Lefthanded-Rightminded

Current Leighton

2008-08-25T12:33:00.000-07:00

Today I officially started law school. Last night, at a new student mixer, I met a younger version of myself. We grew up in the same hometown, went to the same college, graduated with the same major, moved to New York following graduation to work for a period of 18 to 24 months, and we now live two floors apart in the same building AND have exactly the same class schedule. We will call her Past Leighton to differentiate her from Current Leighton (that's me) and Future Leighton, who I have yet to meet. As an aside, I believe I may have scared Past Leighton last night by telling her that the only reason we haven't killed each other is that I am two years older than her. (There can only be one Leighton in each time period, so if we were the same age we would have to fight to the death. It would get nasty; Current Leighton has no formal fighting training and would probably panic like a wounded wolverine, harming herself, opponents and bystanders alike.)

When I got home from meeting Past Leighton, I tried to compile a list of advice for her, e.g., places to avoid, things not to say, Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants movies to skip, Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants movies not to miss. I came up with one thing: poop chicken. (For those of you who would like to read the full story, it is entitled "Oh Sh*t" and was posted on June 4, 2006. Read it now because I am about to ruin the ending.) I realized that I wouldn't warn Past Leighton not to smell the poop chicken, I would encourage her to get more witnesses to corroborate her (our) story! I think that for a story like poop chicken to be truly believable, Past Leighton and I are going to need eight to ten qualified witnesses. I don't want to put too much pressure her, but she really needs to come through.

Piece of Cake

2008-07-22T10:40:00.000-07:00

Problem: wedding cake

Every bride-to-be says these words: "Groom-to-be and I tasted our wedding cake last week and it is the best cake we've ever had." When I was a child and thought like a child, I took the happy couple at their word. Now that I am an adult, I realize that wedding cake is actually the worst cake in the world. While the bride and groom taste freshly baked mini cakes, wedding cake is actually baked days before the wedding, and it is made in bulk. Anyone who has ever tried to turn spaghetti for four into spaghetti for forty knows that a multiplied recipe never tastes as good as the original, even when the math is done correctly.

Solution: Leighton's shawarma cake

Since the best cake in the world is obviously Pillsbury's Moist Supreme Funfetti cake with Betty Crocker's Rainbow Chip frosting, but since it would look sloppy to have a table at the reception covered in homemade cakes, I have decided that the ideal way to serve this to a large crowd would be in the style of the shawarma: bake twenty Funfetti cakes, pile them on a vertical spit, ice the tower of cakes, and then hire someone with a machete to shave off slices.

When this takes off, I would like you to remember where you first read about it.

Furbieland

2008-07-03T15:10:00.000-07:00

My sister just purchased two Furbies (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Furby) to alleviate the pain caused by the death of her oversized cell phone (http://100visionsandrevisions.blogspot.com/2007/10/motelona.html). I don't know why she is replacing human relationships with machines, but I feel there is nothing I can say that will make her believe that her phone and her Furbies won't come to life one day and truly love her. I blame Hollywood. They have used films and TV shows to push an agenda that machines and humans can carry on healthy relationships. It's no accident that Alan Thicke was cast as the father in "Still Not Quite Human." The producers knew that his boyish charm would subtly influence the American public into thinking that machines can be trusted. It's tragic to admit how this myth has affected my own family.

I'm getting off topic. My point is that my sister has purchased two talkative little Furbies. They speak Furbish, a language with obvious Mandarin origins. My new exposure to Furbish has gotten me thinking. I have been studying Mandarin for a year and a half, and I know roughly 600 of the 3,000 words that I will need to achieve proficiency. I have been studying Furbish for one day, and I know 10 of the 36 words that I will need to achieve totally mastery. I have run the numbers, and it just makes more sense for me to learn Furbish. Are the same career opportunities going to present themselves if I speak Furbish instead of Mandarin? Realistically, no. But I don't need twenty great job offers after law school, just one. I need one interviewer at a law firm that focuses on international law to look at my resume and say, "Hey, we are interested in opening up an office in the Democratic Republic of Furbieland, and we need someone fluent in Furbish to head it up." And there we go. I really foresee great things.

White House of Hotties

2008-05-29T15:00:00.000-07:00

We have new neighbors. I have not introduced myself yet because they have ugly cars and because I miss the family who moved away. I sigh as I recollect. They were a southern Indian family: all doctors, all hot. Their beauty provoked us to song, and since they lived in a white house, the beginning of every song began with "White house of hotties, want to touch your bodies..." A rare glimpse of Raman watering the lawn or Suddha getting the mail launched us into long professions of devotion, replete with hand motions (we would make claws with our hands and pretend that we had the privilege of pinching them, any of them...)

As for the new neighbors, I know that you can't always judge a book by its cover, but most of the time you can, and I don't like them. I don't want to pinch them. However, we have had a change of heart with a family that lives across the street. The dad used to run on a treadmill in their garage, and we could hear the whirring of machinery followed by frequent spurts of yelling. That is how he came to have the nickname "Treadmill of Evil." After a few months of using the nickname (ex. "Treadmill of Evil trimmed his palm trees," and "I saw Treadmill of Evil at the hardware store,") we had a family discussion and decided that Treadmill of Evil's nickname was too harsh. It was painting every impression of him in a diabolical light. So, he became Treadmill of Hope. Somehow, by changing a nickname he knew nothing about, he began to act differently. We heard less yelling and noticed that he was spending more time with his four-year-old doppleganger. The point of this heartwarming story of love and redemption is that I may come to really like my new neighbors.

I would like to clarify that I did not like the White House of Hotties because they were Indian. I liked them because they were hot. And wealthy.

The Best Look in the World

2008-05-27T12:06:00.000-07:00

Twice this week, I have wondered if I am wearing pants. It's not a question of whether I am wearing pants, shorts, or even a skirt, but whether my entire lower half is nude. The question itself does not concern me; it can only mean that I have purchased very comfortable clothing and undergarments if I can entirely forget that they are there. What concerns me is that, instead of looking down to see if I am wearing clothing, I try to figure it out by thinking about my legs and whether or not I can feel material on top of them. I would have thought that my sense of sight would be the default here, the line between two points, but apparently I trust and/or prefer my sense of touch.

Not Your Average Tuesday

2008-05-20T15:45:00.000-07:00

Since I am not currently employed, I will admit that I sometimes wake up in the double digits. It's not often, but often enough for me to be defensive about it. So yes, it happens a lot. Not that it's any of your business. This morning I awoke at six with a headache. Since I have been battling a head cold and suspected the headache may be due to sinus pressure, I tried to alleviate the discomfort by getting back into bed with a heating pad and a cold compress. After half an hour, my headache was worse and I felt nauseous. I gave up on my useless drug-free methods and returned to my tried and true: two Excedrin Migraine. I hesitate to take my trusty pills because of the substantial dose of caffeine they put into my system. I like caffeine but am not used to large amounts of it, and I am always curious to see how I will react.

I took the pills at six thirty. By nine thirty, I had responded to all emails in my inbox, talked to my dad in China, fed the dogs and the cats, played with the dogs, taken 1.5* walks, faxed some notes to a pianist, and vacuumed, dusted, and mopped the entire downstairs. At that point, I predicted a one o'clock meltdown, when I would pick a fight with my mom and then take a nap. I actually picked the fight around eleven fifteen, apologized around two, and got back in bed at three thirty.

*The first walk was cut short when, after four minutes of walking, I had to walk back to my front yard, throw up, and then start the walk over again. I suppose I could have thrown up in my neighbor's front yard, but Art the elderly pet-sitter was driving by and we just recently struck up a relationship. I thought it was a bit early in the relationship for that much reality.

Attenzione le narcisiste!

2008-04-30T14:43:00.001-07:00

I will put this mildly- I come from a competitive family. My parents' marriage was an unlikely match: the union of two first-born children. Both of my parents are the oldest of three children. Neither of my parent's parents had siblings. What do you get when two first-borns, the children of four only-children, have children of their own? My sister (the oldest), me, my brother (the oldest boy), and a family where four out of five members are oldest children and five out of five members want to be in charge. People expect that I would not be competitive, a sort of middle child peacemaker, inserted to prevent competitive family meltdowns. It's a nice idea, but apparently there was too much power-hungry DNA in the gene pool to split between two children without killing them, and it was divided up between the three of us.

Since we never got into competitive sports, the competition has been channeled into other activities: Jeopardy, Trivial Pursuit, push-ups, pull-ups, cooking, dancing, friends, driving, IQ, EQ, SQ (social quotient), SpQ (spiritual quotient), airtime, grandparent affections, pet affections, pet names…(list continued below.) It is not uncommon for a casual lunch conversation to include the words, "No, you are wrong." In fact, it happened again on Sunday. Board games are rarely played because they get so out of hand (I haven’t played Monopoly with my dad in 12 years), and although it is early May, the category for our annual Christmas quiz has already been chosen. Past categories have included the neighborhoods of Manhattan, English history from the 1100’s to the present, and landmarks within a three mile radius of our house. This year, the quiz will be on the location of all of the countries of the world. I'll admit I am nervous. My sister has already memorized maps of Eastern Europe and Africa, my brother has already memorized Southeast Asia, and I have unwisely spent my time seeing if Text Twist will let me hit a score of one million (I still do not have an answer, thanks a lot “ocular.”)

Family competition only occurs inside the home or the car. Outside, in this "real world" that I hear so much about, we huddle, strengthen and swarm so that we can take down the competition. It's easy to feel unified when we all look nearly identical, but it also helps to occasionally wear matching outfits.

We are not ruthless, we just need to win the way we need oxygen, food and Cable.

*grades
politics
clothes
diction
general coolness
skin care
puns
room cleanliness
celebrity sightings
in-law accolades
vacuuming
languages
college rankings
Classical music
humor
nail care
food shopping speed
writing
running
music lyrics

The heat, my god, the heat.

2008-04-28T11:20:00.001-07:00

A heat wave has crashed down upon Southern California, and I think I speak for everyone when I say that the wheels have officially fallen off the productivity bus. I have become listless and weary, finding that even standing in one place for a short conversation makes me tired.

There is a reason why Greece, Italy, Spain and Palm Springs are not the world powers they used to be. Warm weather does not breed creativity and productivity, nor does it ferment political agitation. Heat kills things. I don't feel overwhelmed with the discontent necessary to overthrow the government and the neighboring countries (lucky for you Canada!), I feel overwhelmed at the thought of having to put sunscreen on. Had I been invited to a riot yesterday, I would not have even considered attending. I would have ranted for a few minutes about why someone would choose to hold a riot in such weather conditions, and then I would have returned to my room, where I would keep the shades closed and lay on top of my bed.

Law School or Jail or Whatever Comes First

2008-03-27T15:03:00.000-07:00

Last night, I went to a law school reception for prospective students, held by a school that I will not name. My dad and I cut out early, but not before speaking with an alumnus who graduated at the top of his class and currently works as a criminal defense attorney. He failed to notice that my dad and I look alike, talk alike, and were wearing name tags that displayed the same last name, and he asked my dad what schools he is deciding between. I don't want to judge the whole law school by that one mistake, but too late, I already did. Before that debacle, the attorney described a case in which a Vietnamese gang repeatedly sent an elderly Vietnamese woman with perfect credit to a car dealership to buy an expensive car with very little money down. The gang then took the car, she reported it as stolen, and they began the process all over again.

I have thought a lot about what sort of crime I would like to head into, assuming I could sear my conscience to the point where my life of crime brought me fulfillment instead of gnawing guilt. I decided a year ago that I would begin a car theft ring using the most innocent-looking of my friends (that's you, Carrie and Leslie.) We would steal expensive yet common cars, like black BMWs, drive them around the corner, remove the license plates, replace them with the plates from one of our cars, and then drive them down over the Mexican border, where I would have befriended the head of a chop shop. When the car got reported, cops would be on the look out for the license plate of the stolen car or a car of that description with no license plate. As most car thieves make the mistake of speeding away from the scene of the crime or drawing attention to themselves with erratic driving, my team would drive slowly and respectfully, as if we were just coming home from work (which we would be, in one sense.) Assuming Leslie ran a red light and did get pulled over, her stolen car would be carefully strewn with textbooks, Starbucks cups and a few pieces of clothing. She would have to quickly flirt her way out of having to show any registration, but the slight mess in the car would squelch any police suspicions.

As foolproof as I think my plan is, I felt a wave of awe and respect for the Vietnamese gang, and a bit of disappointment in myself. Their plan is better than mine. It's like being pleased with your 166 on the LSAT until you find out that your cousin got a 177. (Thanks for nothing, Paul.)

The Old and the Restless

2008-01-28T08:49:00.000-08:00

Old people orchestra has started meeting again. I do not know what happened over the holiday break, but since my return I feel that the old people’s old people behavior has gotten out of hand. I am unbothered if my old friends want to breathe loudly through their mouths or fall asleep during practice. They are welcome to yell comments as if they have no internal monologue or take advantage of my young strength and make me carry heavy objects. What bothers me is when old people feel the need to bring the topic of death into otherwise light conversations. Marilyn and I were having a nice little talk about orchestra seating when she happened to mention that her last four stand partners have died. Then I was carrying Peggy’s upright bass to the closet when she let me know that she married her husband so that he could carry her bass for her, and then he, as she put it, “went and died on me.” I understand that death becomes an increasingly relevant topic as we get older, but for the 70+ crowd I think it is a bit cliché to just sprinkle conversations with death tidbits.

You know, in many ways old people are just like us, with two exceptions.
1) Old people get married after about forty minutes of dating. You know it’s true.
2) When old people fall, it is always serious. At the last concert, our conductor wore three-inch high heels, and the only thing discussed between orchestra members before the music began was the conductor’s impending danger. No one was nervous for their own performance; they were audibly concerned about the possibility of broken bones. I have watched two of my elderly relatives fall, and let me tell you, there is a reason for the concern. It’s horrifying to observe.

2008 Thus Far

2008-01-09T16:50:00.000-08:00

My parents have lived in the same house for 12 years and the same city for 32, and as I have moved home on a number of occasions, I see a lot of familiar faces around town. I currently live in the greeting safe zone: if I make eye contact with a familiar face, I give the half-smile acknowledgement with a possible head nod. I have mentioned this before, but I believe that this sort of social reticence is interpreted differently depending on the height of the woman exhibiting it. Quiet short women are shy; quiet tall women are cold. I am tall, therefore I am perceived as cold. Tall white women never get a break...

Anyway, I was thinking about these factors when it came time to choose a New Year's resolution. My two options appeared to conflict.

Option1: Become ruder, but for the sake of efficiency. I have found that I get better service from businesses when I wear heels and act annoyed. When I wear flats and smile, I get the runaround. (Yes Mac store, I mean you!)

Option 2: Risk the awkward conversation (and the runaround), and start greeting the familiar faces. Go to the extra effort of learning names, risk saying the wrong name, and begin to ask questions about their families, jobs, vacations, assets, medical histories, etc.

I chose both options. I will be ruder to strangers, and friendlier to the familiar faces, and try not to be too rude to the strangers so that if they eventually become familiar faces, I do not have to take them out for coffee to apologize.

I implemented Option 2 at the gym on January 2. It was the worst possible day to begin my New Year's resolution since everyone else in the entire world was beginning their New Year's resolution to get in shape, and the gym was ridiculously crowded. I persevered, and said "hi" once and "hey" twice. I thought the results were overwhelmingly positive: I received one "hi" and two "hey"s in response. It's going to be a really good year.

Old People Holiday Concert

2007-12-10T10:23:00.000-08:00

With the exception of the music, I would say that Old People Holiday Concert went very well. I was concerned when I woke up on the morning of the concert to find that it was raining. I knew an elderly women who once skipped her birthday party because she couldn't get her hair to look right, and, after generalizing that incident to the entire elderly population, I feared that the unforeseen inclement weather would inconvenience the group enough that I would be the only person to show up. Surprisingly, nearly the entire orchestra showed up on time. In fact, nearly the entire orchestra and audience showed up an hour before the show.

