In which I am photogenic

Firstly of all, Sam over at My Mumbling Thoughts posted our interview.  You should totally check it out, and check out the project that started it.

Secondly of all, I saw my adoringly adorable friend Monica on Sunday evening.  Her friend Bruce was handy with his camera, and since I saw on his little view finder that he had taken a bunch of pictures where you couldn't tell that it's been 4 months since I dyed or cut my hair, I've been totally waiting on them before blogging about how much I love Monica.  Because I'm a really good friend.  And not vain at all.  

When I went to UCSB, I had a posse.  Well.  It wasn't my posse specifically, but we had a fabulous core group of friends.  We all lived near each other, and threw parties together, and got drunk and slept in each other's beds, and spilled red wine one each other's couches.  Well.  Maybe I was the only one passing out in your bedroom and spilling red wine on your couch, but I digress.  Monica was one of those friends.  And I love her.  And I miss her.  And seeing her is always great.

Don't bring a stroller, be prepared to carry the 2-year-old:

Monononononononica!

Thinking very hard about his taqueria food:

Looking a wee bit mischievous: 

Caught off guard:

Just like any other Saturday

My cousin's wedding was Saturday.  My family is....big.  We had another public berry picking experience, and my legs are still all cut up.  I was debating wearing my slutty dress or my church girl dress, but then I just stole my sister's dress and didn't have to choose.  

My brother Daniel was proving to be particularly photogenic:

But never to be outdone by my brother Duncan's girlfriend Kate:
My cousins Erica and Kristen, and on the right is a girl whose name I don't remember, but she's not related to me at least:
We let James have something to drink, and his eyes went wonky:
The groom jumping fully clothed into the swimming pool:

Jillian, the beautiful bride herself:

Saturday was also Julia's birthday, so she picked me up after the reception and we went out.  I had been drinking since about four o'clock, which just meant that I had to work extra hard on getting her all caught up.  And for free.  Speed drinking is always dangerous, because it leads to things like this:

When we got back to my apartment I realized that I'd left my keys at my mom's house.  Julia mocked me excessively for the trouble I was having scaling my back fence, intoxicated, laughing hysterically.  Then she tried to show me a thing or two, and realized that it actually is REALLY hard to shimmy over a high wooden fence when you're giggling.  Eventually we got inside, which was nice, because I needed all the sleep I could get to prepare me for Sunday, which was day two of Family Fun Time; a feast of wedding leftovers at my cousin Dave's house.  He has miniature donkeys, he built his own house, and he brews his own beer.  

I AM EXHAUSTED.

It pretty much just devolves from there.

I took Gabriel to the park once we got home from work yesterday.  He had a yoghurt pop which is basically frozen Go-gurt, but I don't buy the Go-gurt kind, I buy the hippie organic kind.  They are Gabriel's favorite snack, and yesterday (per usual) he had me wrap a napkin around it so his hands didn't get cold.  And then he finished it and was playing at the park, and I just had the napkin.  Yesterday (more than usual) the playground was full of Old Parents.  

Side note on Old Parents:  You don't inherently gross me out if you're just older and a parent.  That's fine.  My mom was 39 when she had Daniel, my aunt had her kids at 36, 40 and 43, I'm friends with lots of people who are lots of different ages, who have kids, who don't have kids, I don't really care.  However, in Santa Cruz especially, there is this particular breed of parents, and just for the amount of money you have to have to be this kind of parent, they tend to be older.  They have a ridiculous amount of name-brand Stuff and $800 strollers and the like, and they're super Up On Their High Horse about organic food, and "I only believe in the Waldorf way," and "I'm thinking of home-schooling," and "I plan on nursing Isabella until she starts kindergarden," and "we can't take darling Oliver to the park unless we can both come, because otherwise one of us might be missing out on some fun our kid is having."  Anyways, those are the parents calling their four-year-old Baby Bear in a cooing falsetto, and worrying that their 6-year-old might actually be young enough to eat sand on purpose (of course because they worry about that shit, they will it into being and it's true, their old-ass kid DOES eat sand), and dressing their fourth-grade son in turquoise stretch pants (and the poor kid doesn't know any better, and of course he's home-schooled, so he just thinks that's what parents are like).

