29 November 2011

My life as a lunatic space cadet misplacer of things.

Pick Gabriel and Elliot up from school.
After Elliot is retrieved by sister, do TINY amount of work.
Gather things to take Gabey to the park, which is a 5-10 minute walk from house, depending on pace or whatever.
My things for the park, if you are wondering, include my book, phone and keys.
Why do I love the park?
Because at the park, I can read for pleasure without being pestered OR feeling guilty that I'm not doing something else.
An hour into my zombie book, realize the sun is setting, start to mosey on home. 
About 40 seconds from home, start to fumble for my keys, and realize that I definitely DON'T have them.
Panicked walk back to the park at breakneck fear-induced speed.
Panicked hunt for keys in the semi-dark, with an ever growing group of skeezy park-at-dusk spectators (mostly hoodlemish teenagers, peppered with some bums).
Panicked walk back to my house, searching the ground along the way in case I somehow dropped them.
Confirmation that all my doors are locked.
Attempt to peer into my window and see if my keys are somehow on the key hook that I never use (please be on the key hook please be on the key hook).
Cannot see hook from window.
Luckily, I have my phone.
Call my mom, who is on a walk.
Send my 14yo brother after her on his bike to convey the severity of the situation.
In what is now full darkness, sink into Defeat Slump on the front steps.
Mope about inability to drive somewhere, or even walk somewhere for dinner while this situation resolves itself.
Curse self for never bringing wallet anywhere.
Or keys!
Sister calls, she was on walk with mom.
She wants confirmation that I really don't have my keys.
She is on her way.
It is a 40 minute drive.
With help on the way, sit Gabriel on my lap and take turns playing Angry Birds.
Thank god for my phone.
Get into house with sister's arrival.


Resolve to be less forgetful.

23 November 2011

Thankful, 2011

Sacramento 7/10/11
Duncan, parents.
Dad, Duncan, Mom
Daniel, Laura, James, Duncan, me.
Camille: Parrot
Kindergarten First Day
This was my quiet year.
I'm thankful for my family.
I'm thankful for opportunity.
I'm thankful for my life.


So, yesterday.
Yesterday I accidentally recorded myself all morning.
Edited for lapses of time when I'm not there, etc.
Here's me, and all the scrunchy faces I make when I'm staring at my computer.
Music choices are lyrically NSFW.

20 November 2011

My Ass Goes Shopping: Jeans

I have a big ass.
While I'm by no means on par with Julia, my butt is bigger than your average white girl's, especially when you consider ass:waist ratios.
Jeans are difficult to buy.
While I also have inseam issues (real quick: I have short legs, pants go flowing on for miles after my legs have ended), I find those can mostly be solved with a little thing I like to call hemming.
My ass cannot be hemmed.
There are two camps of jeans rise: lower, and higher.
Both are fraught with danger.
Low Rise Front
Low rise pants in the appropriate size typically look okay from the front, if viewed from a standing position, in a skinny mirror, with all muffin top minimizing measures in place.
Low Rise Back
The danger lies in the back view.  Pants end, and the ass is still trucking merrily along up my back.  As they do.
The problems with lower rise jeans mean that I don't usually go down that path. I stick to the mid-high rise categories.  This puts me danger of Mom Jeans, but I'm hopeful that I've so far managed to avoid that fate.
High Rise Front
Hey look, these are my size.
High Rise Side
BUAHAHA JUST KIDDING SUCKER!  Feel the frosty air on your lower back! SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES!
So what does it all mean, really?
It means that I own SEVERAL pairs of jeans designed by renowned fashion houses.
*ahem* Nelly *cough*
Jeans recommendations, anyone?

14 November 2011

Horrifying Nightmare Things

A couple months ago, my mom stopped by my house because she was in town. I was doing schoolwork, so my she offered to take Gabriel with her while she went downtown and ran a couple errands. This was great, as it allowed me to get some work done without the constant chatter of a 5-year-old.
A few hours later, Gabriel came bursting through my front door.
"Mom! Mom! Look what I grandma gave me! She said I could keep it! For myself!"
He had....this:
"I'm going to put it by my bed! Aren't I lucky??"
I stared at my mom, who had come in after.
"Don't look at me, you're the one with the child who wanted it."
"Why do you HAVE it?"
"It was under some stuff in the office"*
"....Great....it was hiding out, waiting for him."
This thing is standing by Gabriel's bed now.
So good luck getting me to check on you, ever, child.
That shit is creepy.
He loves it.
Last week, my mom was helping my grandma rearrange and tidy so that she could get her carpet replaced. Gabriel and I came over to help with the computer.
My grandma gave him this weird, stuffed M&M-ish thing.
On Friday, Gabriel declared that he was going to 'make a project'.
He cut the legs off of a pair of discarded tights.
He cut the hands off of this little round stuffed thing.
He borrowed some thread and some tape.
Nightmare, II
"Don't you love it mom? I made it for you! Isn't it cute? Touch it! I want you to like it!"
I don't know what kind of monster I'm raising, but this is...this is no good.
*My grandpa's office is attached to a vacant retail building downtown, unoccupied since the 1989 earthquake left it yellow-tagged. My grandpa stored all kinds of weird stuff there: art, restaurant equipment, a motorcycle. My mom has slowly been clearing it out.