My dad came to the Wednesday night dress rehearsal since he was out of town for the performance, and he made an excellent observation: the violins are a disaster. Now, as a slightly biased orchestra member, I would say that the cellos carry the group. Thanks to Richard, my crush, we all stay in time and in tune. I am actually afraid of him at this point. He gets indignant when the horns play out of tune, and turns to me for back up. "Did you hear that A??!! Did you hear how sharp it was??!!" I laugh and nod like we are best friends, and then inwardly cringe as I wonder if he notices when I play extra notes or start entire pieces on the wrong string. Richard watches the conductor and then exaggerates his bowing so that all cellos can sync up with his tempo. On the other side of the stage, the violins struggle for power, with each player consciously forgetting that there is a conductor and choosing their favorite tempo. The exception to this scenario is the second violinist, who does not play at all but rather sits there for two hours.

The concert started with the Star Spangled Banner (so seasonal!) For emphasis, all orchestra members were encouraged to stand while we played it. Unfortunately, since it was optional, only five people stood up. Instead of looking patriotic, they looked senile. Our grand finale was Beethoven's First Symphony. It started out scattered but graduated into full-blown chaos about three minutes in. The conductor stopped conducting and pointed to her head, the symbol that we would start the whole piece over again. The violinists did not notice that she had stopped the orchestra, and continued playing while the rest of us waited for them to catch on. The second try did not sound much better, but I think the conductor kept it going for the sake of pride. We squeaked out an ending, to which our bewildered audience lightly applauded. And then we all ate cookies.

Old People Orchestra, Part 2

2007-11-20T00:18:00.000-08:00

I expected that old people orchestra would be rife with humor, and it has not disappointed. Tonight, after our ten minute break that actually lasted 22 minutes, we sang/played Happy Birthday to one of the violinists who turned 97 last Thursday. She stood up and said that this birthday marked 27 years of playing with this symphony. Another violinist then hollered, "Here's to another 27 years!" Everyone in the room half-smiled but no one made any noise of agreement or approval, probably because the look on the birthday girl's face clearly stated that she doesn't want another 27 years. It was an uncomfortable moment for everyone involved.

We are ten days away from our concert, although it is going to be difficult for me to advertise considering the old people stole all of the fliers on the refreshments table tonight. I watched a man stuff a stack of fliers into his brief case. Now, instead of handing out typed directions, I have to tell people that the concert will take place in Clubhouse 3, directly behind the mortuary.

Our conductor told us last week that tickets will cost five dollars. A general grumbling ensued, broken only by a voice from the horns section that yelled, "They were four dollars last year!" The conductor, obviously surprised, said that if the dollar would keep people from coming then we were welcome to take a few more comp tickets. I do not think the extra dollar is going to keep our audience away. I think the number of pieces we are performing will keep our audience away. It's too much music, and it's as if the conductor has no concept of how quickly old men fall asleep. My grandpa once secured us onstage seats at an American String Quartet master class, where he promptly fell asleep. I expect this phenomenon on a grand scale next week, replete with snoring, drooling, bobbing heads, and dropped belongings.

Live Music

2007-11-05T14:05:00.000-08:00

As I am currently in the process of making major life decisions and facing questions about where I would like to live and what I would like to do, some other self-realizations have surfaced, such as my love for Camry's and Sprite. Although these things do not help my popularity, I have found that few people are actually offended when I explain the subtle sex appeal of the Camry Hybrid or when I order a Sprite, and just a Sprite, at a bar. However, there are going to be some hurt feelings when I start admitting that I strongly dislike live music, especially when it is played by someone I know. I have suspected this dislike for a while, but had not taken the time to figure out why until recently confronted. Here is what I came up with:

My Aversion to Live Music: An Explanation and a Few Qualifications

I will begin with the qualifications. First, I love music. These days, I especially prefer Baroque music, Paul Simon, and hip-hop, although I have yet to choose a side on the East Coast-West Coast hip-hop/rap feud. (I am leaning towards the East Coast.) Second, I enjoy the performance of some Classical music, especially chamber music. I have found that the calm of the situation helps me to think clearly, and I generally get some good writing done after a concert.

That being said, I do not like going to concerts or performances of rock, alternative, hip-hop, folk, or electronic music. Supposedly, live music is meant for socializing. However, it is too loud for any conversation to occur, meaning that I have to socialize by drinking a beer and collectively bobbing. The value is placed on looking relaxed, even though I am expected to stand the entire time. I would be more relaxed if I was at a job interview- at least I could use my words. And wear a suit.

If the music is being played by someone I know, the pressure to enjoy myself intensifies, and I cannot explain afterwards that the reason I did not have a good time is because I do not like live music. I have to find something to compliment, as if I'm not drained from trying to look happy and fun when they caught my eye mid-concert.

Even when seeing musicians I enjoy like Van Morrison or Coldplay, I spend the entire time trying to guess how many songs they will play (8? 12? God forbid two encores?)

I see no other option than to institute a temporary, but firm, no-live-music policy. However, I am open to negotiations. I recently rewrote a former policy that mandated solitary museum visits, and have since visited three museums with other people.

Come Hell or High Water

2007-10-25T14:27:00.000-07:00

It is day five of firestorm. The phrase "hot as hell" has taken on new meaning, as 90 degree weather couples with an actual wall of fire on the hills four and a half miles away. The lighting is orange and apocalyptic, the air is thick and dirty, and my black car has collected a nice coating of ash. Schools are closed and our postman wore a mask today since the air quality is bad enough that a few minutes outside makes your lungs burn.

Meanwhile, life in Orange County goes on as (almost) normal. The self-destructive high schoolers who live up the hill looked like an emphysema public service announcement as they sat outside in the smoke today- and smoked. And we, the Davis', decided to become the kind of people who dress their animals up for Halloween. It is a slippery slope, but we have decided to brave it, opting for a nautical theme. Abigail will be a sailor girl, and Inky will be a lobster.

Outside (day 1):

Inside:

Old People Orchestra

2007-10-15T22:35:00.000-07:00

Tonight I went to my first rehearsal for the Laguna Woods Village Symphony, an orchestra made up of senior citizens and yours truly. We meet at Clubhouse 3 in Laguna Woods, a massive community for active seniors. My cello teacher recommended that I join, probably because I live like a retired person.

I was pretty nervous to show up, and even more nervous when I had to show up 15 minutes late after the conductor gave me directions that left out an entire street. A friendly percussionist with a bowl cut welcomed me when I walked in, and the conductor introduced me to the sea of white hair. I took my seat in the back row and appraised my social situation. It looks like each instrument stays with its kind, so I am working on befriending the cellists. I think I am going to be pretty tight with Helga and Marvin, and I have picked out my new crush. There was a clarinetist making eyes at me, but I think I am going to choose the cellist who sits right in front of me. He's a spry 72, and I think he's into me too. (It didn't hurt that I had my new sweater vest on.)

Mark your calendars- we have our first concert on November 30.

It's A Wonder I Still Enjoy Warm Nights

2007-09-30T20:46:00.000-07:00

As I helped my brother move into his new apartment this afternoon, I looked out his window to a view of a slope leading to a sidewalk. I flashed back to a warm Saturday night four years ago, when I was tucked into my low bed next to an open window in my apartment in Westwood, California. As I began to drift off, I heard footsteps in the bushes directly outside my first floor window, followed by the sound of a drunk college male pooping. I knew that he was pooping because he yelled it to his friends on the sidewalk so they wouldn't misunderstand and think that he was just peeing. Nope, he needed more time than that, and he let them know why.

As I looked out my brother's window at the setting sun, that was all I thought about. No other memories came to mind. Just that one.

I Just Want to Help

2007-09-25T14:57:00.000-07:00

Alright, I am getting tired of answering this question, so I am just going to post my answer.

--------------------------------------------------------

Dear Leighton, How can I catch a nasty case of bed bugs?

Sincerely, Hopeful in Lake Forest

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Dear Hopeful in Lake Forest,

Catching a good case of bed bugs is dependent upon finding an extremely dirty, second-hand (or hopefully third or fourth-hand!) mattress.

The first step to solving your dilemma is going to involve another question: The term nasty is a bit vague; how bad of a case do you want? Do you want minor discomfort that can quickly be solved by wrapping your mattress in plastic until the bed bugs suffocate, or do you want a raging case that can only be taken care of by burning your mattress and every belonging that was in a three feet radius of the bed? Both scenarios are going to require patience as you wait to find or inherit a really dirty mattress. However, I won't mince words here. If you want a raging case, it will probably take months to find a fully infected mattress. Searching Craig's List is not going to produce what you are looking for; I recommend driving around college neighborhoods at the end of a semester and/or combing through dumpsters. I'm not saying it's impossible. You are just going to have to commit.

I hope this helps. Good luck on your endeavor!

Best,

Leighton Davis

Motivational Runners

2007-09-17T00:07:00.000-07:00

I went running with my mom and sister tonight. Apparently we are making this a Sunday night tradition.

Before last year, I had never run a mile at one time. I somehow made it through high school and college, sports teams and P.E. classes included, without ever having to run a mile. Though I wasn't proud of it, I was able to forget and undervalue it until I would watch a scary movie. My heart would sink every time I watched a woman get chased because I knew that if I were in put her position, I would have to stop running and find a good hiding place. The problem is that in scary movies, there are never any good hiding places. Serial killers, vampires and tyrannosaurus rexes can apparently all smell human flesh. (Yes, I classify Jurassic Park as a scary movie. As if you could keep your cool when your Jeep has just been flipped and is being spinned in the mud.)

But scary movies still did not get me running. If I changed my behavior on the basis of scary movies, I would have to give up everything from baby-sitting to vacations to public restrooms. And frankly, I love a good public restroom.

No, my running motivation came from another movie: one of the movies from the Lord of the Rings trilogy. I am pretty sure I mean the Two Towers, when Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn have to go warn somebody...about something...and they end up having to run quickly to get...somewhere...in time to tell them their news...I don't think it would have killed me to do a little research.

My point is that they had to run for days, and as the camera followed them across the plains, I felt a wave of panic that stuck with me for a long time. I knew that I never would have been able to save Middle Earth. I would have had to take a break every five minutes until Aragorn got so fed up with me that I would have had to just fake an injury and let the others go ahead. I couldn't handle that.

It took about 7 months and some small neon shorts, but I believe I am now a runner. If Aragorn calls, I am ready for anything. And I mean anything. Ahem.

Nerd Roadie

2007-09-12T10:09:00.000-07:00

My mom's string quartet is playing a concert for a group of Mormon lawyers this Friday. At last week's rehearsal, the pianist said, "Leighton, would you mind..."

I thought I knew where this was going and responded that I would be happy to turn pages for her during the concert.

She finished her thought with, "...talking about our piece before we play it?"

At the last concert, I was put in charge of researching each piece of music and giving a little synopsis before it was played. This is actually something that I enjoy doing. I get to read about the composer's lives and what was going on in the world when the music was written, which usually unravels the piece enough for me to advise the audience what to listen for, in an attempt to make the music more interesting. The problem is that I like writing little essays to be printed in the program; I do not like having to present this information to the audience. A few reasons why not:

1) I can spot glazed expressions and I know that most people are not paying attention.
2) I am presenting too much information for it to be absorbed audibly. People should be able to read it on their own time.
3) Since I also have the job of turning pages for the pianist, everyone has to wait for me to walk to the piano and sit down after I have spoken before the next piece of music can begin.
4) Did I mention it's humiliating? Since I also have to carry stands and instruments, I end up looking like the ultimate nerd roadie.

At the last concert, I told the audience that Schumann had originally studied law, and that the movement they were about to hear sounded like a case that was being argued and pleaded by a lawyer in court. No one in the audience cared, but the musicians behind me went ape shit, and now I am pretty sure I have to read that synopsis at every concert for the rest of my life, especially Friday's concert for the Mormon lawyers. In return for presenting my insight to a group of bored people, I am getting a free dinner. I am being forced to intellectually put out for a steak. I am a cheap Classical music prostitute being pimped out by a Mormon pianist.

Moms Will Be Moms

2007-09-05T23:45:00.000-07:00

This conversation occurred tonight at Irvine Valley College after my mom, sister and I walked out of our Chinese class. We were discussing the possibility of learning French at some point after we have become proficient in Chinese.

Mom: "If I could just lick Chinese..."
Me (interrupting): "You want to lick Chinese people?"
Mom: "Yes. Let's do body shots."

Grammar Police

2007-08-15T13:30:00.001-07:00

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine was discussing the police corruption in Jordan. She said, "the cops are corrupt." I heard, "the cops are correct." I hoped that she meant grammatically correct, and was encouraged by the idea that the Jordanian police force considered bad grammar* a crime worth policing; I felt it was an acknowledgment that theft and dangling modifiers can perpetuate the same level of chaos in a society.

The police are meant to maintain order on every level. Take the international police organization known as Interpol. They prevent and investigate large-scale crimes such as terrorism, human trafficking and war crimes. They also prevent me from duplicating my Flashdance VHS.

I would guess that the Orange County police force deals mostly with minor crimes such as reckless driving, shoplifting, and disorderly conduct. They could easily increase their list of misdemeanors to include improper use of the semicolon or confusion of the spellings of their, there and they're. Legally changing grammar mistakes into grammar crimes would legitimize the problems caused by sloppy grammar, and I could plead self-defense when I murder someone for replacing adverbs with adjectives and saying things like, "You did excellent," or "You sing great."

*When I say grammar, I also mean spelling and punctuation.

The Accidental Run-In

2007-08-02T12:27:00.001-07:00

Our six month old puppy, Inky, has a full brother named Turbo who lives two streets away. We have been trying for a month to coordinate a meeting of the brothers, but Turbo’s owners have been at a Harry Potter camp. Back east. For real.

Last night, on his way home, my brother drove past Turbo and his owners on their nightly walk, and then, two streets down, drove past Inky and I on our nightly walk. Realizing that this could be the chance we’ve been waiting for, he stopped his car and told me where they were. I knew that we would never intersect them before they got home, not when I was working against the distance, Inky’s short legs, and his fear of the dark. The only option left was to create an accidental run-in. Inky and I got into the back seat, and Michael drove us to Turbo’s street. The drop off was timed perfectly, and we ran into Turbo and company on the street corner. Assuming they had not seen Inky and I hop out of the back seat of a red Camry, I acted suitably surprised when we saw each other. They seemed happy to meet Inky, but not suspicious, which leads me to believe they thought we just happened to walk by. I’m pretty sure it was because of my realistic, “Oh hi!” I don’t want to brag, but I really sold it. I have found that the success of a planned-coincidental meeting depends on the quality of the oh hi.

The Turbo incident brings me to my current Facebook dilemma. Given my proclivity for stalking, not to mention my preference (and talent) for Internet stalking, I fear that caving to the Facebook peer pressure could be my downfall. Using Google to stalk limits me in a healthy way. If the search is fruitless, I give up. If I find too much information on the person and feel freaked out at my stalking tendencies, then I again give up. If, through a Web site, my stalking was to become somewhat socially acceptable AND consistently fruitful, would I ever stop? Would Facebook become my gateway drug to actually driving by people's houses and rooting through their trash? I wish I had an answer for you.

Endangered Leightons

2007-07-13T12:24:00.000-07:00

My Chinese teacher gave our class a short lecture on Wednesday night regarding the consequences of allowing all of the world's pandas to die off. She listed zero consequences and did not mention a single thing that I could do to prevent the death of pandas. She also failed to realize that the World Famous San Diego Zoo would not, and will not, ever allow the pandas to fully die off. Their mission is to keep endangered species alive: the panda, the Harpy eagle, the churro.

I believe the threat of panda extinction has been eliminated, but what about the extinction of tall white women? I haven't seen any fund raisers aimed at protecting my endangered species. Most tall white women do not face danger in the safety of their natural habitats, mainly their high-ceilinged homes or the volleyball court. However, once in a public setting, they are scrutinized for their social habits. While a short white woman who chooses not to talk will be labeled as shy, a tall white woman who chooses not to talk will be labeled as your standard, prideful American bitch.

My teacher and classmates in Chinese 1B seem especially threatened by my tall whiteness. I hear the laughter when I read out loud, and I see the question in their eyes- "Why is she here?" I am treated as if it is personally my fault that the Chinese government is making Beijing taxi drivers learn English before the Olympics or that a cup of Shanghai Starbucks coffee costs the equivalent of a laborer's weekly wages.

Poor tall white women. We never get a break.

My Adventures at Classical Music Summer Camp

2007-06-30T10:00:00.000-07:00

I recently went with my mom and sister to a week-long chamber music camp at the University of the Pacific in Stockton, California. What kind of people go to adult classical music summer camp? Out of about 45 people, 10% were normal musicians (a bit of an oxymoron), 40% gnomes and trolls, 20% men who were about to keel over and die, and 30% women who had never lived.

