Experiantial Traveler

I am not someone who has ever been good at the “relaxing” vacation. Somehow, sitting on a beach, drinking Mai Tais and just letting the world slip away has never appealed to me. Sure, for a day, maybe 2, but a week? No. I need to spend my vacation learning something, experiencing something new,  and growing as a person. If I were to go and stay in one of those fancy resorts in Bora Bora, I’d probably end up spending more time with the people who worked there and making them show me what living in paradise is really like and teaching me about their culture. Therefore, when I travel, while I enjoy relaxing and doing nothing for one day, I need more.

This past weekend, my friend Caitlin and I were supposed to go to Vegas. In Vegas, you may not realize it, but they do have some culturally enlightening things. Last time, we saw the Bodies exhibit at the Luxor, which, while making me reconsider eating anything for the rest of my life, was incredible. I also learned that women do not typically donate their bodies to science, hence the reason all the bodies in the exhibit were men. See? Fun facts!

In the process of preparing for this Vegas trip, life struck and we both found ourselves too broke to go. Between hotel and food and cultural enlightenment and the sociological experiments of typical Vegas traditions (If you don’t know what I mean, you are not old enough to be reading this and should stop now), Caitlin and I both realized it was just not the mature, responsible adult thing to do.

So what do we, as mature, responsible adults do? Why, go to visit her parents of course!

While on this trip, I did a lot of learning and experiencing, more so that I ever thought I would.  Here are som of the interesting things I learned:

Bunko is a game played with dice that is great for groups and is very easy to play and gossip at the same time.

It turns out that once I couldn’t win, I then tried to lose so I can take home the “Most Loses” prize, yet my competitiveness in the moment overshadowed the possibility of a later win, and I lost the losers prize.

I am still somewhat big and scary to children at first, but they warm up to me eventually.

Then promptly forget about me in their sleep and then have to be re-warmed the next morning.

My boots that I have been very comfortable in are not made for wearing for long periods of time that include walking from one end of a mall and back, then standing while wine tasting, totalling 13 hours of wear.

My feet, however, will quickly recover from the pain as long as sneakers are worn the next day.

Wine is delicious. (Ok, that I already knew.)

Red wine is preferable to white. (Ok, again, I already knew that.)

Sangiovese is my new favorite type of wine.

Rosè is wine made from red grapes that have had their skin removed.

My favorite wine of the whole day was a Rosè of Sangiovese.  

Wine tastings are incredibly informative and educational, not all about getting wine-drunk.

You stand a lot at wine tastings. And the ones that let you sit down are not as informative as the ones where you stand up, unless you pull up a chair for yourself after you’ve been at the winery for an hour and half but are still thoroughly enjoying what the winemaker has to say.

Old men tell the best stories, especially if they are old men telling you about wine.

If you are middle-aged and still in a band that sounds like a high school garage band, you will annoy me to the point of possible violence.

I should definitely read the full cocktail description before ordering a drink.

Not all pink drinks are fruity, girly, and low in alcohol content.

Sleeping in a twin bed is not the best idea after said pink drink.

I am allergic to cats and it will cause me to sneeze uncontrollably and have incredibly watery eyes until I escape to the outside, or take an antihistamine.

Manicures can be nice every once in awhile.

Beware of any double-decker buses going through wine country, especially ones with “Red Bull” all over it. A girl will inevitably think it is Vegas or Mardi Gras and lean out of the second story and begin flashing while her other “friend” takes pictures or video tapes it. And you will be in the car behind feeling embarrassed for women everywhere.

I really like chile relleno and, much like spinach, it’s just that I don’t like the way they have been made for me my whole life.

Caitlin’s parents are the best people ever for letting me come and stay. (I already knew they were awesome)

Caitlin and I can have fun anywhere.

Riverside is somewhere that I will never live, no matter how much someone pays me. If someone did offer me a billion dollars to live there, I would promptly use my billion dollars to get the heck out.

Not exercising for 3 days and drinking a lot of wine makes my Monday workout exceptionally difficult.

I am very thankful for the friends I have in my life and for my life in general. (Ok, again, that I already knew, but sometimes it takes a weekend to be reminded.)

A Little Bit Country

I know I am going to regret putting this out there, but sometimes you need to admit embarrassing things about yourself in order to grow…or at least that’s what the mature people tell me.

I really love line dancing.

There. I said it.

Maybe I should go back a little bit.

One of my oldest friends (as in time we’ve known each other, not age. Although she does enjoy pointing out that she is 2 days older than me) asked me if I’d like to take a Country Line Dancing class at the park and rec center. Normally, I would laugh and make a sarcastic remark, but in the spirit of living, I said ok. Or possibly “Heck Yes!,” just to get in the spirit.

So here we are, 2 weeks in, and I have discovered that I really enjoy it. I’ve always loved to dance, but my appreciation for country music usually ends when the guys singing “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy” starts singing a sad song about how said girl broke his heart. So, when a class is titled “Country Line Dancing,” I’m a bit torn…

However, as it turns out, the “Country Line Dancing” class isn’t all country. The first dance we learned was “Stray Cat Strut,” which, yes, it to the song you think it goes to. Not to say there has been no country music, but the fact that we are doing a mixture of genres keeps me from possibly walking out or going crazy for 2 hours.

I also have to mention that the instructor adds to my enjoyment. He is an older gentleman, with a big beer belly and muttonchops.  He wears jeans and cowboy boots and plaid shirts, but his belt buckle is really what really makes the outfit. Not only is it a big dollar sign, but it’s totally blinged out. I mean, if these were real diamonds, every rapper would be envious. It is a little out of place, but what what would an outfit be without a little bling?

Overall, it may not be so far out of the box, but at least I can feel good about learning a new skill and finding a new hobby. Who knows? One of these days I may even buy a cowboy hat and some boots and head to one of the country bars the instructor suggested and get my groove on. (Turns out, there are some bars in the area I’ve never been to!)