Back to my thought.  Yesterday, at the playground part of the park, there were WAY to many Old Parents for me to deal, so I cajoled Gabey into taking a walk with me instead.  He was pretty lukewarm about the whole thing until I found a blackberry bush.  And luckily, I had my handy napkin from his yoghurt snack.  I filled the napkin up with blackberries, and then spread it out on the grass.  We were eating berries, and I was talking on the phone with Jules, who had a rather rough day yesterday.  And we weren't wearing shoes because it feels good to be barefoot in the grass (although I have friends who would flip out about that, do you wear shoes to the beach, that's what I want to know), and I was making a daisy chain for Gabriel.  And then there was this gopher poking his head out, so we were all berry stained and lying on our bellies watching the gopher, and not wearing shoes, and totally not paying attention.  

Then, in a moment of clarity, I realized that I was in public.  There I was, in scrubby dirty clothes, with no shoes on, and scrapes on my legs from bramble bushes, and berry stained hands, stalking a fucking gopher for my kid, while I decorate him with flowers.  I was totally that Crazy Lady At The Park.  Which I think is a harbinger of things to come.

In which she talks about her body, because she is a girl

So before I get to the part where I tell you that I'm fat and I'm going on Weight Watchers tomorrow, let me just say this:  I don't really think I'm fat, and I don't think that Weight Watchers has anything to offer me.  I think Weight Watchers has LOTS to offer LOTS of people, but I'm pretty sure I already get it about eating less and exercising more, and I understand about portion sizes, and fruits and veggies.  I guess maybe paying to understand those things would make me a bit more mindful of them, so there's a thought.

There are parts of my body that I don't particularly care for; the flabby bits mainly, and the large pieces that don't look quite right since I up and birthed a child two and a half years ago.

But.  

The parts of my body I don't like now, aren't really particularly different than they were before I was a mom.  Like I said, I don't actually think I'm fat.  I think that I weigh more than I should, but unless I'm hanging out with the freakishly pretty girls from my high school, I'm pretty sure that no one's describing me as the fat chick.  If you are, you can suck it.

And.  

Right now, at the size I am right now?  There are things that I like.  

The main thing that I like is this:  finally, praise be to Jesus, FINALLY my boobs and my butt are sort of proportionately sized.  When I'm skinnier, my butt is....well it's big.  Which is fine, because it's not saggy big, or flat big, or wide big, or anything, it's just that it's nice to buy all of my clothes  in the same size.

But.  

There are also somethings that I don't like about my body right now.  I would like to be less thigh-y, and it would be nice if my stomach was flatter, even if I have to resign myself to stretch marks running all up and down and over the place.  And the main thing seems silly in my intellectual, evolved, thinking brain, but it's true: I don't like telling people how much I weigh.  I know that shouldn't be a big deal, or whatever, because it's just a number, or whatever. 

But I weigh a lot.

Well.  

I'm freakishly strong, which I've decided means that I'm disproportionately made up of muscles, which I've heard are sort of heavy.  So even when I'm skinny, the number on the scale is still something that someone else of my height and build might be ashamed of.  So if I'm feeling bigger-than-I'd-like-to-be?  That scale number is WAY HIGHER than anyone might like to admit.  

And.

When I go to the doctor?  Doctors like to tell me I'm fat.  Like even when I'm really, really skinny, as in I'm standing here in my undies and you can count my ribs from across the room skinny?  Well how much I weigh when I stand on a scale is just grazing the very top of acceptable Body Mass Index numbers.  Note to Medical Professionals:  Don't tell healthy looking people with healthy heart beats and healthy bodies that they're fat.  Especially when they're still teenagers, and vulnerable, and already suffering from crippling amounts of Self Conscious.  Stop looking at your charts.  Look at the person sitting in front of you, naked from the waist down.  She's a little girl, and she doesn't need you to tell her she's fat.  Especially if her pants size is in the single digits.  

I'm just saying.

You wonder why I don't like to go to the doctor....