As we drove up to the University of the Pacific and I saw the tower of Saruman the White, I thought that my mom had tricked me into attending Lord of the Rings camp (best trick ever!)

My suspicions were further substantiated when I ate my first meal with all of the gnomes and trolls, but I was disappointed when I showed up to breakfast on Tuesday wearing my elf ears, only to find that everyone else had brought their instruments.

There was little time to focus on the other campers, considering the drama I had brought with me. My cello, Leighton, and I have been having problems ever since I cracked his base a few months ago. I've tried apologizing, but he doesn't want to hear it. I thought that camp could be a fresh start for us; a chance to get away and rekindle our sweet music. Things went well the first day.

By day two it was back to the same old squeaking and complaining.

On day three, Leighton went water skiing without me, which was not only rude but also a complete lie.

It took a week, but we worked everything out.

I promised to keep an eye on the crack and get it fixed if it spreads and/or begins affecting the tone. Leighton promised to cut the attitude and starting working with me instead of against me. Classical music camp? More like relationship camp.

My Sincerest Dream Apology

2007-05-14T19:28:00.000-07:00

Dear person that I kissed in my dream last night,

First of all, I am sorry for taking off like that. I really had a good time, but apparently I really needed to go load cargo onto ships, and apparently it could not wait, so I did have to leave without saying good-bye or thanks or that was pretty impressive. That's not an excuse, I just wanted to prevent any hurt feelings.

Second, I don't know why you vaporized like that, or better yet how you vaporized like that, but you have never done that when we have actually hung out. That's quite a trick to keep a secret. Sure, other people have instantaneously morphed into completely different people, but as far as dream tricks go, yours was not bad.

Finally, when I see you next, I am not going to mention this. We both know this isn't going anywhere, and it would probably be easier if we both just pretended that this never happened. However, if I ever have a break from loading cargo onto ships and you happen to be around, I can't lie- this will probably happen again.

Your friend,

Leighton

Zoo Wrap-Up

2007-04-14T10:22:00.000-07:00

I have long questioned the practice of feeding all captive animals upwards of two times per day, regardless of the animal's weight, build, or daily calorie expenditure. There is no reward for physical exercise; no punishment for laziness. And although portion sizes may be cut back for an animal that reaches the level of clinical obesity, an animal in a mid-range weight class is not asked to lose the extra five pounds that cuts down on its overall appeal. While most house pets can get away with these practices, I was quite relieved to see on a recent trip to the World Famous San Diego Zoo that the media's portrayal of beauty and fitness has spread to the animal kingdom. I can suspend judgment on an overweight house cat that I do not have to play with, but my grandma renews my yearly zoo membership so that I can revel in the glory of animal perfection.

My usual "best of" path through the zoo begins in Tiger River, makes a right at Hippo Beach to go up Cat Alley, and curves back through the birds of prey to drop me off at the Skyfari, which deposits me at the exit. Throw in a churro and a quick pass by the naked mole rats and I am ready to leave, invigorated by the perfectly-created natural habitat that I have just witnessed. I generally avoid such exhibits as the primate exhibit (new and a bit sterile for my taste), the reptile cave (I'm not an idiot), and the Polar Bear Plunge, as I do not need the sadness of watching a yellow arctic bear play with a flat volleyball. However, at the request of my guest, I graciously visited the polar bears on my last zoo excursion, only to find a polar bear laying on a rock eating Romaine lettuce hearts and a carrot! As a cursory Wikipedia search reveals that polar bears generally eat baby seals and human faces, I was ecstatic to see that the zoo staff has been cutting out the bear's red meat and upping the organic. Although I was a little concerned that he may choke on his Jamba Juice straw, it was quickly forgotten when I watched his excited facial expressions at his daily weigh in. My guess is that this weight loss excitement will soon spread to Hippo Beach, although the hippo's already healthy lifestyle (constant swimming and high fiber diet) makes me think that surgical procedures may be necessary. If my zoo dues can go towards hiring the best animal plastic surgeon in the San Diego area, then so be it.

I sincerely hope that the new weight standards will lead to increasingly competitive hiring. I was confused when it was brought to my attention that one of the swamp monkeys and one of the snow leopards are both missing a paw. A hippo with a few stubborn pounds is one thing, but it's another thing altogether for the zoo to consciously take in circus act hand-me-downs. Is this the World Famous Rehabilitation Center? The World Famous Second Chance at Self Esteem? As far as I can see, the zoo's only options are to hold tryouts for suitable monkey and leopard replacements, or to schedule the attachment of robotic paw prosthetics. Either option needs to occur before June 23, when Night Zoo hours begin, increasing the exposure, and therefore the embarrassment, at the primate exhibit and Cat Alley.

Just Between You and Me

2007-04-06T22:41:00.000-07:00

Things That I Actually Said on a Date Yesterday, Unprovoked:

1) I generally have a very good immune system.
2) I'm pretty sure lowercase g and uppercase G have different meanings in physics.
3) You could join my hypothetical car theft ring if you didn't rat me out.
4) It would be great if there was one elusive kangaroo hopping around Orange County.
5) I don't want to ruin the end of Swiss Family Robinson for you, but the little boy catches a tiger.
6) This place is infested with kids.

My Hips Don't Lie (And I Resent the Implication That They Ever Would)

2007-03-12T17:32:00.000-07:00

Things That My Hips Do In Lieu of Lying

Omit pertinent details
Change the subject
Laugh uncomfortably and then turn red
Prattle
Equivocate
Fake chest pains

Cat Fight

2007-03-06T09:36:00.000-08:00

The Protagonist

I adopted a cat, and a lifestyle, four months ago. Her name is Lady Jane Felsham and she is four to six years old.

Likes: sleeping on her back, drinking fresh water from a sink, plush rugs, watching activity in the hallway, smelling night air through a protective screen
Dislikes: synthetic fabrics, people who touch her paws, John Denver, Schoenberg, inexpensive gifts
Assets: Cutest cat I have ever seen
Liabilities: $250 vet costs for urinary tract infection
Equity: Still the cutest cat I have ever seen

Before being thrown out on the street and saved by the local shelter (in what I can only assume was a traumatic series of events), Lady Jane Felsham was spayed, frequently groomed, microchipped, fattened, and meticulously trained. She knows not to walk on paper, not to scratch furniture, and not to get up onto a bed until invited. I estimate she was out on the streets for two hours before getting rescued. She could not survive any longer, and even in that short period of time she was attacked and suffered a cut to her left flank. Generations of careful breeding accidentally bred the self-preservation instinct right out of her. She uses her paws and teeth for swats and half-bites that train me to scratch her chin, ears and chest, but to leave her tummy, sides and feet alone. When posed with the question of fight or flight, Lady Jane chooses elegant flight, and then howls like a baby until I can dump a glass of water on her opponent's head.

The Antagonist

Enter my sister's cat, the Gypsycat, aka River Rock. (No lengthy explanation needed- when groomed, the Gypsycat closely resembles a slick river rock.)

Likes: You. A lot. Too much.
Dislikes: Anything that comes between her and you. Even if it's you.
Assets: $1000 in medical bills, paid in full
Liabilities: none
Equity: $1000, quickly depreciating as senility sets in

The Gypsycat had control of the upstairs level of our house for the three months prior to the Lady's arrival. She is estimated to be any age above or around 18, and the first 15 years of her life were spent outside in Santa Fe, New Mexico. She survived intense winters, stormy summers, coyotes, feral dogs, slow drivers, and bad art. She was a dreadlock-covered wraith at the time of her adoption by my sister, and lived as a result of months on a heating pad and surgery to remove her rotten teeth (unfortunately, the last clue to her real age.) The little scrapper is a mix of overwhelming gratitude and neediness, with an unexpected side of entitlement and rage.

The Conflict

River rock, through grateful to be alive, has decided that her room and and the hallway are not enough territory. I have overheard whispers about Manifest Destiny, and have watched as she skulks down the stairs and around corners, looking for a new land. She has lived a difficult life, and dammit, she wants more. Meanwhile, Lady Jane positions herself on a pillow, crosses her paws, and puzzles over a distant memory of a peaceful existence when she was able to slowly inspect her territory without fear of a slimy little brown creature trying to pull out her fur. Her requests are simple: A green couch near a window from which to watch the birds. A carpetted stair on which to sharpen her claws. Two sinks of water from which to choose. Unfortunately, everything she desires is located at the end of a closely-guarded gauntlet.

The Resolution

Although the scheduled peace talks were fruitless and disappointing, a potentially-permanent resolution appears to have been reached while the principal mediator was at the gym or watching TV. The Gypsycat spent last week perched on a chair facing Lady Jane's room, a strategic power play meant to bully Lady Jane into confinement. Lady Jane met the challenge head-on, using her large size (interpreted as strength) and her bountiful leisure time (interpreted as tenacity) as intimidation tools to overturn the extended staring contest. The Gypsycat has moved on, claiming the staircase as her new territory, and allowing Lady Jane access to the hallway and her personal paradise, the master bedroom.

Mike Davis: Man or Myth?

2007-02-27T15:08:00.000-08:00

My father is a mysterious, powerful man around whom legends have been created, even though he is still young and healthy. Mike Davis exercises, gardens and sleeps in a full suit. Mike Davis was invited to the Grammy's. Mike Davis took a flight from Los Angeles to Orange County because the 405 was crowded and he didn't want to be late for a dinner appointment. Mike Davis appears to not be listening to anything you are saying, but actually retains 95% of your babbling and provides thoughtful advice at a later date.

Six years ago, my sister told my dad that it was time to get him fitted for a tuxedo for her wedding. He replied," I already have three. Maybe one of those will work."

Last Friday, he announced that we would be having a black tie Oscar party on Sunday, much like the black tie party thrown for the McLaughlin Group's "2006 Year in Review" episode.

Note: We have yet to grasp the concept of inviting people outside of our immediate family to parties.

Gated Woes

2007-02-20T10:36:00.000-08:00

The homeowners association in my fascist gated community has a new tool of oppression, the 8 1/2 x 11 copy paper notice, most likely printed at the home of a local loyalist and hung around the community for all to obey. Recent sign #1 states that "All holiday decorations must be taken down by January 31, 2007." After the peer pressure involved in forcing my family to hang Christmas lights across our back fence in the traditional community pattern (string of red lights across top of fence, white lights draped in calculated, wave-like fashion below), I was surprised at the lack of tolerance for leaving the lights up past January. I didn't see any printed fliers about the people who put their Christmas decorations up before Thanksgiving, but I suppose the community has bigger issues to deal with than hypocrisy.
Recent sign #2 unfortunately was not accompanied with an explanation for its surprising warning of "Zero tolerance for verbal abuse." I felt a perverse joy at the thought of what must have transpired to prompt the printing of that unexpected gem. Which unhelpful, misinformed, disgruntled employee got yelled at?! And for what?! It might have been the same incident that prompted recent sign #3, which is placed on the counter at the clubhouse in a protective, plastic frame: "Absolutely no one besides staff allowed behind counter." There is nothing behind that counter worth stealing, unless you desperately needed the scheduling book for the tennis courts, a cat calendar, or the sauna key attached to a cut of PVC pipe. If someone headed behind the counter, it was to rough someone up. Though generally not a supporter of violence as a means to an end, I understand why someone would see force as their only option for getting past the pervasive "can't do" attitudes that one encounters when trying to get anything done around here.

The best four years of WHOSE life?

2007-02-12T17:29:00.000-08:00

While waiting at a stoplight last week, my sister and I watched as one boy at a bus stop grabbed a nearby notebook and tossed it into traffic. The owner ran out into the street and collected what he could before a car drove over his papers and scattered the remainder over three lanes. My sister then asked, "On what planet is it acceptable to be such a dickhead?" She wasn't expecting an answer; we were both already preoccupied with haunting memories of the planet of dickheads: high school.

I went to a small, Christian high school, the kind of school that most parents would expect to have a smaller percentage of dickheads than large, public schools. That would be an incorrect assumption. Compared to public schools, small, Christian schools have the same ratio of dickheads to non-dickheads. However, since there are fewer people overall, the Christian school dickheads are expected to multitask. The dickhead must be the homecoming king must be the scholar athlete must be the drug user must be the Junior class treasurer. It's a lot of responsibility. Thankfully, they generally possess the self-confidence of ten invisible choir losers combined, and then exponentially multiplied. (Note: though not required to fulfill as many roles as the dickheads, the invisible choir losers don't get a free ride. They generally need to join the cross-country team, volunteer, and get pregnant at a surprisingly young age.)

The only way to deal with high school dickheads is to make jokes about how they will one day pump gas for a living. Unfortunately, this does not apply to the special breed of small, Christian school dickheads, as their multiple roles prepare them for a generally successful life. The good grades, the discipline from playing sports, even the resume-boosting minor role in the school musical ensures that they will finish college and then find a well-paying real estate job.

My consolation comes from knowing that the proverbial dickhead has lost his threat in my own life. He is no longer my prom date or my ride home. I don't owe him anything, not even a laugh. I'm laughing because that kid's papers are all over the road, and that is funny.

German-Jewish-Scottish-Greek Twins

2007-01-28T14:54:00.000-08:00

My sister and I are two and a half years apart. We were conceived at the same time, but she felt pressure to surface at nine months and I did not. (I wanted a May birthday, my own entrance, and nothing to do with the seventies.)

Our grandparents have always given us different versions of the same gift. I originally thought the distribution was random, but it's difficult to ignore patterns. When given porcelain dolls, Meghan received a happy redhead with a flowered dress and boingy curls. I received a German prude in head-to-toe velvet and unbrushable braids. When we were given music boxes, Meghan got a delicate, white merry-go-round, while I was given a haunting clown that turned jerky circles on top of a garishly-painted block. When Keypers became popular (http://www.80stoysale.com/keypers.html), Meghan received the pink snail named Pearl, who came with a pink hairbrush for her long, magenta locks. I unwrapped Sheldon, a sexually-confused, grayish-purple turtle whose one short tuft of hair made his/her hairbrush a total joke. Even when we were given picture frames, Meghan's was pink and mine was green.

It begs the question- do they just like Meghan more? Or, since they seem disappointed these days, were they hoping I would become a lesbian? or a boy? or a circus clown? It is comforting to realize that they seem equally disappointed in Meghan.

As if the entire universe would like to join in on this game, I recently tried translating my name into Chinese. My mom, sister and I have begun to learn Mandarin, and my sister's Chinese name is Mei ge, or "beautiful song." I divided Leighton into Lei tong. Translation? Thunder bucket. Meghan's name is a sweet symphony, and I'm a crude synonym for the toilet. I can change the meaning by changing the tones, so I could modify my name to mean "to accumulate pain" or "together we clean the sewer" or "ribs of copper." I think my options are slowly improving.

That I May Save You Time and Pain...

2007-01-22T18:21:00.000-08:00

Choosing an esthetician:
Before paying money to make yourself physically vulnerable, gain the reasonable assurance, through interviews or trusted recommendations, that your future esthetician is knowledgeable, seasoned, and human. (Probably a lesson that could have been learned and applied from the masseuse incident, see "Spa Night," July 14, 2006.)

My first esthetician lesson was learned at the hands of "I'm the best waxer around," aka Kelly. Self-aggrandizing testimonials should not be trusted, regardless of how many different ways Kelly described her talent or how many business cards Kelly gave me. As someone with an above-average pain tolerance, I just should not have gotten the pain shakes during a lower leg wax. Shins, a purely functional part of the body, have very few nerves. Something is going terribly wrong if my shin pain is eliciting flashbacks from a dark period of my life known as "Braces in College, 2000-2002."

I threw all of Kelly's shiny business cards away and never looked back, except when I get a pedicure from her.

My second esthetician lesson was learned when I received a facial last Tuesday from "you should feel really condemned about the state of your skin," aka Sandy. I never should have bought into the apparently-legitimate setting. The dim lights, steam, and scent of cucumber lulled me into a false sense of safety that made me forget any concerns I had, such as "why is this free?" and "why do I have to take all of my clothes off to get my face cleaned?" and "why does it feel like someone is clawing my face off?"

Since then, based on a friend's recommendation, I have switched to Cami. She appears to possess concepts of pain AND propriety, so I think we may be onto something. Here's hoping that she also turns out to be a hairdresser, accountant and podiatrist, so that all of my searching can be done.