Oh Dear Lord, What Am I Getting Myself Into...

In my everlasting search for living and not just existing, I have decided to participate in something that every single friend of mine who knows how much I love to write has (and knows what this month-long event is) has encouraged me to do. I have always made excuses, ranging from “It’s too hard” to “It’s the beginning of the holiday season! Do you know what that means to anyone that is a manager in the retail/food industry?!” (Insert a shrill sound of panic for that last one.)

However, this year, I have decided to not only do it, but to commit to it openly and to talk about it. I usually keep what I consider to be personal commitments to myself. Partially because of my intense fear of failure, but mostly because as soon as you admit to committing to something others may not understand, all the negativity comes out. “Well why would you want to do that?” “It just sounds hard and you probably won’t finish.” “Aren’t you just adding a lot of unnecessary stress to an already incredibly stressful time?” (Again, shrill sound of panic.)

So, in the effort of not only committing to something openly and putting my possible failure out there for all to see, I am also jumping ahead of the negative people who will hear what I am doing and say: “Go share your Haterade with someone else.” (Or possibly something with some expletives, depending on the level of pessimism.)

I will not let anyone’s negativity or questioning of my ability to do this deter me from what I am going to do. If I can’t finish, then that’s ok because getting out there and trying is half the battle. Therefore, if I die in battle, at least I will have gone down with some dignity!

Ok, I know, the suspense must be killing you. What is this great thing I am doing that I am committing to so openly and vehemently?

NATIONAL NOVEL WRITING MONTH.

AKA: Novel November

AKA: Write 50,000 words of a novel from November 1 to November 30.

AKA: Write almost 2,000 words per day…

AKA: Write almost 2,000 words per day in a genre in which I am not completely comfortable nor have any idea for a plot or characters or theme or setting or…

AKA: I AM ALREADY STARTING TO FEEL THE STRESS!! (Just kidding. It’s more like excitement…I think…)

 Ok, I need to breathe.

Why, you may ask, am I going to do this?

Well, mostly because I want to do something that will push me mentally and creatively. I spend a lot of my time supporting my friends in their creative endeavors, but rarely do I ever push myself to do the same. I am always encouraging others to do the things they love and go after their dreams, but I have noticed recently that I have trouble doing the same thing for myself. This is the first big step to doing this.

I also have to say that I am making an effort to do things that are outside of my comfort zone. I am taking a Country Line Dancing class (don’t worry, there is a post forthcoming about that) and trying out some new classes at the gym, but mentally there is very little that I have done since college to push the boundaries and see what I am truly capable of.

The best part? This costs me nothing but time. It may mean that my DVR will be working on overtime (Wait? I can’t watch as much TV??? I may need to back out now…) or that I can’t spend every evening off at karaoke (Ok…now I’m really rethinking this whole bit…), but as long as I make a plan and stick to it, I know that, at the end of November, whether I hit the goal of 50,000 words or not, at least I gave it my all.

However, if How I Met Your Mother, Big Bang Theory, Two Broke Girls, Law and Order: SVU, or any other of my favorite shows gets cancelled, I’m never going out of my comfort zone again!

Now I have one month to figure out what the hell I’m going to write about for 30 days, 2,000 words a day.

Some Advice from My Elders

There are so many reasons I enjoy spending time with my grandparents. They have the best stories and somehow we always get into a heated (but healthy) debate. Plus, there are these chairs that I have been begging for since I was a kid…but that’s another story.

While I was there, Grandma offered to take me to lunch if I would drive her on some errands. Since I always love a free lunch, I obliged. While we were at lunch, Grandma decided to give me some advice about dating. To be more specific, how to “hook a strong, supportive man.” She told me that the reason I always find the men that I do is because I am a strong, independent woman. “Too strong and independent,” she said. “You are so good at taking care of yourself and being dependable, these men think that you’re going to just care of them too. So, you need to work on being weaker. “

I busted up laughing. She started laughing also, but she kept going. She said that I didn’t need to ACTUALLY be helpless, but men just want to feel needed, so if I do things like asking for a ride or for a man to pick up something heavy, then he’ll feel needed. Then, after we spend time together and he falls in love with me, then I could start to slowly show him how independent I really am. He then would feel good about himself by thinking he helped me grow. I would have a man who was strong enough to handle and support me, and I would still be my same strong, independent self.

The conversation ended with a lot more laughter, most of it on my end. Grandma did laugh and see how ridiculous this sounded, despite sticking to her guns and thinking that this advice was sound.

Later that day, I went to the pool with Grandpa.  I told him about Grandma’s advice, and he found it incredibly funny just like I had. But, after a few moments of silence, he said, “Well. Maybe your grandma has a point. You should get a cane.”

The entire population of the pool stopped their conversation, tanning and swimming to turn and stare at the crazy woman laughing so hysterically with an old man in the shallow end.

“You would be surprised how great people are when you have a cane,” Grandpa continued above my laughter. “They open doors for you, offer to carry your bags, help you down stairs and out of your seat. They usually like to talk to you while they are helping you, so if you had a cane, you could find some nice man who helps you.”

“Sure, Grandpa. And then if he turns out to be not such a nice guy, I have a weapon to beat him off with, right?”

“Right.”

Grandma didn’t quite support the idea when we told her over dinner, but she did appreciate his attempt to help her in fixing my love life.

Abnormally Normal Living

I have never had a normal schedule. Some days I start work at 4 am; some days I work until 1 am. I don't get traditional weekends off. Sometimes my "weekend" is Tuesday and Wednesday. However, one recent "traditional" weekend, my friend Meaghan and I decided to make a list and see how many of the “normal” weekend things we could accomplish. We didn’t have Saturday off, but we did have Saturday night and all day Sunday to see how normal we could be. However, like with everything I do, nothing is ever normal.