And then right now?  When even I think I'm a little chubby?  I'm fucked, right?  It doesn't matter that I exercise almost every day, and that there are all kinds of things I don't eat, like trans fats and high fructose corn syrup and enriched flour, and DELICIOUSNESS.  Because I weigh too much.  So like I said, I'm fucked, right?

Because I really would like to set up some goals for myself.  Realistic, attainable, after school special, feel-good goals.   And I understand about portion control and EAT LESS, EXERCISE MORE, I guess I just need to DO it.  

Currently, I exercise fairly regularly, at least 4 times a week, sometimes more.  I basically exercise for the freedom to eat whatever I want without gaining weight.  And you should know, I really like eating.

So I need a regime change.

And it occurs to me:

Maybe you should also know, I had two glasses of wine when I went home for lunch today.  It's making me feel sort of.  Um.  Uninhibited?  And rambly.  And incapable of constructing proper sentences.  So there's that...  

Gabey's Flickr Set

Gabriel took these pictures, all by himself.  He is a genius.

Pics of Gabey, last thoughts on Blogher

First of all, pictures of Gabey and Elliot at the Boardwalk:

My family makes good lookin' babies.  Whether or not we make good looking grow-ups is open to interpretation.

Second of all:

Recently, I've gotten a lot of my "real-life" friends on board with the whole blogging thing.  I love it, because a lot of my friends aren't conveniently located, and I am woefully bad at calling people and staying in touch, so I enjoy my little window into their souls.  And the ones who (wisely?) decide not to bare their souls for the internet, I enjoy knowing what they're up to at least.  As a bonus, I've managed to make friends with a whole lot of funny, beautiful, witty writers who make the "blogosphere" a better place.  And what I've just discovered this week?  I love reading someone else's version of something I did.  I was trying to explain about The Way I Was Acting at that conference, but Julia did a much more spot-on job.  And Julesy, I never said it was your fault I was lame Saturday.  I was just trying to explain that if you weren't there I never would have been able to turn off the crazy, and I would have still been running on the same juices that got me through Friday's session.  And then who knows what I would have been like come Sunday?

Sleep disorders

I have an alarm clock disorder. The beeping sound instills in me a fear of The Jesus, and gets my heart fluttering in my throat and my adrenaline pumping more than any car accident or natural disaster or any number of other potentially life altering events I've managed to live through WITHOUT FREAKING OUT. My current theory is that alarm clocks remind me of smoke alarms, etc., and send my brain into hyper-defense mode, although in all fairness it could just be that I just abhor waking up in the morning.

So what's my coping mechanism? I'll tell you right now it's not something logical like waking up to music. No my friends, every morning I wake up 1-3 minutes before my alarm is supposed to go off, and circumvent the panic attack. Obviously, my internal clock is finely tuned, because I sleep soundly up unto this point, and I do set my alarm clock for different times on different days, etc. Obviously, my brain needs constant reinforcement, because if I don't set my alarm, then I don't wake up.

When I do actually wake up to my alarm clock, it's under the following circumstances: I am under the influence of drugs and/or alcohol that have rendered my Crazy inoperable, OR I am extremely overtired and operating on NOT ENOUGH SLEEP. And when I wake up in that dreaded state, my blood is pumping, ready for fight or flight, and I'm far too startled and unsettled to go back to sleep, or hit snooze, or any of that other stuff that I've heard tell that people do. I don't make time in my morning for hitting snooze, because I don't.

Consider that foreshadowing.

Last night, after work, I went with my sister, nephews, mom, youngest brother, and 5-year-old cousin to the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk for 1907 night, which is when it's only 1 ticket per ride, and hot dogs and soda are just 75 cents. We had a really great time. I haven't been to The Boardwalk in at least 8 years. I took Gabriel on the log ride and he didn't flip out, and took him on a bunch of kiddie rides that he LOVED (pictures to follow). We walked along the levy path from my sister's house (about 25 minutes when you're walking with two 5-year-olds), and when it was all said and done, we didn't get back to her house until almost ten, and I didn't get Gabriel in bed until 10:15, and didn't get myself into bed until almost 11. 11 is not that late, even for me, the girl who really loves going to bed at 9:30 during the week. But I had a really long, sleep deprived weekend, and I've been running on empty for awhile now. I. Passed. Out.

