. I know football. I have an in. I use my fabulous resources (Andy) to find out about the scrimmage the Ravens played the night before and some quick stats on the team. I make sure to go over to THAT area of the bar to order my next drinks. I say something to the bartender. I say something innocuous to hot guy. I say how I can't possibly compete with Vivid Video girls. Bartender says not to give myself such short shrift. I say, "Oh, I'm the smartest girl in here. I just don't look like THAT." He laughs. And I strike up a conversation with super hot Marine guy. OH yeah, he's a Marine. I ask him what he does, and here's our conversation:

"I'm a Marine."

"Yeah, you couldn't have said a less shocking thing. So...you're an officer?"

"How'd you know?"

"I'm wicked smaht...actually, you don't look dumb enough to be a scrub."

"You're right. I love my guys, but they're pretty dumb. Yeah, I'm an officer."

"What do you do? Are you a pilot?" (leading question, in hopes)

"No, wasn't smart enough to be a pilot...I'm in charge of guys who blow shit up."

*swoon*

Turns out he went to VMI, is a Michigan fan, a Ravens fan, and spends every weekend coming from 29 Palms to hang out at the beach. I may have used my amazing powers of observation to read his name off his credit card. Sometimes having cop parents is good for something. (Although I have completely forgotten it now. Damn you, Newcastle!) And Vivid girls may have looked like they did, but I got guy excited by talking about football. He left though. Alone.

But I think *that's* what my dad meant by schtick. I stop freaking out about what everyone else looks like and thinks and I get by on just being me. Sure, I can be a little brash, a little difficult and demanding. But that's why y'all love me, right?

So there you have it. I call uncle. You win, Southern California, you win. I will not make the mistake of trying to visit you ever again. IF I do, I will stay safely ensconced in the Disney compound. But I'm claiming Santa Barbara as North. Just in case.