Normal Activity #1: Go to a bar with a friend.

Normal activity #1 Turned Abnormal: We go to a tiki bar. No, I do not live in Hawaii nor was this some retro-chic place in Hollywood that charges $15 for a cocktail. It’s a dive tiki bar in North Hollywood that Meaghan described as like “being inside of a coconut. With puffer fish!” To add to the abnormality, there is a DJ spinning not the hottest Tiki-themed music, but spinning the typical dance/hip hop music you would hear at any other place on a Saturday night. Who else could have found a place that looks like a coconut with puffer fish hanging from the ceiling yet plays seemingly normal music?

Normal Activity #2: Dance with strangers in said bar.

Normal Activity #2 Turned Abnormal: On any given Saturday night, there will be a female getting drunk in celebration of her birthday. However, how often is the drunk, birthday girl a woman turning 40 who likes to grind on everyone while they are bellying-up to the bar? Normally, when a young lady has someone grinding on her from behind, it’s some creepy guy who usually smells like a mixture of body odor and too much Drakkar Noir. To top it off, who else can say that they joined a conga line that went throughout the bar?

Normal Activity #3: Use a restroom with a questionable level of cleanliness.

Normal Activity #3 Turned Abnormal: When a girl walks out of the restroom and says, “Don’t flush the toilet paper down the toilet because it won’t flush,” you know you’re in for a ride. However, when you walk into a restroom where a toilet has obviously overflowed recently and is in the process of doing so again, you do the only thinkable thing: plunge the toilet. Who else can say they plunged a toilet in a public restroom? (And may or may not have used the urinal later in the night when the women’s room finally broke beyond repair…)

Normal Activity #4: Make plans for Sunday brunch.

Normal Activity #4 Turned Abnormal: Originally brunch plans were for 10 am…then 1030 am…then kept getting later as the night went on which ended up being set for noon…Ok maybe that’s not that abnormal…

Normal Activity #5: Sleep late on Sunday morning. (Bet you thought I was going to say “go to church” huh?)

Normal Activity  #5 Turned Abnormal: So I guess it’s not that abnormal but I used to be able to sleep until 11 am and still wish I was sleeping more. But this particular Sunday, when all I wanted to do was sleep, I could not keep my eyes shut past 7:30am. I did force myself to stay in bed, but it’s just not the same as waking up with the sun already high in the sky. Hmm...maybe I should have gone and seen what this whole "church" thing is all about...I was up early enough for it, right?

Normal Activity #6: Enjoy brunch.

Normal Activity #6 Turned Abnormal: Oh man, it looks like my abnormally normal weekend is beginning to look totally normal.

Normal Activity #7: Run errands to prepare for the week.

Normal Activity #7 Turned Abnormal: It was beginning to look like we were turning into totally normal weekenders. By the time we got to the supermarket, it was almost complete. Almost.  After deciding half way through the trip that we needed a cart, Meaghan somehow found one that not only didn’t work properly, but almost took me over into the cart when it locked right outside the market. Normal people would have attempted to get the cart out of way or get it to the car. Not me. I told Meg to grab some bags and leave it right where it was, totally blocking the entrance. The whole way to the car the two of us laughed hysterically about how when things seems to be getting normal, something nearly sends me ass over end to remind us that “normal” is just not how we live.

When Travelling Lightly Backfires

Every time I fly, there is always one person in the airport security line who doesn’t know what he/she is doing. There’s the, “What do you mean I have to take my shoes off?” girl and the, “Since when do I have to take out my laptop out of the bag” guy and, my personal favorite, the woman who says, “But that moisturizer is $100 a bottle! What do you mean I have to throw it out?!” Usually, I am the one stuck behind this person and get very irritated at these ignorant and unobservant people and end up angry because their delay means I have to choose between my pre-boarding bathroom break or getting coffee. (You can guess which one wins.)

Well, the last time I flew, I was that person.

I usually don’t pack lightly, and when I fly Southwest, I don’t really care. If I don’t have to pay a fee for a bag, who cares if I check it? But, after all the times I’ve travelled with a large suitcase and then had to battle on public transportation, I decided if I can fit it all into my carry-on sized bag, I would do it. Then I thought about all the times I have a panic attack at baggage claim because my bags aren’t the first out, and I realized if I can fit in all in the carry-on, then why the bother checking it?

I went out and bought a few “TSA Approved” size bottles for my shampoo and conditioner and came to terms with the fact I would have to use whatever hairspray my cousin had at her place. I only brought the curling iron instead of the usual hair dryer-flat iron-curling iron combo I typically take with me everywhere. I cut down the amount of shoes from 6 pairs to just 3. I even pulled out all the liquids from my makeup bag and put them into the one quart Ziploc baggie. I thought I was so prepared.

Until I went through security and they had to open my bag because there were not only tweezers in my makeup bag but also scissors.

In all my careful planning, I hadn’t thought to take the stupid fracking tweezers out of my makeup bag. I honestly had forgotten about the little travel scissors that I stuck in my makeup bag a few months ago while furiously cleaning my bathroom before a guest came over and realized how incredibly vain I am with all of my products and tools. I stood there,  not arguing at all with the TSA agents who are all looking at me like I’m crazy. I think most of the crazy looks were not because I had forgotten to take out these “weapons” from my bags, but because I wasn’t arguing. I was well aware that I had done and was owning up to it. I even let them throw out my tweezers and scissors without protest. The poor TSA didn’t know what to do with someone who was being cooperative.

In the end, I got through security and made it to San Francisco.  Not, however, without a few angry looks from the passengers who got stuck in security behind the dumb girl who couldn’t remember that scissors and tweezers in a makeup bag makes you a possible terrorist instead of just a high maintenance woman didn’t think to check her makeup bag for heavy artillery. I did, however, make it in time for my pre-boarding bathroom visit AND coffee.

My Charlotte Woes Continue...