My deep, unshakeable sleep led to the following: My first conscious moment this morning was my alarm going off 36 minutes later than planned. And I was already wearing my pants and bra. This means that I woke up this morning, got HALFWAY dressed, and crawled back into bed, all the while not turning off my alarm clock. I have no memory of that.

I also learned the following things:

1. My snooze is 9 minutes long.

2. Gabriel will never wake up to an alarm clock, even one that's been going off every 9 minutes for the better part of an hour.

3. Leaving late and getting stuck in the morning traffic? Sucks balls.

4. I AM SO GLAD THAT I DON'T NORMALLY WAKE UP TO MY ALARM CLOCK. All of my internal mechanisms have been set to Insane all morning. I'm typing at something like 110 wpm right now.

And a couple more thoughts, now that I'm starting to think

Okay.  Morning coffee has started to kick in (at 11:30?  Well it's Monday...) and I'm ready to be a TINY bit more coherent with my Blogher thoughts.  Well, maybe not more coherent per se, but definitely more detailed.

I left work about an hour early on Thursday, collected Gabers, got back to my house to park my car, and took the bus to the bus station, then another bus (Highway 17 Express) to the Cal Train station in San Jose, then Cal Train to San Francisco, where Julia was kindly waiting to escort me back to her domicile.  The entire trip took about 3 hours (from the time I got on the first bus), and cost $11.50.  Can I get a HELL YES for public transportation?  Gabriel of course had some trouble sleeping in the strange new world of Julia's condo, and hopefully did not deprive her of sleep to the point that she killed someone when she was at school the next day.  If that's so she hasn't mentioned it.  Yet.  

Friday morning Jules left for her daily activities at oh, yknow, BEFORE DAWN.  I snuggled with Gabe for awhile before getting myself prettied up and mentally prepared for 1000 Bloghers for breakfast.  I had left my watch at home, and was floating in a time-free universe, yet still arrived at the hotel at 7:55.  Because never in my life have I been late for anything, and if I ever was, it's because someone died.  Awesome.  Gabriel stayed at the onsite childcare, and I busied myself with being social and outgoing.  Day one I think I did an excellent job with networking and meeting people and what not.  Two of the three panels I attended were really great (the third one I left partway through, once I found myself literally doodling in the margins of my notebook and checking the clock every 40 seconds).  The community keynote was amazing.  I cried.  Several times.  And laughed.  Several more times.  Then I got Gabey, and his dad met us at the hotel and whisked him away for the weekend, and I headed off to the cocktail party.  Julia met me there, and my near, dear, adorable friend Amber was coincidentally WORKING at that bar, for our party, so I didn't even have to trouble with meet-ups, etc.  We went out, we had fun, we got to bed far too late, and that meant we couldn't get ourselves to the Saturday portion of the events until around 9:45 (which I thought was pretty good, all things considered).

Saturday we missed breakfast, subbed that with coffee, went to my favorite panel (the one mentioned in my post earlier today, about blogging about your passion).  Those ladies are all so funny and well-dressed.  Then I had lunch.  Three lunches, actually, because I skipped breakfast, and then accidentally got the fat-free (or maybe just not good?) lunch option, and, then, I dunno.  I really enjoy eating.  Julia and I sat in a corner (on purpose), and then, after checking out the swap meet area and recycling some swag, determined that we didn't passionately wish to attend any of the panels in session two or three, and therefore could live without Heather Armstrong's wrap up speech/talk/what-have-you, which I DID want to see, but, apparently, not QUITE enough.  Julia offered me a nap, a beer, and a hot tub.  It was a tough choice.  But.  Well.  Obviously not that tough.  

