Monthly Archives: May 2012

I AM A PRETTY LADY

#whatshouldwecallme is hilarious.  I’m dying.  I can’t remember the last time I laughed this hard.  My tummy hurts, I can hardly breathe.  After five pages of ridiculous animated gifs, this is the one that set me off.

There’s another that says, “How I feel when I get dressed to go out.”  The tomboy in me cringes and smiles.  It’s so true.

hey look, it’s me, wow, awkward

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I am the worst

sonofabitch

I lost my iPhone tonight.  Again.

I lost my last one over Thanksgiving.  I got drunk with the cousins (had a ton of fun), left it in the bathroom, and walked away.  Half an hour later I remembered, went back, and it was gone.  I tracked it with MobileMe the next day, and set off to find it.  I heard the alarm go off once before whomever stole it turned it off or removed the SIM card.  So infuriating.  I can’t believe there are people who exist who wouldn’t return a phone.

So tonight, Ballerina Friend was picking me up near her new place (she moved in with Treehouse Friend in a place they bought together.  How crazy is that?!).  I was sitting on the curb behind my car, just playing my ukulele to pass the time with my phone sitting under my uke case.  She pulled up, I grabbed my uke case, stepped into her car, and drove away.  I saw the new place (super cool!), walked back to the car (from the wrong direction to see the phone if it was still there), and drove home, at which point I realized what I had done.  I immediately tore through my purse, raced downstairs, did a quick search for my phone in the car, drove back to the curb, and then the panic set in.

I came home to do the desperate MobileMe dance, and drove to where it said my phone had been kidnapped.  No dice: I couldn’t get a wireless signal to set off the phone’s alarm, so I couldn’t figure out where it was.

he drove a crown victoria instead of the new charger (not enough trunk space, apparently), like my dad’s old car, which I loved

But there’s a police station not a block away from where my poor phone was being held hostage (imagine how frightened it was), so I popped in with my laptop, explained the situation to a cute Asian LAPD officer (I’m a sucker for uniforms), and was handed off to a very nice white cop who said he would get his car ready, and we would go.  After about twenty minutes, he came back and we came up with a game plan.  We would go to a nearby Starbucks to get free wifi so I could update the location of the phone in case it had moved, then go after it.  Of course, we forgot that it was past 11pm and the Starbucks would be closed, but luckily a nearby business unknowingly obliged, and we discovered that the phone had stopped updating, which could only mean that they had turned it off, or removed the SIM card.  In short, they had no intention of returning it.

My heart sank.  I showed the cop the last known location on the Google map.  He said he would check it out, and meet me back at the station.

I drove back to the station slowly and sat on the short blue bench, waiting for the cop to return empty-handed.  Ten minutes passed.  I saw movement through the glass doors.  I looked up to see the cop, and in his hand was my phone, still in its case.

My eyes popped out of my head while I smiled and blurted out, “NO. WAY.”  I couldn’t believe it.  He said the person who gave it to him said that his kid had found it and removed the SIM card (yeah, right).  What an asshole.  But seriously, who cares.  The expensive part is back in my hand, so I can’t complain too much.

May the Flying Spaghetti Monster reach down and touch that police station with his noodly appendage.  Seriously.  All those shining stars bless the LAPD.  Just sitting in that lobby, listening to the calls the cute Asian cop was getting was exhausting and depressing.  I can’t imagine dealing with that night after night, year after year, when I could be cultivating friendships, making love with my deamboat Boyfriend, spending time on the beach eating watermelon and playing ukulele with friends and getting a light sunburn (guess what I did on Memorial Day).  All you shining stars, bless those cops.

What crazy about this is I haven’t felt this good, this excited about something in a really, really long time.  I went to Disneyland with Boyfriend, and felt next to nothing, which scared me.  I’ve been numb for a while now, and I can’t figure out why.  It’s not to say I don’t enjoy myself.  I had a great time at the beach yesterday, I love play ukulele, I have great sex with boyfriend.  But this was… a sense of how a little luck can just make my day.  I put work in, good things come out, this standard (and good, but I’ve grown too used to it I think).  Here was a small-ish problem in the greater scheme of things that would have tainted my trip abroad (I leave day after tomorrow), and it turned out so much better than I dared hope that I feel rebooted.  I’m too comfortable with my beautiful life.  A change of perspective is in order.