I have said before how much I love pomegranates and, being fall, they’re baaccck! Nothing makes me happier than walking through my local farmer’s market and seeing those lovely red fruits at every stall! I bought two and am already ready for more!

What got me even more excited was when, on a walk with my friend Meaghan, I saw that an apartment building on my street had some of these wonderful treats growing over the sidewalk.

I have been told before that it is not considered stealing if the fruit is hanging over the sidewalk, so, naturally, I reached up to pluck one and take it home with me. I was twisting the fruit to make sure it wasn’t rotted or anything and there was huge spider covering the entire backside!

Needless to say there was some screaming and running down the street on my part and lots of laughing and mocking on Meaghan’s part.

I believe it was karma for trying to take the fruit off of someone else’s tree. I think I’ll stick to purchasing mine from the fine farmers who get rid of the spiders for me first.

I'm Checking in at Winterfell

I know it has been quite some time since I have posted anything, but it isn't my fault. George R. R. Martin is to blame. 

I started reading it about a month ago, after reading a post about the awesomeness of the HBO series, A Game of Thrones. Since I am a bit financially challenged, I decided that reading the book would have to be good enough. When I started reading the description and found out it was a series, I suddenly remembered someone recommending it to me a few years ago, saying how much I would enjoy it. As I am not normally a fan of fantasy or of medieval anything, I wasn’t originally intrigued, hence the years of not bothering with it. If I hadn’t gotten the recommendation, I probably wouldn’t have picked up the books after seeing the first book consists of over 800 pages. But, when someone tells me that something is good or that I’ll like it, I always give it a try.

I wasn’t expecting to get as involved in the story as much as I have. I am torn between loving and hating almost every one of the characters. I’m not sure who I am supposed to like, respect, fear, or hate, which is why I see its brilliance. I have never been a fan of traditional good guy/bad guy roles and therefore when I read something where, even though there are protagonists and antagonists, I am much more drawn to those protagonists with faults and antagonists who are not necessarily just evildoers.

All that being said, I am not incredibly frustrated because I cannot read anything else! I am usually someone who reads 3 or 4 books at a time, partially because I am a slave to my moods but also because I like switching between different genres and getting involved in different stories. With this series, however, I haven’t been able to put it down. It has been so engrossing, that even when I am reading something else, I begin to wonder where Tryion is and what Daenerys is doing. It is very frustrating.

So, in conclusion, if I don’t post for a while longer or if when I do I write about khals and maegis and measters, don’t mind me. I’ve only got 3.5 more books to go.

A Little Fatherly Advice

It never ceases to amaze me how much my dad taught me. Or how inappropriate some of these lessons were.

When I was growing up, I hardly ever stood up straight, to the great chagrin of both of my grandmothers.

“You’re a beautiful girl! If you would just stand up straight!” my mom’s mom, BJ, would say.

“If you don’t stand up straight, you’re going to end up with a hunch back!” my dad’s mom, Marybelle, would say.

“If you don’t sit up straight, you are going to end up with hair in your food and syrup in your hair,” Marybelle said over the breakfast table.

“Don’t hunch over your food like that, unless you want me to put it in a bowl on the floor and you can eat like a dog,” BJ would tell me over the dinner table.

“Kimberly, this dress was not made for shlumped shoulders!” Marybelle told me while making my Homecoming dress.

“Kimberly, I swear, I am never taking you shopping again if you don’t straighten up!” BJ told me in a fitting room at Fashion Island.

(I always knew I was in trouble when a family member called me “Kimberly”)

Despite all of this, I wouldn’t listen. As I’ve said before, I really never stood up to my full height unless I was on a basketball court or a softball field. Even to this day, I have trouble remembering to stand up to my full height and at a dinner table I still have to remind myself to plant my butt at the back of the chair and keep my shoulders back.

However, of all the advice everyone gave me about standing up straight, one piece of advice still pops into my head every time I catch myself slouching.

It didn’t come from my grandmothers or from any etiquette book or fashion magazine. I didn’t hear it from my mom or from a movie or television show.

It came from my dad. Here it is:

“Stand up straight and put your shoulders back. It’ll make your boobs look bigger.”

I don’t remember what age exactly he started saying it, but I do remember my grandmothers being appalled and mildly offended by it. He did not mean it as a serious comment or in some creepy, incestuous way. Like me, my dad would make a joke out of anything and it would usually be inappropriate.

Even though he was saying it as a joke, I knew that he meant not to slouch because it made me look like I was not confident and that I was unsure of myself. He might not have always been proud or self-assured, but he made sure I was proud of all that I have to offer the world.

Boobs included.

On a side note, last Halloween, when I wore the Elvira costume, this was the conversation we had as I left the house:

Dad: Make sure to stand up straight and put your shoulders back.

Me: Dad, I don’t think I need my boobs to look any bigger.

Dad: No, because if you don’t your boobs will fall out of that dress.

Sometimes, father does know best.

Karaoke Queen

I have a new found appreciation for something I never thought I would enjoy: karaoke.

Oh yeah, you read that correctly. I thoroughly enjoy karaoke.

Here’s how it started: My friend Meaghan was turning 21. When I asked her what she wanted to do and she said KARAOKE! (Yes, with that amount of enthusiasm.) I organized a party and got everyone together, and while some things prevented me from being there all night, I made it just in time to do a lovely rendition of “Love is Battlefield.” And I realized something: I wasn’t completely hammered and it was still fun!!!!

So, a few weeks later, we went back to the karaoke bar and did some more songs. A few weeks after that, it was the eve of my 25-again birthday and we were at a small dive bar. Not only did I do a little Joan Jett “Do You Want to Touch” (Gwenyth Paltrow on Glee can suck it), but I did “Girls Girls Girls” with Meaghan and realized that I love watching my friends make fools of themselves singing. Or just watching strangers make fools of themselves.