Also.  Julia and I met Aubrey and his roommate for lunch, since they were in town.  And that was nice :)

I think that on Saturday I did such a much worse job of being an attendee not only because of my hangover (which certainly contributed), but also because with Julia there I was perfectly within my comfort zone and didn't feel pressed to get out and extrovert myself.  I was THRILLED to have Miss Jules there, we had a really great time and I wouldn't take that back for all the world, but it's definitely easier to keep to myself in the company of my best friend whom I've known for almost 20 years.  

After our 100% satisfying hot tub/beer/nap combo, we headed to Macy's for the closing cocktail party.  The staff at Macy's was unbelievably unhelpful, so we missed the handbag floor, but caught back up in the designer shoes area.  Where I bought a pair of designer shoes.  And then the lingerie area.  Where I bought some lingerie.  Julia doesn't drink wine, so we decided to leave before we got to the furniture area, which was probably for the best, considering that we both made purchases on the floors that we DID visit.  

Sunday I got a ride back to Santa Cruz with Julia, Gabriel puked in the car, and I took two naps.  Today I'm suffering from wicked burnout.  But I'm VERY pleased with my weekend, and very much looking forward to checking out all of the new bloggers I discovered.  If we met this weekend, hi!

I KNEW I had a legitimate answer that first time around

I had some variation of this conversation many MANY times on Friday, at Blogher '08:

Me:  Hi, I'm Jennifer.

Stranger:  I'm So-and-so.  What do you blog about?

Me:  I have personal blog.

S:  Oh, so, what do you write about?

M:  Well.  Myself.  And my life and opinions and what-not.

S:  (Starts to look shifty-eyed) So.  What...um...what do you WRITE about then?  Like, what's going on your life?

M:  Oh you know, whatever.  Last week some lady called me fat, I'm constantly trying to drive less, sometimes I go to really sketchy bars and take photos.  I have a two-year-old.  

S:  (Looks relieved) Oh!  So you're a mommy-blogger.  That's great!

M:  Well, no.  Not really.  I mean, certainly, I'm a mom, and that's important, but, I mean, I've been blogging in some venue or another for way longer than I've been parenting.  And.  Um.  Yeah, I write about my son a lot, because he's a big part of my life, but I write about all the stuff in my life, you know?  Anyways, what's your blog about?

S:  (Now actively wishing to excuse herself from my awkwardness) Well I blog about (insert highly specific and focused item here).

Then, on Saturday, the only panel discussion I managed to drag-ass to (I got a FAIL on Saturday's events) was Pursuing Your Passion Never Gets Old, featuring Mighty Girl, Evany, Que Sera Sera, and Suburban Bliss.  Maggie Mason (The Mighty Mogul) at one point said something to the effect of, "What's wrong with calling it a personal blog people?  I don't understand why we can't just agree to say, 'It's a personal blog.  It's about me.'" Ignoring my questionable punctuation in that last sentence, seriously people? Can't we just call it a personal blog?  Because when I tried to do that, it was often not well-received.

A glimpse into my nightlife

This is my 300th post, so I feel like I should be doing something significant, like reflecting.  Or something.  But.  Last Thursday I went to Callahan's with Laura, Mary, and Krishna.  My sister befriended Buck:

I feel compelled to point out the obvious fact that he has gone through the trouble of braiding his beard.  He was also wearing his dancing shoes.

Buck's friend was this schmuck pictured below, who wanted us to come back to his place, and don't worry, because all that's there are "a couple big screen TV's, and some good friends."
For whatever reason, my sister was far more intoxicated than I was, even though I feel pretty certain we had about the same amount to drink.  However, comparing the next two pictures may lead you to believe that the opposite was true:

Anyhow, then Laura and I woke up bright and early Friday morning to trek down to Santa Barbara, where we had a great time with our mom, who fed us much good food and bought us many pretty things (which I plan on posting about v. soon, promise).  Coming back to work Monday was painful, but this weekend.  Well.  This weekend is Blogher! I'm leaving tomorrow after work, and I'll be staying with Miss Julia Jane, who is also coming.  Squee!  I most likely will not be posting from the conference on account of my ghetto computer situation, but I will keep Twittering, so look for me there.  So maybe that's my reflective 300th post.  300 and then my first Blogher event.