An Unfortunate Incident

2007-01-14T19:03:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. Leighton Davis,

We regret to inform you that you have been the victim of identity theft. In an unfortunate incident, a disgruntled former employee gained access to our database of client information. We apologize for this unforeseen occurrence, and promise that we will do everything in our power to prevent this from taking place in the future. We recommend that you contact one of the three credit agencies to place a fraud alert on our credit account. By contacting one of the credit companies, all three will be notified to monitor your account for suspicious activity.

As of now, we are pleased to let you know that no more than six flights have been purchased with your credit card information. We are unable to refund this money to your credit card as the flights have already taken place, but you now have a credit with our company for six round trip flights. Please note that the tickets must be redeemed by you, in your name, and the flights must be booked and used before March 15, 2007. Other terms and conditions may apply.

Also, due to a series of complicated, and as of yet unknown, codes used by our former employee, you will be receiving a Kosher meal on all of your flights, you will not be allowed to check baggage, and you can only book a seat in the last three rows of any airplane. If any of these are a problem, we recommend that you call our 1-800 number and request a "Change of Name" form. An official name change in our systems will only take 6 to 8 weeks, but will undo the restrictions placed on your account. Please note that a name change in our system will require an official name change with the United States government.

Again, we apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you. In order to compensate for the potential inconvenience, we would like to offer to waive the security and handling fees on the next flight that you purchase. While we would like to offer this, due to restrictions instituted after September 11 we can only waive the handling fee. Thank you for understanding. If you have any questions, please visit our Web site at www.unnervinglyinexpensivetravel.com/FAQs.

Best,

Lawrence Bunker
CEO, Unnervinglyinexpensivetravel.com

What Would I Do If I Was Me?

2007-01-08T15:36:00.000-08:00

Of my two choices for a local hardware store, I have decided on True Value. Both options are chains, they are in a three mile radius of my house, and they carry the same merchandise at the same prices. While True Value has yet to live up to its name (they overcharge for batteries and seem to have no regard for my time), it is the staff of Store #6 that keeps me coming back.

The electrical department is not run by the 17-year-old who wants to be an electrician and has an answer to any question about wiring (even the question of how many volts of electricity it takes to kill a baby*.) No, due to an interesting management decision, the future electrician works the cash register, and the department is run by a middle-aged Italian man in high-waisted, light denim jeans, who apparently has a very cursory understanding of electricity, and who expresses what little he does know in long-winded, unsubstantiated opinions.

I love this man.

When a fuse blew out on a row of red Christmas lights that was strung across our back fence, I asked if there was a way to rewire the plug. His response: "What would I do if I was me?" I don't know. What WOULD you do if you were you? His brilliant existential question launched him into a heavily-accented monologue about how big explosions occur when you try to connect a male with another male, and it's good to start with a female and end with a male, and it's really bad to connect three males. I interpreted that it was best to just replace the entire strand of lights.

When asked whether it was a good idea to wrap all the plugs in electrical tape to protect against the elements, he said that he personally has never had a fire at his apartment. Not feeling like his luck was the strongest of foundations, my next question was which aisle had electrical tape.

My mom recently went to True Value to purchase a new coffee maker. As my Italian electrician maneuvered the desired machine off of the very top shelf and out from below another box (without the use of a ladder), he kept telling my mom that he wakes up every morning before 10. Since most of the world is up before 10, with the exception of college students and the depressed, my mom was not impressed and did not pretend to be. He continued to repeat the statement until he elicited the proper response. "I wake up 'fore ten. I wake up 'fore ten. I have to be at my first job by 5, so I wake up every morning at 4:10."

*Answer: I believe about 350 volts. I don't remember exactly, and I feel weird about calling him and asking.

I Am a Woman of My Word

2007-01-01T14:56:00.000-08:00

People move to tropical locations for a reason: sunny weather means that you do not have to face the emptiness in your own life. Alaskans, Canadians, and all others who brave the netherworld (any latitude below 35 degrees south or above 35 degrees north) are quickly forced to take stock of their inner darkness*, and to either overcome or succumb to it.

In Southern California, January to mid-November provides an external atmosphere of sun, heat, and calm that is available to anyone. Thanksgiving brings the punctual arrival of the unexpected: cold darkness. People are forced indoors, where they wander around without a sweater or socks, exclaiming to their freezing family members that they don't remember the last time they were this cold. Depression begins to hover as all memories of warm, good times disappear. Suddenly, there is only one answer for the impending gloom: it's time to celebrate this magical time known as "the holidays."

This year, celebration of the holidays couldn't wait until Thanksgiving ended; the darkness came earlier. My neighbors at the end of the street** hired their gardeners to hang pink lights on their palm trees in mid-November. ("Darkness?! What darkness?! Our happiness this winter can only be expressed in the color pink!!") Our local disco radio station began playing Christmas carols on Thanksgiving as a reminder that there was no need to panic because the holidays were already upon us.

My favorite Christmas carol is "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," because it invokes such a heavy feeling of nostalgia. The only problem is that I do not feel nostalgia for any of my own Christmases. I'm carried away to memories of being cozy inside a warm, brick house as snow whirls around outside, and I am handed a long, rectangular gift by a kind member of my fake-Christmas-memory family. No offense to my real family, but my fake family wears long, cable knit sweaters and doesn't ask me to help clean up the house. I tend to think that the Christmas nostalgia felt by most people doesn't even belong to them. Face the darkness, people. You're going to be fine.

*Inner darkness: the unknown depths of one's soul, good or bad, kept covered for fear of what could be uncovered. Examples of what may be uncovered: memories, tendencies, habits, fears, coping mechanisms, obsessions with dance movies, allergies to Celtic music, etc.

**I assume I have neighbors at the end of the street. I have never seen them, but their lawn stays watered.

Vacation Notice

2006-10-10T09:41:00.000-07:00

Dear blog friends,

As you may have noticed, my blog posts have become less and less frequent, and even a little half-assed. I have recently started cello lessons and am only finding energy for one type of self expression these days. I will resume my writing in January of 2007. In the meantime, please educate yourselves on current events and we can all get together and eat sandwiches and quiz each other on world leaders.

Kind regards,

Leighton Davis

Cat Karaoke: A Photo Tribute

2006-09-30T22:15:00.000-07:00

Oh, the rhythm of my heart
keeps beating like a drum
with the words "I love you" rolling off my tongue.
Never will I roam
(agitated backlash)

Hey, It's Not My Life

2006-09-28T16:58:00.000-07:00

Yes, it is. I guess I can't deny it any longer. I'm an everyday hero.

There's a dog that lives across the street from me who suffers at the chubby hands of a blonde three-year-old with narcissistic tendencies and the temper of a 40-year-old bank teller. He tortures Plum Pudding, a mid-size terrier whose real name I have yet to memorize, whenever the focus shifts away from his Tonka truck skills (which, I admit, are not bad.) He puts her in a head lock and starts running, or tries to run her over, or pulls on her beard. That's where I come in. I visit Plum Pudding when the little master is off terrorizing his preschool, and restore emotional health to a good-tempered dog in a bad situation.

When I'm not visiting Plum Pudding, I'm usually off at the Armenian market, letting people cut in line at the deli counter. I smile when the woman who has been in the produce aisle until ten seconds ago pretends that she has been waiting for hours, and smile when she pretends that she does not speak English. I know her game, but I'm not going to play it.

When I return from the Armenian market, I check on Plum Pudding again. My nameless blonde neighbors appear to be feeding her, so I return home satisfied.

There are usually no thank yous, no medals, no back rubs, but I keep going. That's just what a hero does.

"I Work Hard"

2006-09-11T14:29:00.000-07:00

For the last two months, my next-door neighbors have been in the process of building a new patio. Anywhere from five to ten workers begin renovations at 7:30am and finish around 6:00pm, Monday through Saturday. The project drags on week after week with very little chance that it will ever finish. The workers are not building a patio; they are filming a set of informational videos on how to make others believe you are working hard on a construction site.

Lesson 1: Make lots of noise. The informational video will include a set of CDs, the "I Work Hard" Construction Soundtrack. Disc 1 is hammering, Disc 2 is louder pounding (the tearing down of a wall, etc.), Disc 3 is sawing wood, Disc 4 is cutting stone. You get the picture. Today is Monday, so Disc 1 has been playing. Saturday morning, I was woken up by Disc 4.

Lesson 2: Everyone believes numbers. Although only one loud noise is heard at a time, there is always a group of men milling around their back and front yards. One worker can be supervised or questioned about his hours, but ten strong workers is a seemingly intimidating group of construction know-how.

Lesson 3: Make a mess. For the last two months, everything in our back yard has been covered in dust. I suspect that a bag of loose cement was purchased and disseminated while Disc 5 (the leaf blower) was playing. Aside from the dust, stacks of tile, brick and wood have sat in our neighbor's front yard since the project began. The piles have not decreased even though "the project is very close to finishing."

I could make a believable "I Work Hard" Office Soundtrack. It would take more effort than the construction version, as it would have to entail a symphony of office sounds: different degrees of typing (the relaxed memo, the angry email, etc.), the opening and closing of file cabinet doors, the double ring of the out-of-town phone call, the shredding of documents. It would probably make millions and I would have to start a company, and then I would try to play my own CDs at the office and everyone would know what I was up to...

I Want to Rock Your Gypsy Soul

2006-09-04T00:58:00.000-07:00

This is a picture of Gypsy, the geriatric one-toothed wonder (see "There Are No Cats in America" 5/15/06). Her camouflage skills, once a valuable asset in the wild, have become a hazard in California. She blends into the carpet, making it very easy to step on her and to get your foot caught in her dreads.

Addendum: The Man Who Gave Our Computer Cancer

2006-09-04T00:41:00.000-07:00

I came home the other night to find this. It is payback for leaving the confines. I probably won't do it again.

Once "The Man Who Gave Our Computer Cancer" was posted, additional information was uncovered. First, the man who gave our computer cancer was not paid $35/hour, but $50/hr, and he was talked down from his original price of $60/hr. We've been had, Davis family. I can just feel it. Second, we found that my brother also has a snake hole in his room. Even worse, the snake hole in his room provides a clear view into my room. So, while the man who gave our computer cancer was in my brother's room, he could watch me undress, he could watch me sleep, or worst of all, he could watch me as I prolonged the delusion that I was a good volleyball player and practiced jumps in my room.

The Man Who Gave Our Computer Cancer

2006-08-27T16:02:00.000-07:00

My family has never been great with computers. It’s not that we don’t like new technology; we were the first ones on the block with Prodigy (or so I assume- God knows we don't talk to our neighbors), but we still refer to our computer as "the box." About eight years ago, we asked an acquaintance of my parents to come work on our box. The goal was for him to install new programs, clean out viruses, organize the computer cords, etc. I think he came once a week for about two years, and he was paid by the hour. Was he successful? Let me put it this way- we will never again call him by his name. We call him the man who gave our computer cancer.

As you can see by the photo of the box's underpinnings, the man who gave our computer cancer utterly failed in his attempt to organize the cords. Did he misunderstand the request? My mom was trying to plug the cord from her new catamaran-shaped fax machine into Medusa last weekend, and we could not 1) find an open outlet and 2) find the cord to the old fax machine.

Even more confusing, the man who gave our computer cancer left his designated area and ventured upstairs to my room. He installed what I like to call the snake hole. I believe he thought that he was making room for cords to come through the wall, when in reality he was just making it very easy for a corn snake to sneak into my room while I slept (don’t pretend like you haven’t seen that episode of Home Improvement.)

Aside from Medusa and the snake hole, the man who gave our computer cancer also downloaded enough viruses to shut down all activity on the box. High-speed Internet became irrelevant; you can’t do anything when opening up a new window causes the whole system to freeze and shut down.

In reality, the man who gave our computer cancer was a genius. Each week, he would cause a new problem that he would return to fix the next week. He made $35 per hour, he got away from his family for hours at a time, and sometimes, we even gave him a glass of water. For free.

Safety gates

2006-08-17T12:56:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, my dad told me that, if I so desired, I could live at home forever. I thanked him, laughed, and moved to New York. Two years later, I have returned to the homestead, I am redecorating my room, and I defy you to ever make me leave again.

My parents live in a gated community to protect us all from south Orange County riff raff. My parents used to tell me never to leave the gates, and for the first time in my life, I plan on obeying that order. I am hiding out, moving by the shadows of night. The best way for me to stay hidden is to remain within the community gates, and beyond that, to remain within the walls of my house.

The only problem with this community, besides all of the people, is the community association oligarchy that has obviously made Nazi Germany their model for running things. If we leave our trash cans in the street after the Monday morning trash pick up, we get fined. If we park our own cars on the street in front of our own house, we get fined. At one association meeting (they pretend to be democratic), one board member recommended a rule forcing all skateboard wheels to be replaced with special "quieter" wheels. Surprisingly, it was not enacted. As of September 1, a photo ID will be required to use the community gym or pool, so I had to get my picture taken in front of an enormous American flag. They then tried to insert the 2x3" card into my forehead, but I said enough was enough.

Still, can you blame them? This is Orange County. I need to know that I can walk around my neighborhood at 8pm and not get harrassed by a young kid with spiky hair and a big truck and expensive sunglasses or a hot mom on her way back from a tennis match. It's a dangerous world, and I'm not taking any chances.

Now in California

2006-08-10T18:58:00.000-07:00

I have not posted in a while, and I would like to blame the Middle East for it. Actually, I have been extremely busy moving for the 16th time in 8 years, and when things that I wanted to share with you have happened, I have not had a computer right next to me to record the event. For instance, a few nights ago, I was watching The Sound of Music at my grandparent's house in Colorado, and right as I noticed that there were raccoons on the back deck, a yellow jacket stung my toe. Just remember- you heard it here first.

The Hum of Hunger

2006-07-23T18:31:00.000-07:00

Two months ago, we put up a hummingbird feeder. It is a seemingly harmless glass container with little red perches. At first, we had to replace the sugar mixture once a week. Then it was every three or four days. Now we fill up the feeder in the morning and return in the evening to find it empty. I warned Meghan a few weeks ago that they were getting selfish. I told her that I had seen fat ones napping in the trees, their wings too heavy to make frantic little figure eights. I advised her to manage their expectations instead of rushing to fulfill their needs. But she didn't listen, and now she thinks we might need to get another feeder to prevent the crowd from dying. I think we need to teach them an important lesson in patience and discipline.

If you drive down the road a couple hundred yards, you can see the three trees that make up their apartment complex. In answer to why we suddenly had so many more birds to feed, we assumed that the first hummingbirds had spread word to their friends about the abundant food, but my friend Johnny told me that the first hummingbirds gave birth, and we are now feeding the parents and the babies. I'm not buying it. Some look related, but a lot don't. I think there are a lot of drunk neighbors crashing the family picnic, trying to get more than their share of the sugar water.

Today while the new mixture was cooling I went out to look at the empty feeder. As usual, there was a stout watchman asleep on his perch. I thought he was dead and had to watch him for any movement. And that's exactly what he wanted. He wanted to make sure I know it's all about him. I understand food anxiety; it's this small bird attitude of entitlement that makes me mad.

The Blessed Giving of Thanks

2006-07-18T12:48:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, my mom dared to leave the safe confines of Mission Viejo and attend a conference. All of the conferences/classical music summer camps that she attends are held in central California, a God-forsaken chunk of land that I would sell to Nevada in a heartbeat. While Mom disappeared to her hellish farmland location, my dad, sister, brother-in-law, brother and I were left to feed ourselves.

Days 1-3: Not a problem. The youngest of the group was 19, the oldest was 50, and everyone had successfully cooked the basics at one point in their lives: rice, pasta, jello, boxed mashed potatoes, and eggs.

Day 4: We realized that the pantry and refrigerator were nearly empty, with the exception of the foods that we will always own but never eat: kidney beans, baking powder, molasses, half a bag of split peas, and aged green onions.

Day 5: Someone opened the freezer to discover an 18lb. turkey. Plans were made to cook it in two days. Plans were extended, and a trip was finally made to the grocery store to buy the necessary ingredients for gravy, mashed potatoes (real ones), stuffing, salad, rolls, and dessert.

Day 7: Thanksgiving in August. Guests arrived and were forced to either dress like a Pilgrim or to make a Native American vest out of a paper grocery bag. New traditions were formed, including rules such as 1) eat pie directly out of the tin and 2) only be grateful for really shallow things, as it was summer.