Since then, I have become a regular at karaoke. I don’t know if it is my constant need for attention or my constant need to entertain everyone or if it is just my love of making a fool out of myself and then mocking everyone else that keeps me going, but no matter, I love it!

All that said, I feel that I should post some video evidence of myself doing some karaoke. While it may be embarrassing, if I am truly writing a blog about living versus existing, then I think everyone needs to see proof.

I may regret this later…

Or possibly right now...

Fyi, it takes a great deal of talent to dance around like that and not spill my drink. Can you tell I'm a professional?

Sorry, Charlotte, You're Not Welcome Here!

As excited as I am to be living on my own, there is one thing that I am simply not ok with: spiders.

I was taught from a young age that spiders are not to be killed. My dad used to tell us you want spiders around because they catch and eat all the other bugs. So, if you see a spider, don’t kill it! That being said, I don’t particularly like spiders. I am not afraid of them, like I am of birds, but I don’t really appreciate that spiders can crawl up into my nose and burrow into my brain. I also don’t like how they will suddenly drop from the ceiling and chill right at eye level so when I walk into a room and run into it, I am suddenly doing an embarrassing dance to get the thing off me. I won’t lie, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets didn’t help a whole lot with my dislike either. As stereotypical and traditional as it is, Dad was always the one to get rid of spiders. I made a deal with him from a young age that if he would take them away, I would not kill them.

Therefore, when I was in my very own apartment where there is no Dad, I had a bit of a panic attack as I watched my first spider crawl out of my air conditioning vent.

It wasn’t a huge spider but it was definitely one capable of eating any other bug in its path. It crossed the entire wall above my bookcases and television set and settled into a corner. As I began drafting a letter to my landlord in my head,(Dear Tony, A big spider has moved in with me. While I appreciate all that spiders do in the way of keeping the bug population down, I do not feel like this new arrangement will work. Since my dad has passed away and can no longer help me get spiders out of the house, I have to concede and give the apartment to the spider. Best, Kimmi) the spider crawled a little closer to me and I had an enlightened moment:

I’ll trap it in a glass then take it outside.

It really was a perfect plan because the spider had moved closer to me and was now flat on the wall. I went to the kitchen and, after much speculation, decided to use a margarita glass. It had the widest mouth but it was shallow so there was very little chance I wouldn’t be able to get the spider out. I grabbed the old Ulta catalog and in just one try got the spider safely trapped in the glass!!!

With one hand under the catalog and one hand holding the stem of the margarita glass, I made it all the way to the door before I realized one thing: how do I open the door? Very carefully I balanced the margarita glass on the catalog and opened the door.

I got two steps from my door and lifted the glass. The spider took off so fast it made me jump and I ended up just throwing the catalog and running back into my apartment and locking the door behind me.

I’m not sure which is funnier: that I tried to save a spider and ended up getting freaked out and throwing it out onto our driveway and then locking it out or the picture of my landlord going to get into his car and seeing my Ulta catalog on the ground and wondering what the hell kind of tenant he has welcomed into his building.

On a side note, I saw another (or maybe the same?) spider in my shower a few days later. This time, I turned the water on and drowned the bastard. I figure since Dad is not around to take the spiders outside, my agreement to not kill them is null. Sorry, Dad.

Fire Alarm Fun

For lack of a something better to write about I am piggybacking off of my last post. My cousin Lisa is to thanks for the inspiration, and she may be a little embarrassed that I’m sharing this, but well, that’s the price you pay for doing something embarrassing around me.

When I was in college, I lived across the Bay from Lisa and her husband, Derek (also know as my favorite cousin…but that’s another story). They had my sister and I over for dinner one night and Lisa was preparing a tuna casserole that was SUPER cheesy. (A huge plus in my book because, well, I love me some cheese.) We were drinking and playing pool and just hanging out while the casserole was in the oven.

All of a sudden, we smelled something burning. Naturally, Lisa opened the oven to check on the dish. Turns out, the casserole was a little bit too cheesy and the dish had bubbled over and there was cheese burning on the bottom of the oven. The whole apartment filled with smoke and even after opening all the windows, it was still like Backdraft in there. In a fit of possibly intoxicated genius, Derek opened the front door, clearing the smoke from the apartment into the hallway.

Where the fire alarm for the whole building was located.

Fun fact: when the fire alarm in an apartment building goes off, the fire department comes and the whole building has to evacuate.

Now, I thought this was hysterically funny at the time, but my dear cousin was mortified. So much so that she made me, the loud, outgoing, one, go downstairs and talk to the fire department and face the angry tenants. Why I went down is still beyond me…I blame it on the alcohol.

When I got to the lobby, there were about 15 people who all looked unhappy. I told the firemen where to go and they headed upstairs, along with the building manager. I told everyone the story and instead of laughing at how silly the whole thing was, they got more irritated. They said many things that were not very nice, but since I have always been a professional at dealing with irate people, everyone got over it by the time the firefighters came back down. Everyone was allowed to go back his or her respective home and all was right with the world.

Another fun fact: When a fire alarm in an apartment building goes off, the elevator is shut down. Therefore, when everyone was headed back up, I got many an angry glare from the same people I had just calmed down. If it had been my building I would have said, “Whatever fatties, it’s one less trip to the gym.” But things were going bad enough for my cousin already.

The best part however, was that on my way back up, I was attempting to apologize and one of two clearly single girls said, ”Hey it’s ok. We got the numbers of two of the firefighters.”

Fire alarm matchmaking. It’s all the rage.

(DISCLAIMER: I don’t recommend this method of matchmaking. It costs taxpayer money and really, the fireman thing is only good in fantasies or strip clubs. Otherwise they have strange hours and usually have hero complexes and…I could go on but you get my point.)