  

Before and after

Here is a picture of Gabriel about ten minutes before his dad picked him up last Thursday:

And here is a picture of Gabriel the next day:

Back away, fat American!

My mom, Laura and I were all at a consignment shop on our last day in Santa Barbara.  They were having a huge sidewalk sale, and I found a size 12, silk, floor-length gold ball gown from Banana Republic for $12.  I wasn't particularly interested in owning a gold gown, but I own a lot of clothes from Banana Republic/GAP/Old Navy, and I happen to know that I wear a size 12 there.  Or maybe, sometimes, a size 10.  So I held it up to show my mom:

Me:  Hey, mom look at this.

Foreign Woman:  I tried that on, it was much too tight around the ribs, and would not zip up.  It won't fit you.  You have much larger area than I.  You are much bigger in all ways.  You cannot wear that dress.  Your skin is too great.  

*Foreign Woman takes the dress out of my hands and puts it back on the rack*

Less than two minutes later, FW taps me on my shoulder, she is holding what I can only describe as a long-sleeved black mumu.

FW:  I have found a dress that will cover all over of your body in appropriate manner.

Me:  .....

FW:  This dress, it has enough fabric to fit over all of your larger parts.  I think it will fit over you entirely and nicely.

My mom:  I don't really think that's her style.

FW:  It is very nice dress.  You say this is not nice dress?

MM:  It's matronly. And she would never wear it.  

FW:  It is not a dress for the old ladies, it a dress for to cover all of her large pieces.

MM:  No thanks.

FW:  Okay, but you are mistaken in refusal to try on dress with large fabric area for all of your skin.

So then I HAD to try on the stupid gold Banana Republic dress, which, P.S. zipped up fine, and fit perfectly, because I WEAR A SIZE 12 AT THAT STORE.  After prancing around in the dress to prove to all onlookers that it fit me properly, I almost bought it out of spite, before I remembered that I never wanted it in the first place.

Santa Barbara Preview

I was walking down State Street with my mom and sister, and I saw this:

Gabriel & Elliot

It's sort of dark, but it's the only one I have on hand just now:

The last day of MY week, anyways

This morning my boss asked me if I could come in on Saturday.  "Well.  Um.  I'm taking a vacation day tomorrow because I'm going out of town.  So I won't be in town."

"You're not here tomorrow??" (There is a note of alarm in his voice)

"You signed off on it.  It's on the store calendar and your personal calendar."

"Oh. So you can't come in Saturday then?"

"No.  Sorry!"

SO excited for my day off tomorrow and my long weekend in general.  I'm bringing Gabemonster to his dad tonight (we're meeting in San Jose), and then I'm going out for drinks with a coworker, and then tomorrow morning (SQUEE!) I'm going to Santa Barbara!  I don't believe I've mentioned that this trip is officially so that my sister can wean Elliot, who turned two in June and is every bit as attached to nursing as he was when he was six weeks old.  Unfortunately for him, my sister's over it, and breastfeeding is one of those relationships that I  really think needs to be mutually enjoyable/beneficial. I weaned Gabriel earlier than I necessarily would have if I hadn't left his father, but I wanted him to be able to spend more time with his dad.  

Gabriel has never been very interested in "eating" or "sustenance," so weaning him wasn't that big of a deal.  But he and Elliot are so different, I'm curious to see how Elliot handles the whole thing. 