Last Saturday, at 3pm, the new tradition was once again celebrated, this time in Santa Fe. The food was noteworthy, the costumes were darling, and the scripted family fights made it feel like a real holiday. Best of all, my heart was touched by the things that people were grateful for:

“I'm grateful for the drawer in the refrigerator that keeps my meat and cheese fresh.”
“I'm grateful for Allsup’s gas station, whose gas is three cents cheaper.”
“I'm grateful for bulimia, which allows me to eat anything I want.”

Spa Night

2006-07-14T00:16:00.000-07:00

Last night, my sister and I went to a spa called Ten Thousand Waves, located in the hills above Santa Fe. The visit was a belated celebration of some recent job opportunities. We began with a long soak in the hot tub, followed by herbal wraps, massages, and salt scrubs. It's called the Buddha package, and when done correctly, you actually relax to such a degree that you attain enlightenment, and then pass out in the shower.

I told my masseuse that she could apply a lot of pressure, a mistake seeing as I think she spent the hour taking out a bad divorce on my back. She did not rub my back; she ransacked it. She pillaged, and then she plundered, and then she set fire to the whole thing. This morning I awoke wondering if I had been in a terrible bar fight that culminated with me being thrown into a juke box. No, just the massage. It hurts to sit down on a couch.

The question has arisen: if it hurt that much, why didn't you just ask her to decrease the level of pressure? I have no answer. At the time, it just seemed like a good idea to let the craftsman do her craft. In hindsight, one quick comment probably could have saved me a day of having to walk slowly and sit gingerly.

Regardless of whose fault it was (yes, I know it was mine),Ten Thousand Waves will now be called Ten Thousand Bruises. My mom calls it Ten Thousand Humiliations since her robe nearly fell off in the lobby during her last visit.

The Hazards of Mobility

2006-07-11T22:01:00.000-07:00

My sister told me that Santa Fe is famous for its bad drivers. I suppose when you combine lots of tourists with lots of old people, you are asking for a dangerous driving situation, but I didn't quite believe her. Maybe she's a liar, who knows? Maybe Meghan isn't even her real name. Maybe Santa Fe is full of really good drivers. All I'm saying is that just because someone has proven that they are honest, it doesn't mean that they are honest. You should probably think about that. Well, yesterday I saw a man driving around who was wearing an eye patch. Anyone who has ever tried to play a sport with one eye closed knows that all depth perception is thrown off when both eyes aren't open. There was a passenger in the car, and I think that perhaps the passenger and the sight-impaired pirate could have switched places.

While on the subject of bad ideas, I watched a man yesterday who was 1) wearing blue jeans and 2) walking on the treadmill. Sir, your life does not have to be that uncomfortable. If someone would let me run this city already...

Isn't the World a Lovely Place

2006-06-28T22:17:00.000-07:00

I speed to work three mornings a week, knowing that I will inevitably be four minutes late. Living in the country, as I do, there is the constant problem of squirrels and baby bunnies racing across the street in front of, or under, my lightning-quick car. I feel this is an unnecessarily frantic way to begin my day, and this makes me mad at the squirrels and baby bunnies. I live on a dirt road, there is very little traffic, and they could save everyone a lot of panic by simply waiting to run across the road until I have passed.

With the exception of egos and my bowling record, I do not like killing things. However, if I do run over one of these creatures (and hopefully kill it, as I would prefer to not have to continue backing up over it until it has been put out of its misery), it would be the perfect example of a lose-lose-lose situation. Lose- the little animal loses its life. Lose- its family members mourn the loss and run out into the street to take care of arrangements, risking the loss of their own lives. Loss- I am left feeling guilty, angry, confused, hopeless, and emotionally worn.

Seeing a delicate, little piece of roadkill the other day got my thinking: this scenario could be worse. Instead of squirrels and baby bunnies, what if My Little Ponies were running everywhere? At first, it sounds great. Nothing is cuter than tiny, pastel ponies running around in the grass, stealing strawberries from picnic baskets, and nuzzling babies.

The downside: I cannot imagine how I would feel if my day started with the unnecessary death of a little lavendar pony, with long eyelashes, silky hair, and something cute and friendly to say. As it snorted its last little breath, its head in my lap, it would ask me to give its hair brush to its family. Even though the My Little Pony never should have run under my wheels, it would still be my fault. There would be no rainbows that day, and some sort of monster and/or toy store employee would probably come break my tiara.

Trouble at Home

2006-06-25T12:51:00.000-07:00

I try to hold 6-month reviews for all of my electronics. You know, I sit down with them and discuss past performance, motivation levels, areas for improvement, opportunities for advancement, etc. Yesterday's meeting with my alarm clock was eye-opening. He said that he will either work mornings or evenings, but not both. This explained why he has failed to wake me up from a number of early-evening naps.

I tried to negotiate. I said we would do two wake ups a day, only one snooze apiece, but he would not hear of it. He said that my early-evening naps were "impinging on his social life." And then he called me lazy. I said, "Listen Franklin, I am a night owl who happens to work very early mornings, and I don't have to defend myself to a $20 alarm clock."

I would love to fire him, but it is difficult to find a clock radio with indiscreet, green numbers, and he knows what this bargaining tool is worth. In the end, I promised to dust him more, and he said that, if he's around, he will try to wake me up from my early-evening naps, assuming I get right out of bed. It's an employee market these days, and if I don't keep him happy, he will walk.

Unfortunately, Franklin is actually the least of my worries. I think my iPod, cell phone and digital recorder are in talks to unionize.

Let's Go Out to the Movies, and Get Ourselves a Snack

2006-06-21T16:53:00.000-07:00

Meghan, Ronnie and I have begun sneaking food and drinks into movies. The first time, we brought beer, saltines, baby carrots, and dark chocolate. The next time, we brought more beer, Goldfish crackers, and Little Debby snack cakes, which were a big hit. This last time, we decided to really up the ante. Beer, of course, large bottles of sparkling water, popcorn, bread, salad, and seafood stew. Though fantastic food choices, we hadn’t thought this whole thing out very well. When sneaking food into a movie, it’s really important to keep your movie choice in mind. Is it a comedy? Feel free to bring champagne. You can open it when people are laughing. However, seafood stew in a heartbreaking drama about the living conditions of Hindu widows, all done in sub-titles, was not smart. It was a tiny theater, and everyone could smell the cioppino fish soup within minutes. Plus, everyone could hear the beer opening, and everyone could smell the vinegar of the salad dressing.

Though inappropriate, nothing will top the time my sister and brother-in-law went to go see The Passion of the Christ with a large group of people that they knew. Ronnie had not eaten beforehand, so he got a large popcorn and large Icee to eat and drink during the previews…except that for the first time in history, there were no previews. So there was Ronnie, crunching his popcorn and slurping his Icee while Jesus was tempted and harassed in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Leighton + exclamation points = danger

2006-06-19T22:32:00.000-07:00

This is me and my friend Carrie (left; my pseudo-lesbian vacation partner who actually really likes men), at a wedding in Colorado where we picked up dudes. Don't we look like twins????!!!!

Now, with no segue whatsoever, I would like to recommend that you go and read my sister's blog: www.100visionsandrevisions.blogspot.com. Go!! There's nothing else for you to read here today!!

I just went out for a cup of coffee...

2006-06-15T17:10:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I went to Starbucks to get some work done. The only problem with trying to work at Starbucks is that there is usually at least one really distracting person, such as the large Southern man who sat next to me and asked me questions about Internet access even though I was obviously listening to music and writing. In hindsight, the large Southern man was nothing compared to the distraction who was about to walk into the front door- a blind man.

Most blind people that I have seen are extraordinary at maneuvering themselves around public areas. This man was not. He sat outside for awhile, but then came inside to find a chair. He walked up to a table where a young woman was sitting, and began touching the table and chair to see if they were occupied. As soon as he began feeling around, the woman told him that the table was occupied. While he should have moved on at that point, he kept feeling around because he couldn't hear her. He had headphones on. Now, as far as I know, most blind people develop a heightened sense of hearing in order to compensate for their lack of sight. Then, they can hear echoes and approaching cars and, most importantly, people telling them that the seat they are about to sit is already taken. I would think that most people would capitalize on this gift of improved hearing, instead of making things ten times harder for themselves by putting on headphones.

Anyway, since he could not hear the woman telling him that she was sitting at the table, he found out when he groped her waist. He then made his way over to my side of Starbucks, where I was packing up my stuff. As he went to sit down in my chair, I told him that he could have the seat as soon as I picked up the rest of my things. But no, he couldn't hear me because he had headphones on, and he sat on my computer.

So yes, I am a terrible person.

Cause the healing has begun

2006-06-12T00:12:00.000-07:00

Tonight, as my sister and I lay listening to Van Morrison's "Into the Music," (not to be confused with "Into the Mystic," but thanks to all of those people who love to correct me), Meghan posed a shocking question. What is Van Morrison's first name?

Now, as a dedicated fan of ten years, I was ashamed to admit that I had always just assumed it was Van. I had never dared to question my sweet singer's coolness by thinking that he had chosen to use only his last name as a stage name. I felt this would have put him in a category with people like Cher and Prince, a categorization that would sully Van's pristine reputation.

Supposing he did have a first name that he had dropped, Meghan and I stared at the "Into the Music" album cover and speculated on first names. Cliff Van Morrison. Teddy Van Morrison. Wolf Van Morrison. Leighton Van Morrison. Hmmm.

Thanks to Wikipedia, the convenient online encyclopedia where any fact could be made up, the puzzle has been solved. His full name is George Ivan "Van" Morrison. His last name is in fact Morrison, and his first name is essentially Van, although George is his legal name. I love you "Van."

Oh sh*t

2006-06-04T09:44:00.000-07:00

First, a little back story- my sister ALWAYS orders the wrong things at restaurants. If a landlocked state has a restaurant famous for beef, she will go and order the salmon. At the seafood restaurant, she will order the vegetable platter. She reminded me of this the other night as we were deciding what to order at a a classic local restaurant that is known for having good New Mexican food.

I ordered a buffalo burger, and my sister ordered the chicken tostada, a menu item recommended by our waitress. I was proud of her. As we began eating, Meghan commented that she smelled something peculiar. I told her that I had ordered green chile on top of my burger, and that was probably responsible for the strong odor. She agreed. About four minutes later, she passed me a piece of chicken and told me to smell it. I was given no hints about what she thought it smelled like, but I guessed the right answer immediately. It smelled like honest-to-goodness human poop.

Do you know what it's like trying to explain to your friendly waitress that your use of the word "poop" is not hyperbolic? She looked horrified...and angry. (She's angry? She's the one who served us human poop!)

Needless to say, we cannot show our faces there again. On the upside, Meghan didn't get violently ill as anticipated.

Oh, Think Twice

2006-06-01T21:18:00.000-07:00

I think I saw David Crosby riding a motorcyle today. Or maybe it was Gallagher. You would be surprised how much they look alike when speeding past you on the highway. For it to count as a celebrity sighting, do you have to actually be sure that you saw them? And do you need to know who it is?

Pondering bald celebrities reminded me that I forgot to recount a dream I had a few months ago. In my dream, Phil Collins and I went on a date together to have sushi. I let him order for me. I don't remember where we went after dinner, but I woke up in a really good mood because, hey, it's Phil Collins. Would I go out with him again? Yes, I think I would.

Leighton McHelpless

2006-05-31T09:38:00.000-07:00

I took advantage of my Memorial Day Weekend by taking advantage of other peoples' kindness and accompanying two married couples on a camping trip. Our trip took us through most of the state of New Mexico. I have attached photos.

The view from the rest stop where we ate lunch. The plain is covered in lava rock, although I have no clue where the lava came from, as I did not see a volcano around, or when it arrived, as it could have occurred last year for all I know. I, along with the rest of the United States, do not follow New Mexico news. My friend calls NM a parking lot state, meaning that it should just provide parking for the two important states of New York and California. An interesting fact about this rest stop: a man walked out of the public restroom eating a burrito.

As a break from driving, we stopped to shoot cans and smoke cigarettes on a deserted road. No, not the classiest thing I've ever done, but it was fun. How dare you accuse me.

The canyon where we camped. I call it the canyon of self-discovery, because I discovered something about myself there. (Are you following the connection?) I have gotten used to having my brother-in-law around, and I ask him to do things that I could easily do if I exerted the three minutes of effort to figure it out myself. I gave myself the new nickname Leighton McHelpless after I couldn't get my sleeping bag zipped and asked Ronnie to do it. Sure, I can move myself around New York City three times, but I can't close a sleeping bag. Is it laziness? Well, I know it is not that. I ran half a mile yesterday. Maybe I just have an innate knack for delegation. That has to be it.

White Sands, New Mexico. This is where the magic happens. I don't know what it means for your life, but I'm pretty sure it's a Narnia portal.

An unfortunate detour to Elephant Butte, the only lake capable of sending five people spiraling into depression.

We'll Open Up a Restaurant in Santa Fe

2006-05-26T19:19:00.000-07:00

I realized last week how little Santa Fe affects my life. The city is merely a backdrop for this unexciting yet totally necessary portion of my life, the one where I plow through past issues, such as self-pity and unforgiveness, that will really mess up my life and future relationships if not dealth with immediately. I have learned how to decently navigate myself from home to work to the grocery store, and other than that I do not even see my surroundings. I think that is probably because I know, and have known, that this is a temporary move. Or it could be chemical.

In other unimportant news, all the mutants of Santa Fe descended Thursday night for the 12:01am premier of X-Men III. As my brother-in-law put it, the theater smelled strongly of feet, pot and computers.

For even less important, yet wonderful, news, my friend Carrie bought me a large body pillow for my birthday after I told her how large my bed is. I named him Toddie Willow, and he is suede. Hey, get your own!

It's A Family Affair, Part 2

2006-05-25T16:53:00.000-07:00

Here is something to think about. Suppose we were all born married, and we spent our lives looking for our brothers and sisters. I tend to think I would have an advantage, since I would be looking for people who look just like me. However, no one would know how long to keep looking. Only children wouldn't know not to look, and I think people with more than five siblings would think, "really? another?" after meeting numbers five and up.
Instead of getting to know people and wondering if you were compatible with them, you would have to ask yourself questions such as, "Does this person drive me crazy? Could I see them reading my diary? Would it be unfair for us to be on the same charades team since we obviously have a similar way of thinking? Could I borrow this person's clothing?"
What ifs- they're a dangerous game.

24

2006-05-22T10:07:00.000-07:00

Today I turn 24. There is something different about this age. I think that this year, I should fix my posture and invest in the stock market. I should increase the frequency that I eat dark, leafy-green vegetables, along with the frequency that I floss. (Truly these are linked; it would be unwise to increase the former without increasing the latter.) I should begin using eye cream, and care less about strangers' opinions of me. I should invest in a good couch and a good dictionary, and perhaps decide which coffee mug is my favorite. Then, I should get my pilot's license, a mode of transportation that will generally save me from having to reverse, and decide whether putting a bay leaf in soups and spaghetti sauces actually serves a purpose, or whether it is just an extremely inexpensive scam. I like to think there is a woman somewhere who lives a modest life funded exclusively by her bay leaf racket, which was accomplished by grass roots rumors about the flavor-enhancing powers of the lone bay leaf. She drives a '97 Camry and eats out only on occasions, but, by God, her bay leaf commission keeps her from having to take a 9 to 5 job. May we all be so enterprising.

There Are No Cats in America

2006-05-15T16:31:00.000-07:00

My sister adopted a cat about a year and a half ago named Gypsy, the geriatric one-toothed wonder. Meghan and Ronnie had a beloved cat years ago that ran away, so Meghan decided that it would be safer to get an old cat that, as she put it, couldn't run away and break her heart. The problem with getting a really old cat, besides the possibility of it dying and breaking your heart, is that most old cats have expensive medical problems. Sure enough, Gypsy's previous owner had neglected Gypsy's teeth, and Meghan and Ronnie had to spend nearly a thousand dollars getting all but one of her rotted teeth pulled.

Gypsy's one tooth has made mousing a bit difficult. She caught a mouse last year, but as she was unable to eat it, she tried to lick it to death. Ronnie found her and the mouse an hour later, both exhausted and taking naps next to each other. The mouse was soaking wet. Instead of giving the mouse back to Gypsy, Ronnie dropped it off outside of town.