My New Roommate

One of the things I was looking forward to most when I was moving into my new place was being able to cook whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. No more commentary from the living room about the amount of garlic I was using or how I was burning something, followed by “Oh that looks good. How come you don’t cook for me?” Not to mention the talks about the amount of wine I am drinking with dinner, and the subtle hints that I’m an alcoholic…but that’s another story.

So, after the big move and the Great Debate, I was ready to cook my very first breakfast for myself in my new place. It was going to be simple breakfast of eggs and bacon. I got the bacon going and was cracking the eggs when: BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Son of a bitch. The stupid smoke detector was going off. What kind of idiot puts a smoke detector right outside of the kitchen?, I though to myself.

Well, it got better after the third beep.

Woman’s voice: FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!

“What the fuck?!,” I said out loud to my apartment.

It continued for three cycles of BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Followed by a woman’s voice saying “FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!” until I managed to get Smoke Detector Sally to shut up, by which time my bacon was totally burned.

After a bit of investigation, I realized that it was my own fault for not turning on the fan above the stove. Of course she’s going to go off! The kitchen window was blowing the steam and smoke from the bacon directly at her!

So, with the oven fan on, I began again. Bacon was getting going and then, sure enough, BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!

I didn’t need coffee that morning because almost having a heart attack twice will really wake a person up.

After a few more attempts, I just let her go off. We have come to an understanding that I will cook on the back burner and she will only go off when I am by myself, never when company is over. That way, when I tell this story, all my friends think I’m nuts because I can’t get the talking smoke detector to go off.

Although, naming my smoke detector Smoke Detector Sally doesn’t help my case, does it?

Who Doesn't Love a New Nickname?

I was recently on the set of my friend’s movie, happily being Gossip Girl #2 in the background of a restaurant scene. I had to get up at 6 am, dress up like I was going out on the town, and drive down to Hollywood. I looked like a reverse walk of shame.

While I was there, I got two new nicknames and I thought I should share them.

The scene was in a restaurant and I was sitting with my friend Meaghan (who had also gotten all gussied up for a reverse walk of shame). We were just supposed to sit there looking bitchy and hot. I hate to admit that we were a little too good at this. While they were lighting us, they had a little trouble. Turns out that in a movie starring primarily black people and sitting next to my half-black friend, I’m incredibly white. Actually, I’m just incredibly white in any situation. The lighting guys did their best to light us by sight and then looked at the monitors and one of them said, “Well, it looks like we need to take some of the light off of Lite Brite over there.” It took me a moment to realize that Lite Brite was me. I retorted with an observation that the reason we don’t see more diversity in the movies is because lighting all the different skin tones is too hard for the lighting people and they don't want to work that hard. Thank goodness they had a sense of humor.

After the lighting debacle, we went outside to eat breakfast. One of the actors, Bobby V, was behind me in line. He made the keen observation that I am incredibly tall, especially when you compare my 6’2” to his 5’3.” After his observation went unanswered, he continued by saying, “Damn girl, you so tall you like Tree Top.” (To which I almost replied, “So what does that make you? Tree Stump?” But I love my friend and he was directing and the last thing he needed was an actor being bitchy because I have a smart mouth. You’re welcome, Jason.) After that, everyone kept calling me Tree Top.

Cut to a few nights later when I’m signing up for karaoke. There was another Kim and even with Kimmi it can get confusing, so I decided to use a nickname. The karaoke host loved it and from here on out, I am known at Corner Bar in Burbank as Tree Top

Great Need Vs. Want Debate of 2011

Anyone who knows me knows that I can logic my way out of a paper bag, especially when it comes to shopping. I can convince anyone that spending $100 on a new dress is totally worth it in 2.5 seconds flat. Does my logic make sense? Not always. But usually people get so annoyed with me that they just let me win to change the subject. Or they are left paralyzed in confusion, thus allowing me to make my purchases in silence. However, when it came to getting the things I needed for my apartment, I needed to make sure I didn’t get too carried away.

I was searching for mostly kitchen stuff. Plates, bowls, glasses, pots, pans, utensils, etc. As it turns out, the only things I owned for a kitchen were as follows: A popcorn maker, a French press, a coffee maker, a coffee grinder, a cocktail shaker, a collection of shot glasses, a set of margarita glasses complete with a pitcher and a salt plate, and a mug that says “The Bitch is Back.” (Purchased on my first adult trip to Vegas while Elton John was still there. The fact that it’s totally appropriate for my life right now is not lost on me…) However, unless I was planning on eating nothing but popcorn out of the bowl it is popped in while drinking margaritas shaken in the cocktail shaker followed by coffee in a “The Bitch is Back” mug, I needed a lot of stuff.

In addition to needing the essentials, I had a few essentials that were essential only to someone like me. I had been saving up for a very long time to live on my own. Free couch aside, I was not going to buy used pots and pans at a garage sale or get mismatching plates from the 99 Cents Store. I will not use glasses that are chipped or that don’t go together and I will not be content drinking wine out of my “Bitch is Back” mug. If I was going to make my own home, I was going to use my hard-earned money and do it how I see fit.

To keep me on track, enter my friend Meaghan. She suggesting that I make a list of needs and one of wants and then she would help me decide what really was a need. For everything on my “need” list, she made me come up with three good reasons and then she would be the final say of what was a need and what was a want and whether those “wants” were worth the money. Hence, the Great Need vs. Want Debate of 2011 began.

For example: A Crock-Pot? I could start something in the morning and then come home to a finished dinner. I can make large batches of soups and stews and then freeze them to have ready-made food for when I get home to late to really cook. I can make chili. (On a side note: Meaghan loves my chili and I knew I would win with that. I really should’ve gone to law school…) Needless to say, she let me get a Crock-Pot.