Gabriel and Elliot are a study of opposing forces.  While Gabriel is four months older, Elliot has been the same size or bigger since since they were 4 and 8 months old, and they acquired all of their major baby milestones (crawling, walking, potty training, etc.) at the exact same time (Elliot being freakishly early with everything, and Gabe running right around normal).  Their twin-like sizes and abilities serve only to highlight their extreme contrast in personality.  Elliot rarely speaks, Gabriel chatters a mile a minute, often keeping himself up at night telling stories to himself.  Gabriel is very careful and deliberate.  Elliot is wild and unaware.  Gabriel has a very hard time sharing toys.  Elliot doesn't really care one way or the other.  You can't take Gabriel to a restaurant because he might scream at the top of his lungs and throw a tantrum and refuse to eat, but through all that he'll stay in his seat and more or less do as you say.  You can't take Elliot to a restaurant because he won't stay at the table or in his highchair, and will go sprinting through the legs of the wait staff, but he will eat anything you put in front of him, and will do so quietly.  On that note, Elliot will pretty much eat anything, and lots of it.  Gabriel only eats fruit and prescribed "kid food" (mac n cheese, fish sticks, etc.), and he eats like a bird.  90% of Gabriel's body is legs.  90% of Elliot's body is torso.  You can give messy things to Gabriel and trust that he won't make a mess, you can let him walk on the sidewalk and trust that he won't run into the street, you can put him in his bed and even if he's furious, he won't get out if you tell him it's not allowed.  But he'll hit you, and he'll scream.  Elliot cannot be trusted with any of these things; he willfully does whatever it comes into his head to do, but if you physically get in his path and stop him, he can be rerouted, and he is not a tantrum thrower. 

Perhaps most significantly, they adore each other, and the study of opposites, Gabe with his head full of hair and his blue eyes, El with his wispy blonde curls and his brown eyes, Gabey chattering and negotiating, Elly quietly carrying out his own wishes, is one of the sweetest relationships I have ever seen. 

Story time!

First of all, since y'all clearly had no idea that I share my home with an angelically adorable child, here's a shot of Gabey napping with his one-year-old cousin Camille:

Second of all, I'm going to Santa Barbara this weekend.  I'm going with my mom and my sister.  We're staying at the Villa Rosa Inn. I've never stayed there, but I've been inside, and it's beautiful.  Since I'm the one who used to live there, I've declared myself in charge of all eating, which MUST include Pacific Crepes and Sojourner, and I shall strive to include Freebirds (for the nostalgia) and The Natural Cafe (for its natural deliciousness).

I've been driving myself crazy trying to remember everywhere that I used to love to go.  It's been at least 3 years since my last venture, and even though I remember where most things are, restaurant names, street names, and the like are alluding and confounding me.  I likely won't be going OUT like to BARS on this trip, so in the spirit of that, I'll tell you two good Santa Barbara bar stories:

1.  I was living downtown with Paris and Maren my fourth year in Santa Barbara (I had graduated, they were both  sane, and therefore enjoying their senior year at UCSB).  Paris and I went out, and ended up at Q's.  There are some details that escape me as to how this happened (I think I verbally instructed Paris to go home without me, and she obliged), but I ended up at the end of the night out by myself.  Which would be fine, but that Paris accidentally took my money and my phone home with her.  I didn't live THAT far from downtown, so I started to walk home.  Then I realized that "not that far" was entirely too far if you're 21, over-intoxicated, and wearing 4" heels (this was also before I sprained both my ankles at my sister's wedding; another story, another time).  So I stopped at the next pay phone, I believe with every intention of calling the house, or a friend and getting a ride home.  But instead I called the only number that I could remember:  9-1-1.  

"What's the problem ma'am?"

"I'm downtown and I'm drunk and alone and I don't have any money for a cab."

"Okay ma'am, I'll send someone right over, just stay put."

About 5 minutes later, a cop came, called a taxi, and MADE THE TAXI TAKE ME HOME FOR FREE.  My friends all wish to know why I didn't get thrown in the drunk tank.  I have no answers.

2.  On my 22nd birthday I got really, OVERLY intoxicated (this is a theme for those five years in Santa Barbara, consider yourself warned) at Paris' apartment, as at this point we actually lived in different apartments!  I can't recall if I was walking downtown, or walking to someone's car, or what, exactly the scenario was, but for some reason we were walking down State Street, very much downtown, on a very much typically crowded Friday night downtown.  I had to pee.  So I went behind a wrought iron fence to pee in the bushes.  Wrought iron fences look like this.  You can definitely SEE THE PERSON ON THE OTHER SIDE.   So I was going pee, and then I fell over backwards into the bush I was peeing into.  With my pants around my ankles.  And got stuck.  And no one would help me up because they were all laughing too hard on the other side of the fence.  And my butt and thighs were covered with bramble scrapes.

Enjoy your Wednesday!