Last night, while supposedly napping on the back of the couch, Gypsy lept onto the ground and caught another mouse. Both animals were put in the laundry room, where Gypsy could lick the mouse to her heart's content. Unfortunately, the mouse got away and is loose in the house again, albeit much cleaner than it was yesterday.

The irony about the clean mouse situation is that Gypsy no longer cleans herself; I don't think she possesses the energy or flexibility required for the task. Her new nickname is Dusty- you can guess where it came from. Since she tends to get upset when we brush her or cut off clumps of matted fur, we tried lint rolling her filth off yesterday, with disappointing results.

And Now You're a Lizard

2006-05-14T15:08:00.000-07:00

Last week, I went with the two little girls that I baby-sit and their mom to a family dance class for children ages one to three. We sat in a circle with ten other moms and their toddlers in a dirty dance studio lit only by the outside sun. The little baby sat in her car seat, and the older baby sat in her mom's lap, so for the first fifteen minutes of the class, I was the dipshit in the circle without a kid who was playing the wire and bell tambourine all by herself. She moved into my lap when the little baby needed to be fed, and I suddenly felt justified for being there.

The class was led by a new age couple in their sixties. The man played the guitar and had a gray braid on the back of his head, and the woman wore large sweats and spoke with a Kiwi accent. We were supposed to act like animals for the second song, and the lizard impressions meant that we had to lay on our stomachs and flicker our tongues. I watched the other moms- were we really going to do this? I was not going to get dirty and look stupid if no one else was going to. As it turned out, no one else wanted to do it, so we just let sweat suit act like a lizard.

At one point, a three year old boy had a melt down and started hitting his mom. It was embarrassing for everyone to watch.

It's Such a Clever Innocence With Which You Do Your Sorcery

2006-05-11T15:51:00.000-07:00

I went to a somewhat uptight high school, and my use of the adjective "somewhat" actually makes me a liar. In hindsight, I now see that many of my teachers, though well meaning, were actually quite angry and/or chronically depressed people.

During one chapel, the superintendent gave us a lecture on the long-lasting evils of sarcasm. Obviously, I took a lot away from that one. Another lecture was a metaphorical justification of their strict punishment system; it was something about how we are all sheep, and sometimes, shepherds need to break the legs of their sheep in order to teach them not to do something. I think I would have preferred that they would have just broken my legs, instead of messing with my mind and filling me with fear.

I ran for freshman vice-president the spring before I entered high school, but lost to a guy named Paul Williams. I was thrilled to find out later that most people had not known who to vote for, and had decided to vote for the guy, because he was a guy. I say "was a guy" because, frankly, I have not talked to him in a while. People change. Anyway, since I had not been elected to the Associated Student Body (ASB), I decided to start a Loser ASB. I typed up applications and passed them out to everyone else who had not won. In order to be inducted, they needed to answer important questions such as, "Are you a loser?" Somehow, the school office found a copy of the application and called me down to have a talk with me. They said that my new club would spread negativity. I was spreading negativity? They were the ones who threatened to break my legs.

Super, Uh, Wednesday Double Post

2006-05-10T11:31:00.000-07:00

Break, break, break
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

Taken from "Break, break, break..." by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Although I like poetry, and the depth of meaning that can be missed by rambling prose, I rarely read it. I have to be forced to read it, like when the cable man is taking an hour to hook up the cable, and I want to both stay out of his way and also be available to answer questions that I do not have answers to, such as, "Has the R52* cable already been drilled into the wall? Because I don't have any of that." Hey, that's a good question. Maybe you could tell me since you apparently do this for a living. Aside from being there to provide the much needed answer of "I don't know," I also like to make sure the cable man is doing his job swiftly and correctly, and not goofing off by using my shower or eating my sister's vitamins. Pulling a book of poetry or short stories from the bookshelf and reading it 12 feet from his workspace provides the perfect vantage point to spy on him.

So, this may or may not have been a hypothetical situation used to illustrate under what circumstances I read poetry, but we have cable now! It's so pretty.

And now, for your reading enjoyment, a list of possible names for Christian coffee shops and dentist offices, as created by myself, my sister and my brother-in-law, the night before we received the imagination killer that I like to call cable television.

Christian coffee shops:

Bibles and Brew
Heavenly Host Roast
Jehovah Java
Morning Star Bucks

Christian dentists:

White As Snow
Holy Molars
Thy Words is Tooth

* the real name of the cable has been changed to protect its identity

Four Corner Shake-Up

2006-05-10T11:03:00.000-07:00

I have returned from my pseudo-lesbian vacation to a Colorado dude ranch. Carrie and I had a great time, even if there were no dudes to pick up (with the exceptions of Jim, the old cowboy who has a daughter older than me, and Peter, who was my age but decidedly creepy and overeager.)One of the owners acted somewhat hostile to us, and as we thought it might have to do with our perceived yet untrue lesbianism, we attempted to set the record straight. Since flirting with a man in her presence was out of the question (her husband- off limits; Jim- unresponsive; Caleb- six years old; Peter- as previously mentioned, decidedly creepy and overeager), we looked for opportunities to mention past boyfriends. Unfortunately, the conversation never steared towards cocaine addiction or science camp, so our plan was unsuccessful.

She warmed up to us at the end. I don't know what brought the change of heart, but I don't care. I don't have to make you happy, Ellen! You don't own me! Please accept me!

The greatest part of the dude ranch was the three enormous meals that we ate daily. Carrie and I quickly became like Pavlov's dogs, racing towards the feeding trough the second we heard the beautiful meal signal, the triangle. That instrument will never be the same to me again.

Super Sunday Double Post

2006-04-23T12:17:00.000-07:00

I recently returned from California, where I went for a quick three and a half day business trip. I received a phone call last Sunday from my unidentified mother, who we will henceforth refer to as "Mom," requesting my help for a few days with the "family business." While I may one day be able to reveal what the "family business" is, it is currently a "family secret," so let's leave it at I went home to "take direction" and "do business things." It may have had to do with "waste management" and "candy shops," but I can't really reveal that, can I.

On a sad sidenote, I am always the person on the airplane who hits their head on the overhead compartment, and it is always embarrassing.

Hi, my name is Ronnie and I trust in science

2006-04-23T10:39:00.000-07:00

My brother-in-law thinks he knows a lot, and I know that I know a lot, so we have a few ongoing arguments. He says that power tools are for building and repairing things, even though I know for a fact that power tools are for accidently cutting off digits or limbs. He says that bobcats don't pose a great threat to humans, even though everyone knows that bobcats eat faces. Dogs play, owls read, and bobcats, like mountain lions, eat faces. It's as if Ronnie doesn't have fearful relatives or access to Southern California news. I mean, where is he getting his information? Experts? Common knowledge? Personal experience? Unreliable. Next he is going to say that it's possible to use a ladder without breaking your neck, or to go hiking without breaking your neck. Wise up, Ronnie. It's a dangerous world.

I'll Rub Your Lower Back, Tell You All My Dreams

2006-04-18T10:56:00.000-07:00

First, an update on General Hospital: I turned on the TV a few days ago, and what do I see? A woman telling a secret to a tombstone! Come on!

I apologize for the lack of posting lately. We still do not have the Internet at our new house because we have to get a county permit to allow a cable cord to be run under the dirt road leading to our house. The good news is that we may get a new service called "electricity" within the next few years, which is rumored to allow people to see at night.

Our new house is off of Old Las Vegas Highway, which unfortunately does not lead to Las Vegas. (If my geode business doesn't take off soon, I plan to earn a living by playing nickel slots.)

There is an old bus that parks on the side of Old Las Vegas Highway and sells Cajun food. According to my inside sources, who have requested that they remain anonymous, the man who runs the Cajun food mobile is planning to run for president in 2008. If neither my geode business nor my nickel slots venture takes off, I am considering offering my services as a campaign manager. I think that his entrepreneurial skills and carefree "to hell with health standards" attitude would take him straight to the top. Plus, he's offering something that the other candidates won't- Cajun food. I only have a few hesitations about my new career move:
1) the man has absolutely no qualifications
2) even a preliminary background check would guarantee jail time
3) he has no proof of citizenship
4) I don't like Cajun food

These Are the Days of Our Lives

2006-04-03T14:11:00.000-07:00

Today I watched five minutes of General Hospital, but I learned a lifetime of lessons. The only other time I have watched General Hospital was a few weeks ago, when I turned on the TV and saw a handsome, anguished man revealing a startling paternity secret to a tiny baby in a hospital bassinet. Little did he know that there was a woman in the doorway behind him listening to the entire thing!! Well, when I turned on the TV today, what did I see but a woman baring her soul to a tiny baby in a hospital bassinet!! You never tell your secrets OUT LOUD to a baby, or a mirror, or a corpse in its coffin- there is always someone listening. As I am now a nanny, I thought this was a particularly timely lesson to learn. No longer will I put the babies to sleep by whispering them my ATM pin numbers, or keep them entertained by explaining who in the family is cheating on their taxes, because someone is always crouched behind the counter hearing every word I say. Always.

The other lesson I learned was that if I am fooling around in a hotel room and we start trying to put ice from the champagne bucket down each other's backs, we need to keep the screaming to a minimum because we won't hear the man with the gun entering the room!! I mean, sure, there might be someone directly behind him who will shoot him if he tries to shoot us, but we really shouldn't be counting on it. It will only happen two, maybe three, times.

Back in Business

2006-03-29T10:25:00.000-08:00

I have been out of commission the last week because Meghan, Ronnie and I moved to a larger house on the outskirts of town. The people I work for lent me a full bedroom set, including...a king size bed. I have no idea what to do with all of the room. Potential options: 1) rent out the other side, 2)use the other side to store books, shoes, paperwork, Chinese scrolls, drum sticks and all the other stuff that I do not know where to keep, 3) birth a few children, 4) sleep at a diagonal (which is what I have been doing.) I tried sleeping in the middle of the bed, but sort of panicked when I noticed how far away the sides were.

I have been working as a nanny to make money. The two little baby girls are 3 months and 18 months old. The older one is just starting to say words, so I ask her questions like, "Do you think Catholic priests should be allowed to marry?" and she shrieks and pokes me in the eye and says hi, which I find to be a profound answer and commentary on the state of the Catholic church. The younger one cannot talk yet, so we just go out drinking together to avoid awkward pauses, or we ride dirt bikes. Her motor control isn't great, so I worry about her steering and braking abilities, but she has been doing alright so I will probably let her try some jumps soon.

Amtrak, mi amor

2006-03-20T13:57:00.000-08:00

I have returned from California. My sister and I took the train there and back, totalling 36 hours of travel. I can safely say that 6 of those hours were very enjoyable, 16 hours were adequately tolerable and 14 hours were mildly nightmarish. As it turns out, trains in the United States are not like trains in Europe. Trains in the US are full of people who can spare the 18 hours needed to get from Santa Fe to Los Angeles, a trip that would take about 2 hours on a plane. We interacted with all sorts of train people, a term that I should clarify as an insult. There were the drunk teenagers who had just gotten kicked out of the navy, the middle aged sexual predator who made loud conversation with anything female that moved in the lounge car, the group of cousins who entertained themselves by listening to the free 30 second song clips on their cell phones, and my favorite, the two slightly-deaf geriatric women sitting behind us on our return trip who fell asleep before 10 PM, woke up at 4AM, tried unsuccessfully to get breakfast at 5 AM, and spent every waking minute having the following sorts of conversations:

"It's white outside; do you think it snowed?"
"It probably snowed; it is white."
"Yes, it looks like snow. It is white out there."
"Kids these days spend too much using their credit cards."

Their extremely high volume and nasally, nonstop chatter left my sister and I confused about when they actually took a break to breathe. Whenever they ran out of pertinent topics such as snow, blankets, pillows, kids these days, or coffee, they reverted to the following conversation:

"Is the train slowing down? It feels like it is slowing down."
"I don't know. We might be slowing down. Where are we right now?"
"I don't know. Does the train feel slower? I think it feels slower."
"There could be snow on the tracks. Is it snowing?"

Needless to say, I learned a lot.

To all my party people...

2006-03-10T10:17:00.000-08:00

This afternoon I leave for my home state of California, where I will don my lynx sweatshirt and watch cable television for ten days. Please be good while I am gone.

Benjamin Franklin by Benjamin Franklin

2006-03-08T10:54:00.000-08:00

I am very picky, too picky, about what I read, and I am hyper picky about what I read before bed. I don't need any stressful or disturbing images entering my head right before I go to sleep, especially when the altitude alone is giving me vivid, bizarre, and intricately detailed dreams. Last night, I dreamt that I was dressed as a geisha and following a group of people up the stairs of a building on the west side of Central Park. However, my face was painted green and I was the only one who knew that I was minutes away from getting in serious trouble for it. It was a doozy, but I digress.

I have been combing Meghan and Ronnie's bookshelves, looking for something that will calm and mildly entertain me. Nothing dense; nothing riveting. So I look shelf by shelf. Long, long, boring, boring, long and boring, educational, poetry, too many characters, read half in high school, etc. I have already finished their two Baby-Sitter's Club books, Stacey's Lie and Stacey's Emergency. (On a sidenote- two Stacey books? What about Claudia or Kristy or Jesse? I don't know, Meghan and Ronnie, your choices seem a little Aryan.)

Tonight I have settled on The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin, written, surprisingly, by Benjamin Franklin. I was reading A Million Little Pieces, which has a pretty blue cover with sprinkles on it, but decided that it was a bad idea after staying awake for an hour reading the play-by-play of the narrator's root canal, which was done without anesthesia or painkillers. That is not what I need to be thinking about when I am trying to rest up for a big day of baby-sitting, nor do I want to start recalling my own days of orthodontia (braces in college- another story for another day.)

I am not expecting much out of Franklin's unabridged biography. I just noticed that is cost $1.50; that does not bode well. All I hope is that Ben and his junior high school friends started an after school baby-sitting service in Stoneybrook, Connecticut, where they had adventures with strict parents, crazy kids, and messy art projects.

Daytime Starbucks

2006-03-03T15:52:00.000-08:00

I love the Starbuck's day crowd in Santa Fe. There are three cowboys here right now. Three. One is reading the newspaper and two are having a conversation. I imagine their conversation is going like this:

How's your coffee?
Good and strong, like the time my appaloosa kicked me in the ribs.
Mine too.
How are your dogeys?
My dogeys are good. They have been eating a lot of grass on the range.
Mine too.

I will learn to talk like that when I go to the dude ranch.

There are also a proportionately large number of elderly people at this Starbucks, since Santa Fe is basically one large retirement community. They all seem to know each other, and many of them are tech savvy. I appreciate the older people because I feel good about asking them to watch my stuff when I use the restroom. I hear elderly people steal batteries, but I don't carry batteries with me unless I'm roller blading around town with a large, yellow boombox on my shoulder.

I have attached a picture of my brother sitting in the city square in Bordeaux, France. He hates cliches and prejudices, so he has looked past all sterotypes and embraced the French people for who they really are, even to the point of becoming one of them.

The Dinner of a Lifetime

2006-03-01T17:26:00.000-08:00

For the past week, my brother-in-law has been working on the set of an educational film being shot here in Santa Fe. Last night, for the second time this week, my sister and I joined him and the crew for dinner. We were talking to the person overseeing the shoot, a kind man named Lee, when someone made a comment about him receiving royalties for a Superbowl commercial that featured MacGyver (man, icon, hero to all). It begged the question, "Why do you receive royalties for that commercial?"

Because he created the show.

At that moment, I lost any shred of cool (or social etiquette) that I possessed. What do I say? I tell him about how the show inspired me to wear one pair of shorts for a whole year in elementary school, a pair of blue cordoruy shorts that I nicknamed the survivor shorts after I stuffed the pockets full of anything that MacGyver might need in an emergency, such as gum wrappers, rubber bands, paper clips, a pocket knife, etc. I never actually needed to use anything in the pockets, but at least I was prepared for any office emergency, and at least I was really popular. Oh, wait...

I was overwhelmed at the opportunity to be able to tell someone, to their face, how their work had changed and molded my life. It was like getting to thank a doctor after open heart surgery or playing basketball with the player who inspired you to go pro. I don't know where I would be without your contribution to society, Lee. God bless all things MacGyver-related.

La Grippe Aviare

2006-02-27T16:49:00.000-08:00

My brother is currently studying in France, and he recently received the following email of warning:

Dear students:

As you may know, bird flu has arrived in France. On your walks in parks or woods, don't touch birds dead or live. On the other hand, there does not seem to be any reason to change your diet.