There were some items I wouldn’t budge on (Wine glasses and mortar and pestle.) and others that everyone insisted I needed (a blender…That I have used once in two months. Thanks guys) and some that were just plain shot down (Martini glasses…Apparently I’m not Frank Sinatra and am not encouraged to live like him…They are still on my list though.) Yet, the longest leg of the debate involved salt and pepper shakers. Every argument I had, Meaghan had a counter argument. This is a paraphrase of the argument that lasted about 30 minutes in an aisle in Target.

Me: I need them because I will need to put them on the table. What? I’m going to use the big container I buy salt and pepper in?

Meaghan: You don’t even have a table. Or room for a table.

Me: But I have the counter. And I’ll have stools.

Meaghan: Eventually. You’re not buying stools right now because you can’t find any that you like or are in your price range. So, therefore you don’t need shakers.

Me: But what about when people come over? What am I supposed to do?

Meaghan: Give them the containers they come in.

Me: No.

Meaghan: Actually, you can buy disposable shakers at the grocery store for a lot cheaper that these.

Me: Yes but what about the environment? I want something I can reuse.

Meaghan: So why not buy cloth napkins and extra dishtowels so you don’t have to use paper towels?

Me: Because washing all of that costs money. I don’t pay for water, so washing and reusing shakers is a cost efficient way for me to help the environment.

Meaghan: Yes, but why not just collect bottles and cans and then that would offset the cost of washing. Plus, then you can afford to continue to buy the disposable ones.

Me: But the disposable ones are so ugly.

Meaghan: Being pretty doesn’t mean it’s a need.

I eventually gave up, letting her know that I would buy some as soon as she wasn’t with me. But at dinner that night, I permanently borrowed some from the restaurant.

I would call that a happy compromise. (Except maybe for the restaurant…)

Age Ain't Nothing But a Number...That I'm Going to Choose

My 25^th year was a rough one. In May, one of my good friends died in an awful car accident. In June, I quit my job at a newspaper and went back to Starbucks full time. In November, my dad passed away. In March, my best friend’s boyfriend passed away.

Not to say that good stuff didn’t happen, but for the most part, it was an awful year. Therefore, when it came time at the end of April for the big 2-6, I said I didn’t want to be 26. Not that I have anything against that number in general, but I don’t feel 26. Plus, I didn’t really get a chance to be 25 because I was too busy with all the funerals and job and soul searching. So, I decided that I wasn’t going to be 26. I was going to be 25-again.

As it turns out, when I tell people I am 25 again, they either get the joke and think I’m funny, or they think I am one of those sad women who think that my value is somehow tied to my age. Or they just think I’m crazy.

One person flat out told me I wasn’t allowed to do it. That it didn’t make sense and I can’t go back in time. I won’t say he got a little hot about it, but there may have been a bit of redness in the facial area. He said that I need to accept that everyone has years that aren’t as good as others and I just need to look forward to having many more amazing years ahead of me. Thanks Positive Paul, but this isn’t about being negative.

It’s like when you go to a restaurant for the first time. If you have a bad experience the first time, in order to truly judge it, you need to give it one more try. (Unless the first time ends in food poisoning. If it does, just don’t ever go back.) Sometimes just your server is bad or you order the wrong dish. But, if it’s still bad after the second try, the restaurant really is awful and you shouldn’t go back. It’s the same with age. I had a rough time with 25 the first time around, so I want to do it again to see if it was just a bad first run or if 25 just sucks in general.

When I told someone else this theory, they asked me why I didn’t just do 2010 over again. That’s because the whole world is run by a certain calendar and therefore I would need the whole world to agree to change back to 2010. Even with Facebook, I don’t think I could get the entire world to go with me on it. (Although it would be tempting to try) Plus, a few of the bad things happened in 2011, so it really isn’t fair to the first 4 months and 29 days of 2010.

So far, I have to say, 25-again has treated me well. I moved into a new apartment and I got a promotion, plus I have three weddings to attend. (And hopefully no funerals.) I’m not saying that it’s not going to be without it’s challenges and struggles, but I think 25-again will a good year. Like the blimp.

A Tale of a Free Sofa

When my grandparents were moving from their three-bedroom house in Palm Desert to a much smaller apartment in Newport Beach, they had a ton of furniture to get rid of. Most of my cousins are already living on their own with husbands and kids (and the resources to purchase new furniture) or are just about to start college and have no use for a seven-foot tall armoire or glass dining table with a wicker bottom. (Yeah, wicker. For inside. I don’t know either...)

However, there was one granddaughter who would be moving out within a few months and probably would have some use for this lovely yet dated furniture: Me. Therefore, my grandmother called me everyday to ask me if I would be interested in (insert your choice of dated, worn, or just plain awful furniture here). I tried to explain to her numerous times that I would probably be moving into a very small place and her stuff would simply not fit. I kept that fact that I am not 80 and do not enjoy the “Palm Beach Retirement Community” style to myself.

After many mind numbing and repetitive conversations, one piece of furniture kept coming up. My grandparents had inherited some of the furniture with the house, including two sofas. Now, they are not the prettiest of sofas, but they are incredibly comfortable. Nice and wide so without the pillows, they work fantastically as a bed. With the pillows, they are plush enough to sit on for long periods of time, but not so soft that you get stuck in them. My grandma just could not bear to get rid of such quality pieces. After much debate, I told her I would take one of them("No Grandma, I will not need two sofas...Grandma I work at Starbucks and will probably be living on my own. I will not have some huge loft that two sofas would fit in."), but she had to store them with the rest of her stuff no one would take and she couldn’t bear to get rid of. I wasn’t moving out soon enough to be willing to store it at our house. She told me I had six months and that I would have to come get it when it was time. Thus a deal was struck.