Unrelated side-story:
While I was at the station, three generations of the same family came in (boy, father, grandfather) to report that the 19 (?) year old boy had been hugged and kissed against his will by the grandfather’s caregiver.  The father gave the report, while the boy kept saying stuff like, “I feel like I’ve lost my manhood.  I told him what he did was wrong, and that he had to leave.”  The whole thing had sort of a smell to it.  The grandfather had a very obvious toupee.  At age 91, I hope I don’t care so much about my appearance that I feel the need to wear something silly.  I haven’t had that tendency yet, so I think I’ll dodge that compulsion with any luck


Bonobos are not pants

i’m flexing, therefore my pants are pink IRONICALLY

I saw this ad for colorful pants the other day, and a little barking laugh escaped my lips.  Bonobo may be a brand of men’s blinding pants, but it was the name of a type of chimp first, a chimp known for its seemingly human sexual practices.

Bonobos are hilarious.  They have matriarchal societies where French kissing, oral sex, and homosexual sexual practices (among the males, and females) are common.  They seem to use sex to relax the group.  After a fight: sexytime.  When they get excited about a particularly plentiful patch of food: sexytime.  A new female wants to join the group: lesbian sexytime.  It’s pretty great.  I wonder what the discussion was like when deciding on the name of these very colorful pants for men.

“Let’s name these absurd-looking pants after a matriarchal, hyper-sexual chimpanzee.”
“…Sure, fine, whatever, I’m missing Diablo III.”


When juggling becomes literal

stay in school, kids

I just got back from a bar with friends.  I’m not a big drinker, and I’m a total lightweight (the two are related), so after one beer I’m pretty much done with drinking, and the rest of the night is spent socializing and sobering up, which is actually pretty fun.

Tonight we went to a bar that has a large outdoor area in the back.  They have turtle races, beer pong, and a beanbag toss.  I think tossing a beanbag into a hole twenty feet away is pointless and stupid, so I picked up three of them and started juggling instead.  Boardgame Friend came over and joined me (he can juggle too), and we decided to challenge ourselves.  He tossed me one while I waited with one in each hand, then used that one to start the rhythm.  Then I’d throw him one and he would start juggling with that one.  It’s actually pretty challenging, especially buzzed.  But we spent a solid hour or more on this little venture, on and off, throughout the night.  It was actually really fun, I almost worked up a sweat (we both spent a good amount of time chasing after wildly thrown beanbags).

Now we have to get some of our own so we can practice and get good at this!  I’ll have to find a toy store or something where I can get them for cheap.


“Yes! A thousand times, yes!”

The proper response: “Make it so.”  Obviously.  I hope Boyfriend does something like this if/when he proposes.  And he will, assuming he knows me at all.

only a filthy Ferengi says no to Picard


Clan Gordon

I pulled over to check out an estate sale the other day, and bought a few things for super cheap: a solid pewter stein for my Renaissance Faire costume, a few pieces of silver, and an old book.  The book had an ownership label on the inside cover with a Latin phrase on it.  Turns out this book once belonged to Basil Gordon of Clan Gordon, the second oldest clan in Scotland.

So I found them online and emailed them about the book, offering to bring it with me on my travels to Edinburgh, and maybe pass it off to them there.  I heard back promptly (they have no interest in the book), but the member of the clan I’m in contact with (Kevin Gordon) was very nice, and said he was here in the states.  I wonder where he is…

I went back and got a little silver baby cup for my mom (she collects them), and some more old books, one of which has a copy on Ebay for $125.

I love old books.  As a kid, when I couldn’t sleep at night, I would get up and set next to the bookshelf in the computer room, and just pore through the old books my folks had.  Their age, the way they smelled, the strange little stories they told were so soothing.


Everyone play nice

I feel like this sometimes.

There’s some strange force field covering the concept of religion that does not extend to people, which is insane.  If we treated people as well as we are forced to treat religion, we would all be eligible for sainthood.  Talking plainly about religion as a theory is considered offensive by most religious people, which means a calm, logical conversation with religious people about religion is impossible.

Our court system is something I bring up whenever attempting to have a conversation like that.  I don’t understand how we can all agree to use a court system that relies upon scientifically substantiated evidence to determine guilt or innocence, while at the same time refusing to believe that science is a reliable resource for producing plausible theories for the origin of our universe, our planet, our humanity.  Everyone agrees that forensic evidence is admissible, while visions from god are not.  I can’t imagine the family of a murder victim choosing to allow the murderer to be judged by god instead of by a jury of his peers.


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