The UC Education Abroad Program Staff

I was furious at the vagueness of the email. Is the bird flu a big joke? It is not possible for someone to draft a more thorough letter that covers acceptable and unacceptable bird relationships? I suppose this is something I will have to take upon myself, even if I am on sabbatical.

Dear students:

As you may know, bird flu has arrived in France. Below please find a list of guidelines/helpful suggestions for interacting with birds during this hard time.

-You may continue to eat most poultry. Do not eat any birds that appear overly skinny or that are a dark purplish color.
-Wash your hands after shaking hands with a bird or after touching door handles or railings at places where lots of birds, especially foreign birds, frequent.
-Do not walk home alone after dark through heavily-populated bird boroughs.
-Do not eat anything that a bird offers to you.
-Do not agree to carry anything in your suitcase as a favor to a bird.
-Do not accept rides from birds that you do not know, especially if it appears that they have been drinking.
-Do not share your bed with a bird.
-Do not kiss birds that you do not know on the mouth.
-Do not share chapstick or mascara with a bird.
-Do not read emails or download attachments from unknown birds.
-Do not sign as a guarantor for a bird that you have just met.

If you are unsure about a certain situation, we ask that you err on the side of safety and contact us immediately.

The UC Education Abroad Program Staff

Zoologist Staff Meeting

2006-02-25T22:02:00.000-08:00

This morning was our biweekly staff meeting. There is no set location for our meetings; they move around the zoo. Today we met on the benches in front of the polar bear exhibit, which is probably the furthest point from the koala enclosure. I have put in three requests for a golf cart, but Wendy in Maintenance made it clear that unless I am in management, 200 pounds overweight, or doing someone in management, I am not getting a golf cart. So, I walked to my meeting. The lazy petting zoo clique took the Skyfari.

I showed up a few minutes early so that I could get a seat, but the African safaris (a nickname for anyone who works in the northeast part of the zoo, i.e. the elephant crew, the giraffe crew, etc.) had taken up all of the benches. I saw one of the guys who actually works at the polar bear exhibit complaining to Rich, the park director, about how the host should always get a seat, but Rich shrugged it off, most likely because he spent 18 years as an African safari and will forever favor that group. I ended up standing in the back next to Leonard, a short bald man who jokes, a little too often, about how he wants his apartment to look like the naked mole rat terrarium. Leonard does not have a girlfriend.

The topic of today's meeting was "invisible cleanliness." Rich spoke about how to keep the animals' habitats clean without being seen by the guests. He said that you don't see people cleaning up after animals in the wild. I thought that was the stupidest thing I'd heard in a long time. Rich tries to be encouraging, but he relates everything back to how it is in nature. I once made the mistake of asking Rich a question about my health insurance. He started his response with, "You know there's no health insurance in nature." We have not spoken since.

Meetings are held at 6:15PM, 15 minutes after the park closes. During the summer, when the zoo stays open for Night Zoo, which lasts until 10:00PM, we have our meetings before the park opens. The meeting went long tonight, because we all sang Happy Birthday to Linda, the crowned eagle trainer, and then had cupcakes. I cut out as soon as the song ended so I could go look at an apartment in Normal Heights. My lease is up in a month and I would like to live closer to the zoo. Work might seem less like work if I could home for lunch. I'm thinking seriously of taking the apartment. The landlord doesn't allow pets, but honestly the last thing I need right now is an animal waiting for me at home.

A Little Explanation of Where I Come From...

2006-02-22T13:48:00.000-08:00

I found this in my inbox this morning:

Hi Leighton: I have been waiting for a long time to tell you this, but I feel you are sufficiently emotionally secure to let you know the real truth. The fact is, I had an affair with Clint Eastwood. Yes, the commutes to Carmel every weekend were hard to hide, but we managed. Love finds a way. And then, nine months later, out pops you!. I thought you would like to know. I didn't want to complicate Clint's life so I never let him know. That's why I love his movies so much and it explains your violent tendencies. Love, Mom

Mom, I appreciate your honesty. Thanks for telling me, even if you waited a while. The truth feels good!

Huh

2006-02-21T19:47:00.000-08:00

Today I went to work with my sister, and then left to make a phone call in her car. It was pleasantly warm. I went back into her office and said that I was going to take a nap in the back seat of her car, as I enjoy being warm.

She woke me up three hours later. It should be noted that she drives a Honda Civic hatchback, with a very small back seat. It should also be noted that I felt quite rested when I woke up, albeit slightly groggy and a little confused since I dreamt that I only slept for an hour.

February 20, 2006

2006-02-20T18:33:00.000-08:00

I believe I am almost completely well. I was going to go to the doctor the other day, but it would have cost me over two hundred dollars just to get looked at, so I opted for a little home therapy. I lay in bed for hours at a time and breathed very slowly, and drank lemon lime Gatorade. I only spoke on very important occasions. When I became bored with lying in bed and thinking, I went through the Algebra section in my sister's GRE prep book. I made the same careless errors that I made in eighth grade, but it is still my favorite math and it made me want to be a math teacher. However, I had ample time to rethink that, and I do not want to be a math teacher. I want to do math homework; big difference. When I was burned out on math, I watched several hours of West Wing Season 1, and drank tea and took vitamins. The combination appears to have worked; my sore throat has calmed down and my voice has returned.

Now that I am feeling better and I have had a few days to do nothing but think and read and solve inequalities (both in algebra and in society as a whole), I believe the emotions of making a major cross country move are beginning to catch up with me, and I am in a frightfully bad mood. The microwave keeps making a low crashing noise, and I would like nothing better than to use a baseball bat to teach it a lesson. Following that, I would like to cry for a few minutes and then watch a movie. And if someone wanted to play with my hair while I watched the movie, I would be okay with that. I know some of you are frightened by my e-anger, but you are just going to have to be okay with that, and learn that I am not dangerous.

One of the nice things about getting sick in Santa Fe, as opposed to New York, is being taken care of. I kept picturing myself getting bundled up and riding the bus to the doctor's office, and then riding the bus to the pharmacy, and then trying not to faint while walking back up the five flights of stairs to my old apartment. Here, I can be driven to the doctor's office, if I should choose to go, and people make me tea and buy me ice cream and tuck me into bed. It is delightful.

I do think that getting sick was my body's way of letting me know that I have not let myself adjust to moving from New York to Santa Fe. I didn't want to have to adjust. Adjusting to New York took much longer than I expected it to, and I think I was under the impression that moving in with family would save me from having to adjust to anything new. I guess I have been viewing this whole thing as a vacation. You don't have to adjust to anything if you are just on vacation. (That is unless someone is taking you on a vacation to break some big news to you, like you are getting kicked out of your house or your parents have actually not been married this whole time.) A few nights ago, I was driving around Santa Fe and I was struck by how unfamiliar it looked. It could be for a number of reasons: 1) I have lived here for two weeks 2) I have been in bed for a good amount of that time and 3) I have not yet grasped the idea that all of my stuff is in New Mexico and I am in New Mexico and I am not leaving here to return to New York or California anytime soon.

I have attached some fine photos that illustrate past blog postings.

The Christmas tree I found on the street (Davis Christmas 2005- Best Ever? You Decide. December 29, 2005)

Me outside of Jurassic Pets (They Said They'll Catch Me One Day, Napping. February 9, 2006)

Inside of Jurassic Pets (They Said They'll Catch Me One Day, Napping. February 9, 2006)

I call this photo "New Life." It is me in Santa Fe. I am smiling, and I am in casual clothes, and my shoes are up on a desk. I had spent the day reading and writing.

Pretend Zoologist Journal Entry #1

2006-02-16T11:53:00.000-08:00

I have been a zoologist at the San Diego Zoo for two and a half years. I began cleaning cages in the marsupial exhibit while still in undergrad, and only recently began caring full time for Mei Mei, a year old female koala.

People see me in my khaki shorts and matching shirt and assume that they are better than me. They think that playing with cuddly-looking animals is a dream job for any girl, and that anyone who knows how to snuggle could get hired. They don't realize that I had to go to school for eight years and then undergo exhaustive testing. No one can seem to grasp the idea that wearing shorts doesn't rule out the chance that I have a PhD.

Children think that my job is magical and cool. Men do not. I haven't been on a date in three years. My khaki clothing makes me invisible to anyone attractive, and it doesn't even matter because no one single and attractive goes to the San Diego Zoo. It is not a singles hangout. The men who hit on me are overweight or married or overweight and married. The overweight thing doesn't bother me, it's that they approach asking me out as though I would be doing them the greatest favor in the world. I am not sure how they expect me to respect them when they do not respect themselves.

You would think that all of the zoologists would be friendly with each other. I imagined we would all sit around and eat churros and laugh about how the koalas are continually high and how the desert tortoises can't go fifteen minutes without crawling on top of each other. But there's none of that. There's a zoo hierarchy that I never imagined. One guy actually dumped his girlfriend when he got promoted from fishing cats/servals to the big cat exhibit and she did not. The only people who truly get along are the four women who work in the petting zoo. They formed a tight group after realizing that no one else would talk to them, and that there was no need for competition because it was near impossible to be promoted out of the petting zoo. I've tried talking to them, but, come on; it's the petting zoo. We have nothing in common. I don't think you even have to go to school for that.

I don't even know why I became a zoologist. I think my parents recommended it after seeing how well I took care of my stuffed animals, many of which had been purchased at the San Diego Zoo. But it's different. Koalas can be fierce, and they don't like being held like babies. That was a perk I was counting on. Instead, I spend most of my day taking koala temperatures and misting their leaves and explaining to the heavy married men hanging around my exhibit that koalas are not even bears.

Whoa Whoa Whoa, It's Magic

2006-02-15T15:37:00.000-08:00

I do not feel so good today. I have not been feeling my best lately, so I went to bed early last night. Fourteen hours later, my sore throat was worse than when I got into bed. I went and got a chicken green chile burrito from El Parasol, my sister's cure for colds. It has enough green chile to clear up your sinuses, and it provides your immune system with a boost of vitamin C. My sinuses have cleared, but my throat is still sore.

I have been working out a lot. Last week, I bench pressed the bar three times IN A ROW. I have not done it since because I pulled something in my back while bench pressing, but don't you worry, I will do it again. I will probably even do it four times. I am excited to be working out in Santa Fe because the altitude is 7,000 feet. I ran out of breath last week trying to get my shoes off; it is that high. I am pretty sure that when I return to sea level next month, I will be able to run like a horse. My goal is to get fast enough that I can chase and capture small wild animals like prairie dogs or marmots. I won't eat them, or anything. I just want to be able to do it.

Someone Who Will Watch Over Me

2006-02-14T09:35:00.000-08:00

I had a post up yesterday that set the record straight that I am not a lesbian, but I deleted it because there was no context for it and I thought it might just confuse people. It probably confused some people more to see it and then not see it, as if I had changed my mind. My brother-in-law said that he has never thought for a second that I was a lesbian, but I explained that that is because he knows me. To someone reading this who has never met me and seen how comfortable I am with my good friend heterosexuality, I could see how a few of my comments, or the fact that sometimes I like to write with the voice of a man, could give people the wrong idea. So, consider it clarified that I like men, even if I get nervous around them and act like I do not notice them or am mad at them. I am sure you all feel as good as I do now, having cleared that up.

Today being Valentine's Day, I am of course going to discuss love. One of my grandmas once told me that she has a problem with the way people throw the word love around. I love that movie. I love going on vacation. I love when I find a star on the wrapper of my Tootsie Pop. I do not have a problem with it; it is a part of our culture, and a way to place emphasis. If no one knew how to decipher the different types of love then there would be a problem, but there are rules around using the word love that most people follow. I have the freedom to say that I love eggs. The person I am speaking to will inherently know that this love for eggs is well below my love for my family (unless it has been a bad week at home.) Also, I know that if I cared for the hypothetical person I was dating only equally as much as I cared for eggs, it would not be enough to justify telling that person that I loved him. That is, unless I am talking about the love I felt for egg sandwiches my sophomore year of college, when a lifetime of hating breakfast foods caught up with me in a way that was both surprising and fulfilling.

I hope I have made my point. The general population knows when to use and how to interpret the different levels of the word love, so I say go ahead and use it when you need to use it. There is a large hierarchy of positive feelings and very few words to describe them, so use what you have. I love good water pressure. I love corduroy. I love God. If you think I love all of these the same then I would appreciate it if you would stop reading this blog because I am going to offend you and you are not going to understand me, which I will then be offended by.

A few more thoughts on love. I was in a funk this morning, and it took a few hours to sort out. I was sort of mad at myself, and sort of sad, and pretty fearful. After some reading and some praying and a lot of thinking and a glass of tea, I realized what was going on. I was condemning myself for not being perfect. I don't realize when I fall into that; I usually only notice that I have been trying really hard to be perfect when I make a mistake and am depressed by it. If you ever want to feel fearful and tired, try being perfect, whatever your version of perfect looks like. It is sort of like strapping on a couple hundred pound weights. So, if anyone feels like learning my lesson today, don't get mad at yourself for not completing a task or feeling human emotions or not understanding everything that is going on in your life. It is a waste of a perfectly good morning.

La La La La La La La La La, I love you.

2006-02-13T15:29:00.000-08:00

Last night, I put on perfume before I went to bed. I felt like doing something because I could. And, well, I did it. And then I laid in bed for two hours, thinking about how I smelled and how I was thinking about how I smelled. I really thought I might lay there all night. The novelty of smelling nice wore off in about two minutes, in case you were thinking about trying it for yourself. Then I just had a noxious smell stuck in my nose and a noxious taste stuck in my mouth. And I was cold.

Crazy Taos Friday Night Extravaganza

2006-02-10T23:55:00.000-08:00

Tonight I went to Taos to watch an American String Quartet concert. I enjoy going to classical concerts for two main reasons: 1) there is no greater place to think and 2) it is my chance to hang out with the over 60 crowd. We don't actually talk, but we rub shoulders and I smile at them with my eyes.

Meghan, Ronnie and I pre-partied with chimichangas and margaritas before heading over to the Taos Center for the Arts. (We were completely sober, a detail that will become important a little later on.) We waited outside in twenty degree weather at the will call window while the woman ahead of us told her friends in the will call booth about some sort of sporting accident.
"Did he have a helmet on?"
"Well, he was wearing a helmet, but he hit his head on the left side."
"Oh dear, that just sounds awful!"
It felt like I was sitting in on a coffee date, except that I was really, really cold.

I experienced something tonight that I have never before experienced at a classical concert. I think the woman behind me was drunk. Besides just talking and moaning throughout the concert, she yelped at the end of the Mozart piece, and then at different points during the Shostakovich piece she said, "finally!" and "oh, great." I did not hear or see a single thing that should have prompted these outbursts. It was as if she was watching a soccer match and commenting on calls from the referee. I was impressed with her silence during the second half of the concert, only to turn around and see that she was not in her seat. She had probably passed out in the bathroom. What kind of person gets drunk before a live performance of classical music? Maybe she used to be a prodigy and she now writes jingles, or maybe she thought she was sneaking into a late night showing of Agent Cody Banks and was pissed at her mistake.

I fell asleep at the last American String Quartet concert that I went to at the Manhattan School of Music. This should not reflect on the quartet in the least; there were a number of reasons why I should have expected this outcome and opted out of going in the first place. 1) I had stayed up really late the night before and then woken up before 7am, 2) the concert took place at 3pm on a Sunday afternoon, the exact time that my body has been trained to fall asleep (another story for another time), and 3) I had slipped on ice early that morning and laid myself out on the sidewalk like I had never laid myself out before, and should have been home in the bath or in bed. On top of that, the concert hall was drafty, so I formed a toasty little nest by tucking myself into my chair with my overcoat. Add peaceful classical music and I believe anyone in my place would have fallen asleep. But hey, I am not defensive about it, I just thought that you should understand the sleep-conducive nature of late nights and warm coats and harmonious music, ok? Get off my back.

They Said They'll Catch Me One Day, Napping

2006-02-09T17:44:00.000-08:00

Now that I am not surrounded by the constant and persistent crazies of New York, I thought that I was going to need to start using my imagination more. And then I drove past the inspiration of inspirations, a little Godsend called Jurassic Pets. I was so excited, I thought my head was going to fall off. What kinds of scary, pre-historic animals would be for sale at Jurassic Pets? I had to wait a few minutes to find out, as a note on the door said that the owner was picking up some new fish from the Albuquerque airport. There was a man in front of the pet store who further explained that the flight could have been delayed, etc., but that I did not have to worry because the owner would return. He ended his explanation with the statement, "I work here." Just a thought- if you actually worked there, wouldn't you have a set of keys?