Cut to eight months, two tragedies, and a promotion later, and I was finally ready to move out on my own. I rented a truck and drove down to Orange County to get my sofa. Which was much bigger than I remembered…and had twice as many pillows as I remembered….and was much yellower with more flowers that I remembered…

After lots of muscle and hard work, the sofa actually fits perfectly. It’s still yellow and covered in flowers, but it’s free so I can’t complain (too much). What’s really funny is that none of my friends think it’s as bad as I do. All agree, however, it is incredibly comfortable. And since it came from my grandparents, I don’t have the same fears I would have if I had bought a used sofa from another source. (You never know who sat naked on that sofa you bought on Craigslist or what those naked people did while on said sofa. Think about it.). Now if only I can get her to relinquish those reading chairs….

No Need to Alert TLC....yet...

As I mentioned last time, I moved. Not only did I move, but I moved out of my mom’s house. Therefore, a lot of purging was done and I discovered a little something about myself: I have hoarding tendencies.

Now, anyone who has ever watched Hoarders on TLC knows that the first excuse a hoarder will make is that there is value in trash. How many times have I watched someone say “Oh but I bought that with my dad 20 years ago and even though it has no use whatsoever and is damaged beyond repair, I need to keep it for sentimental value.” I sat there every time and nodded along when Callie Cleanup came over and ever-so gently explained how worthless said nostalgic items really were. Then, when it came time to go through all my shit, I wasn’t so much in agreement.

Not to say that I had to tunnel my way to my bed. I’m not that bad. But there was definitely some stuff that I couldn’t even figure out why I saved.

A broken Walkman? Not just broken, but it was as if I had stepped on it and then said, “Hey, maybe I’ll use the pieces for something else!” Guess what, I didn’t.

A white t-shirt with nothing on it that is clearly 3 sizes too small? I can’t even begin to figure out what the sentimental value of it was, because there were zero distinguishing marks on it. (And if anyone makes a joke about it was a “token,” it was a girl’s shirt and I’m straight.) (Also, if anyone needs an explanation about what a “token” is, message me.)

A pamphlet I got on my first trip to New York explaining how sinners will be punished in hell unless they repent? That’s just funny.

The king of the useless crap, however, was the drawer full of old bills. And I don’t mean from a few months ago. I found a bill from Verizon dating back to 2003. It was not a particularly special bill. There was no new terms or upgrades. No special coupons that never got used. Not even a handwritten note saying “THIS WAS PAID. ON…CALL IF THEY TRY TO CHARGE YOU DOUBLE.” (Oh yeah. That was worth a laugh.) Nothing. Just a whole drawer dedicated to old bills that no sane person would keep. Which possibly explains why I kept them….

That’s not to say I didn’t save some of the random crap. My Carebears pillowcase from when I was a kid. A dishcloth that I decorated with my grandma and sister that has some questionable artwork. A bunch of Dad’s t-shirts that are only good for sleeping because no one should see them. My old softball uniform. My old basketball uniform. All that stuff at least is good for the memories, even if it is useless and just takes up space.

All this being said, I am making a valiant effort to stop holding on to stuff that is only going to drive me nuts when it comes time to move again. Not that I’m going to move any time soon (I LOVE MY APARTMENT!!!), but when I do, I’d rather not find takeout menus from places I never ate at in Chicago. Collecting shot glasses from everywhere I’ve been is one thing, but takeout menus officially makes me a hoarder. (Although what does collection shot glasses say about me?)

A Long-Lost Love Rediscovered

Boy has there been a lot going on! Obviously, since I haven’t written anything in two months, which I am very sorry for and will work very hard to make better! I have birthday stuff and moving stuff and work stuff and life stuff and more stuff than I even think I can write about! However, as I am a bit rusty, I am going to talk about an old love I had forgotten about and am now rediscovering.

What is this long-lost love? The Laundromat.

Oh yeah. You read that correctly. The Laundromat.

This love affair started many many years ago. My grandparents introduced us. They didn’t have a washer and dryer at their house for almost my entire life. So, every Thursday night, they would load the station wagon full of all the laundry from the week. Clothes, towels, sheets, blankets, everything. They would head to the Laundromat and proceed to take up an entire row of washers. Then, Grandpa would take me for ice cream at Baskin Robbins next door while Grandma did…well I have no idea what because I was too busy with my ice cream. After the clothes were done in the wash, we would separate out the ones that went in the dryer from the ones Grandma was going to take home to line-dry. After another hour or so, all the laundry would be dried and packed back into the car and we would head back to the house. It was never overly exciting or eventful, but somehow that two hours every week was one of my favorite times.

Back to the present. I went to the Laundromat for the first time in since my grandparents passed away. I had about 4 loads of laundry to do and while my new building has 1 washer and 1 dryer, I did not want to spend my entire day doing laundry. Not to mention the fact that there are 7 other apartments with people who may also need to use the machine, thus making it a gamble as to when I’ll actually get to start. So, if I go to the Laundromat, I not only can put all my loads in at once, I am sure to get to use the machines when I am ready without waiting or inconveniencing my neighbors by hoarding the machine all day. Plus, the Laundromat is on the corner so it’s not all that far away and it costs the same.

While I was there, I got a lot of reading done. I also got a phone call from my best friend, so we caught up. I’m sure if I brought my laptop, I could have gotten a few more posts done. But I’m not that cool.

Even with all of this, the main reason I love the Laundromat is the people.

I saw a girl who was guarding her purse like it held the winning envelopes for the Oscars while she strutted around in her heels. I saw a lady who was washing what I could only assume was all the white tablecloths in all of the world. There was a dad with his young daughter teaching her how to do laundry and then buying her Cheetos as a reward. A mom who made me wonder if her children were at home naked or if she just lives in a department store with an endless supply of clothes. A guy with 6 bags of laundry who, when one machine wasn’t working, proceeded to kick the poor thing like it was the machine’s fault he put in 2 bags and clearly overloaded it.

So, yes, it might be easier to just do laundry at my apartment building or even take it back to mom’s house and do it there for free. However, it would take 3 times longer and I wouldn’t get to participate in my favorite activity of people watching. And really, with all the entertainment I get from the Laundromat, what do I need cable for?