10 November 2011

Purse Distractions

I seem to spend a fair amount of time sitting around waiting for things/people/events.  Which would be fine at home and pantsless, but out in the world, I am easily bored.
Luckily, I am a lady of many devices. Listed in order of least to most adult-looking.

I find that video games strike the best balance between engrossing and not ruined by the white noise hum of The Vast Unwashed.  I have a 3DS (which I love), but most of the actual 3D games require some sort of physical movement of the screen/reorientation to move within the virtual world.  Which is fun! But it's not fun if you wish to avoid interaction.  So I generally play my regular DS games out in public.  My favorites are the various and sundry Professor Layton games, and Plants vs Zombies (which we have for DS per Gabriel's request). 
Now the problem with video games, even if you're not twisting around in your seat to shoot the guy behind you, is that the playing thereof does not exactly portray you as a grownup. 

When I feel like video games would call too much attention to my childlike mind, I will either play on my phone or my iPod Touch.  Why do I have both, you ask?  Because the iPod touch came free with my computer, and the phone works for actually calling people and using the internet.  They fill the same role in the games department, so it's really just a matter of which one I find first when I fumble through my purse.  Favorites are sudoku and various word game incarnations (WWF, Wordfeud, Scramble), for I am a nerd. I have a couple for Gabriel on the iPod Touch: some balloon game, angry birds, something that's like angry birds except with zombies. 
But! When I feel like messing with a phone seems childish....

Books!! Remember books?  Boy are they handy.  You can just....pull them out and READ them.  Easy Peasy.
The PROBLEM, of course, is that my favorite books are of the Young Adult variety, which again, with the childish.  Which brings us to the best distraction device of all....

I have a kindle, one of the slightly older ones (it's white).  And y'know what? I can read whatever I want and no one knows.  Plus I look all shmancy and sophisticated while I'm waiting to meet some professional-type for lunch or whatever. 
Winner, winner chicken dinner.

07 November 2011


Daylight Savings Time fills me with rage. 
First, in the spring, I suddenly have to start waking up in the dark and I lost an hour of sleep and my day is almost over for no reason and my kid is still awake at 10pm and WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?
Then, in the fall, enter the 25 hour day.  25 hours is too long.  You know who doesn't sleep an extra hour when DST ends?  Children.  Fuck that, man.  And then the MONDAY after the SUNDAY that DST ends is the WORST MOST ENDLESS DAY IN ALL OF THE WORLD.  As I'm typing this it is NOT EVEN SEVEN O'CLOCK YET AND I AM PROBABLY GOING TO DIE OF IT.
Cone of Shame
A couple weeks ago my cat, Flick the Destroyer, came down with a case of Necrotic Ass Wound.  He had to get six staples in his rear haunch area, and wear a plastic cone for ten days.

He spend a lot of time running head first into walls in an attempt to knock the cone backwards off his head, and a lot more time just generally looking ridiculous.
Also: constant meowing to go outside, constant spilling of food and litter, generally unclean appearance.  He is all destapled and deconed now, so we're back to normal, and he's quite pleased with his rediscovered freedoms. 
I am not very pleased with his vet bill.
Cone of Shame

I went to the USC/Stanford game with Julia a couple weeks ago.
USC Game
It was ridiculously good fun, even though USC lost in triple overtime, I never managed to get undrunk enough to find Heather, and I'm bad at self portraiture. 
We stayed with Briya.  She remains awesome.
At that game, four different people told me that I have pretty eyes, which is the kind of complement I get from anonymous internet people but almost never in real life, so that was nice and ego-stroking. 
My ego likes to be stroked.

Oh! Here's something I learned while I was drunk at the football game! 
If your bathroom stall doesn't have a lock, you can shove a toilet seat cover (or toilet paper, presumably), into the little latch, and it will stay closed while you pee! 
You don't have to do that awkward one-legged squat thingie! 
Julia taught me this important lesson.
Maybe everyone else already knew it.
But in case you didn't!
Toilet Paper Trick

I got a job! 
I mean, after I graduate, this summer, I have an offer for a job.
So it's not like I have an income NOW.
But I have a promise of having an income.