The owner returned 15 minutes later. I think I had been picturing a man walking off of a plane with a large glass bowl of fish, which would go through some sort of disease test before being handed to the eager and waiting owner of Jurassic Pets. Instead, the owner came in carrying large, white boxes labeled "Tropical Fish. This Side Up." So this is what it feels like to be wrong. Interesting.

On first appraisal, it looks like a standard pet store. Wall of reptile terrariums. Wall of fish aquariums. Two parrots, one dove, and one cockatiel. That is the end of the normal pets and the beginning of the jurassic pets. There is a large terrarium with an alligator named Freddie, who is not for sale, and a number of plastic boxes with hissing cockroaches, tarantulas, scorpions, and millipedes (centipedes? come back to me, sixth grade science, come back to me!) I have a continual fear that I will be in a pet store when all of the glass on the aquariums and terrariums will simultaneously break, leaving me swimming in a thick clump of snakes. Though that may be a little extreme, the four-month-old St. Bernard puppy named Avalanche who was bounding around the precariously-stacked plastic boxes of tarantulas, upon which the large glass bowl of scorpions was perched, seemed like a really, really terrible idea.

As it turns out, the pet store prides itself on being interactive. An excited customer pointed to the ceiling, where there were large, hanging tree branches. I was told that the snakes are usually hanging on the branches instead of being confined to their nice, safe cages.

Anyway, I went back today. I wore a hat, which was a good call since the snakes were in fact hanging from the ceiling. I am in the mood to nurture and think that I should wait on having a baby until I have things like a husband or a way to make a living or my own room. Instead, I am in the market for a pet. By the time I left the pet store, I was pretty set on getting a Jackson chameleon (see photo,) because I think I could legitimately tell people that I had a pet dinosaur. That was a bad idea for me to look up pictures of Jackson chameleons just now, because now I really want one again. The pet store owner said that he could also get me a female chameleon so that I could easily breed them. He said, "Put them together and he will get RIGHT on her." It was an awkward pet store moment. I like the idea of breeding dinosaurs, but there is always the chance that I will not be able to sell them, and then I will become that weird reptile lady who goes to the grocery store with her pet dinosaur on her shoulder and stares down other people as if they are the weird ones for not having a reptile crawling down their arm.

Another option is the horseshoe crab. They look like garden tools, but even as I type this I am bored with the idea, so I guess that answers that. Maybe I could nurture my neighbors by bringing them brownies. It is much less of a commitment.

A Few Thoughts for Me Mates

2006-02-08T10:42:00.000-08:00

If I were a true pirate and lived on a pirate ship, I believe I would have a hard time trusting my fellow pirate co-workers. I mean, we take what is not ours by force daily, and we scoff at the rules of the land. Sure, we have our own code, but I tend to think that our constant devaluing of other people's lives and property would have to seep into our interpersonal affairs. And then what? Who do I share my prized collection of bejeweled goblets with- one of the women I've raped or one of the families I have torn apart? It's a lonely life, and one that I did not fully understand when I began my apprenticeship. I just thought we would drink a lot and roll around in gold coins and peel fruit with large knives, and form lasting bonds. But here I am- a murderer, a thief, and a scoundrel who doesn't know if he can count on his pirate friends to show up to his birthday party at the Rusty Oar. It's time to make some non-pirate friends. Maybe I should join a band or take a pottery class at the local community college.

People on their way to work; baby, what did you except

2006-02-03T13:03:00.000-08:00

Last night, I dreamt that I had a large boyfriend from New Jersey. I have doubts as to whether I was actually the main character in the dream for two reasons: 1) I have yet to be attracted to anyone from New Jersey (my apologies) and 2) he accused me of not hugging and kissing him enough, although I think that I am prone to being overly affectionate.

Anyway, large New Jersey boyfriend and I are driving to visit his family. In my head, I think that this is a pretty bad idea because I know that we are going to break up soon, and I do not see the point of forming any attachments with his family. It should also be noted that the New Jersey highway looks a lot of like a stretch of Trabuco Street in south Orange County, and the New Jersey landscape looks suspiciously like Colorado.

As we are driving, large New Jersey boyfriend says that he is not getting enough physical affection. I say, "well, I am not going to have sex with you." And he responds that I could at least hug and kiss him more, and I need to kiss him right then. I say that I find this to be a poor idea since he is driving, and he says that he is a very good driver. We compromise with a kiss at a stoplight (on the highway?)
I'm really glad we broke up. He didn't get me at all.

I am making a conscious effort to continue dressing as if I live in New York. Upon my arrival, my brother-in-law requested that I not succumb to the Santa Fe style of dressing, which is basically an excuse for New York and LA retirees to live out their Frontierland fantasies. The dress code involves a lot of fur, turquoise and draping, Native American fabrics. I know what you're thinking, "Leighton, you would look so good in that!" Thank you, I know. But I just can't do it.

Having been here for almost a week, it is time for me to begin the process of making friends. Moving to New York taught me that initiating friendships is exactly like dating. I have to have an awkward phone conversation where we figure out what movie to see and where to meet, and then when we meet up we ask each other interview questions about family and likes and dislikes. And then I try to hold her hand at the movie and my hand gets sort of sweaty. It's exhausting, really.

I don't know who to be friends with here, and I don't understand their outdoorsy nerd speak. I don't have anything to say about free climbing, unless I revert to my anecdote about the time I went bouldering and severely bruised my ass. But I don't know; ass bruises sort of seem like a topic of conversation for close friends.

I guess I'll keep you posted on my progress. At least I have Gypsy, Meghan and Ronnie's geriatric cat that insists on hugging my neck at all times of the day. Her last owners neglected her, so she is an interesting combination of lavish affection and latent rage.

Papa Sang Bass, Mama Sang Tenor

2006-02-02T10:47:00.000-08:00

I made it! I am safely out of New York and in Santa Fe. The trip went very quickly, due mainly to my ability to sleep on planes. In fact, on my flight from Chicago to Albuquerque, I had three seats to myself and was able to stretch out and take a proper nap. I am a plane sleeper of the truest kind because I refuse to use any sort of medication. Plane sleepers need dedication, not pills. Rookies think that if you are meant to sleep on planes then you will fall asleep quickly and sleep undisturbed until the nap is over. It's not true. Even the best of us are going to be woken up frequently by turbulence, overeager flight attendants and crying babies. Waking up is not the problem; the issue is whether or not you will make yourself go back to bed. I woke up a number of times, but refused to actually sit up until I heard," Flight attendants, prepare the cabin for landing." At that point, I accepted success and sat up, buckled myself in properly, chewed gum and put on a hat.

My brother-in-law, Ronnie, picked me up from the airport. When I last saw Ronnie, a month ago, he promised that he would hit me next time he saw me. As we drove to Santa Fe, we received a call from my sister. I was looking out the window while Meghan and Ronnie talked, but I heard Ronnie say,"Guess what I'm going to give Leighton right now." And with that, he socked me in the thigh. The nice thing about having a blog is that I can choose to give my side of the story and leave out any instigation on my part. I feel so powerful.

As expected, I felt healthier within hours of being here. In fact, I am currently eating a brown rice rice cake. My poor insides have been so warped due to convenience and high fructose corn syrup. No longer, poor body, no longer.

On another note, I received a call last night letting me know that a list I submitted to a Web site called McSweeney's has been posted! You can check it out here: http://www.mcsweeneys.net/links/lists/. It is titled "Responses to People on the 6 Train That Hopefully Convey My Feelings in a Polite Way."

Pump Up the Jam, Pump It Up

2006-01-28T21:28:00.000-08:00

Tonight on the 6 train, the woman next to me asked her friend, "Remember my friend who flushed her pearls down the toilet?" My interest was piqued. Please continue. As it turns out, it was an accident that involved a pearl necklace with a faulty clasp and an automatically flushing toilet. Isn't that always the case? Anyway, from what I gathered, the necklace was never recovered. The conversation then switched to Rice Krispy treats, and surprisingly, I lost interest and decided to run across the platform and jump onto the express train.

Nothing much to report there. I wonder what would happen if I began emptying the contents of my purse onto the floor. They would get sticky- that's what would happen. And there would be no one to blame but myself, the irresponsible person who spilled their Hawaiian punch, and, of course, God.

8th Ave. between 25th and 26th

2006-01-26T10:08:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I had a slice of pizza at a lucky place called Luigi's Pizza. Luigi's has somehow managed to dodge all health inspections since its opening in (this is an educated guess based on the decorations and the last time it was cleaned) 1983. I believe Luigi was the man in the back room who unabashedly stared while I ordered my slice of pizza. He later watched me in the mirror while I ate, giving me a pleasant, "you're lucky we met in a lit restaurant" stare. He strolled past me once or twice in his stained white smock, and made sure to stare as I put my coat back on.

Aside from chemical imbalances, postpartum depression, and trauma, I would guess that the decor in Luigi's is the number one cause of depression in the tri-state area. I thought that sitting in a greasy, brown booth surrounded by old pizza, Peppermint Patty's and chicken rolls would raise my mood, but that was not the case. The strong smell of cleaning liquids did not help either. The filthiness of the floor and walls assured me that the overwhelming stench of ammonia was meant to mask another smell, not to give proof of a recent cleaning.

I believe the majority of the clientele was packing heat. I was, at least. You have to protect yourself this day in age. In fact, one man barged through the door and said, "good thing I didn't hit that cop in the face" and "good thing I didn't have any coke on me" in one breath. Then, while pacing, he went into an exposition on how it isn't right that cops can just walk up and slap you on the back of the head, and how he no longer comes to Manhattan because he sells pure stuff but the mother f*ckers here put baking soda in their coke. For support, he asked the man behind the counter, "is that right?" to which the cashier said, "Sprite?" I would have had a hearty laugh in any other situation, but I thought it might be a good idea to get the hell out of there.

When visiting New York, make sure you stop at this untouched gem for pizza. I highly recommend the slice with the maraschino cherry on it.

When I Move You Move

2006-01-24T13:26:00.000-08:00

That is Kristina outside of the Astor Place subway stop during the MTA strike. 2005 seems so long ago. I wonder what I was like back then.

I went to the post office today. Please hold your applause; it is distracting and I am trying to write here. I bought five stamps and have a surprising amount to say about them. They were not the sticker form of stamps, but rather the lick kind. I didn't even think non-sticker stamps existed anymore, let alone in New York City. I thought we were progressive here, but I obviously thought wrong. I should move. Anyway, I licked the stamps and put them on the envelopes (standard protocol), and they tasted like penicillin! Having learned the hard way that I am quite allergic to penicillin, I am going to be pissed if I once again get hives for a year (thanks again, Dr. Joy.)

I would like to address the list I posted on January 13, regarding occasions and locations where it is necessary to wear a bra. I wanted to explain the necessity of wearing a bra to Home Depot. Home Depot is full of particle board and tile and men who aggressively leer. As glaring back has never worked, I highly recommend wearing high-riding pleated pants, two or three sports bras (over a standard bra), and a quilted flannel shirt. Also, as Hella pointed out, Home Depot could be physically dangerous sans bra.

Don't blame me; I just work here

2006-01-18T07:29:00.000-08:00

Oh, dios mio. If I can stay alive for 32 more hours, I will officially be done working here at my place of employment.

I thought that you might enjoy this story about my friend, Kristina. Last week, Kristina went into the Body Shop to buy makeup, where she was helped by a man who was himself wearing makeup. After they had found everything that she was looking for, the man asked her if there was anything else that she needed. There was. Kristina had been thinking of buying a scrub/cleanser that is made out of ground up nuts, so she asked the man if they carried a nut scrub. Only after the words had left her mouth did she realize that she had in fact just asked for nut scrub. To try to make it seem more normal, she went into a lengthy explanation of what she was looking for, repeatedly using the words nut and scrub (together and separately). She then purchased her nut scrub and left the store, leaving the salesman with, most likely, the greatest story of his career.

It's been a big week for all of us here at NBC

2006-01-15T18:43:00.000-08:00

Last Thursday, I went with my friend Tamara to her office party. Before you attempt to picture it, I should mention that she is a production assistant on the set of Law and Order: Criminal Intent, so your mental image must include Vincent D' Onofrio. That's right- I went to the Law and Order: Criminal Intent 100th Episode Party. In case I showed up to the party unaware of what we were celebrating, there was an ice sculpture and a large cake in the shape of a police badge that both made it very clear that the show was Law and Order: Criminal Intent and the occasion was the making of the 100th episode.

What I really appreciated about this event was that if you stripped away the great location (Chelsea Piers), the celebrities, the tasty and abundant food, and the open bar, you were still at an office party. Office parties are awkward by definition. Like I have said before, coworkers have four things to talk about: 1) projects from work 2)whether or not someone from work has attended the party 3) what you did for the previous holiday or what you will do for the upcoming holiday and 4) where you are from. That is it. I respect people who try to venture beyond that, but I do not envy them. Even though these were not my coworkers, I stuck with the standard four.

By the way, I do not like baths. I feel dirtier after I take a bath than before, and I resent the fact that you, the American public, tell me that I should enjoy them.

3 hours from my 3 day weekend

2006-01-13T11:42:00.000-08:00

Occasions/locations where it is absolutely unacceptable not to wear a bra:

1) Job interviews*
2) First meetings with future in-laws
3) Bra commercials
4) Meat lockers
5) Home Depot

*Please note that there is a distinction between an interview and an audition

I have a project due in 27 minutes

2006-01-12T10:58:00.000-08:00

Valuable lessons learned today (in order of when they were learned):

1) Turning off your alarm is not the same thing as hitting snooze
2) Motivation tends to lag when you only have four days left at a job
3) Checking your email compulsively does not actually create new emails in your inbox
4) Pretending that a Thursday is a Casual Friday is not okay with everyone
5) Duck sauce, no matter how much confidence you have in it, does not fix everything

They Say a Watched Pot Will Never Boil

2006-01-11T08:58:00.000-08:00

To start, it needs to be said that the first line of my last entry was meant to be read sarcastically. I do not go to CBGB's every weekend. In response to the last post, my friend Carrie, the one who made sure I was not dressed like a dork for my heavy metal concert, had this to say, "...all of our mutual friends read that and thought 'who the hell is Carrie to deem someone dressed like a dork or not for a metal concert...the girl dresses like a kindergarten teacher!'...to which, I humbly accept their criticism as truth."

Yesterday, I was home sick with a fever. After barely sleeping and then violently throwing up, I thought it might be best to not go to the office. I spent all day moving from my bed to the couch and the couch to my bed, and leaving messages like, "I feel like shit" on my parent's answering machine. I woke up this morning feeling much better, and now here I am, back at work, using my time wisely.

Two nights ago, while waiting for my friends in front of a bar called Max Fish, I overheard a homeless man named John making comments to people passing by. When a woman came out of Max Fish to have a cigarette, they began a conversation that combined English, French, Spanish and drunk. I can generally translate all four, and let me tell you, they said nothing of consequence or interest. Later, John greeted a woman as she entered her apartment. When she asked him how he was doing, he said, "not as good as you're looking." That is pure gold.

At the end of April, I am going to a wedding in Colorado Springs. Carrie called me and suggested that we extend our visit to Colorado by a few days and go to a dude ranch. She gave me a few days to think it over. I give serious thought to anything that Carrie says because she not only puts up with all of my crap, she calls me on it, too. After a few hours of contemplation, the answer became obvious. "Carrie, what was I thinking?! Sign us up."

There was an immediate problem. How would Carrie make it clear to the dude ranch, in a subtle way, that she is booking the reservation for ex-college roommates/close friends and NOT lesbian lovers escaping for a romantic Western weekend getaway?

The owner of the dude ranch put her feelers out. "Would you like twin beds or a queen bed?" Obviously, she thought that Carrie's answer would solve the puzzle. Twin beds=straight. Queen bed=gay. If only it were that simple. We want the queen bed, of course; it is much warmer than twin beds. Plus, I am an indiscriminating cuddler.

Carrie played it very cool by saying, "Oh, whatever." Very breezy. I believe we were given the twin beds.