Finally

My little Canon Sure Shot 35mm camera broke a few weeks ago. I turned it in to a camera shop Monday the 27th, and they promised they'd call within a week to tell me how much it'd be to fix it. In the young fella's words, "It can be definitely fixed, it's just a matter of whether or not it's worth it." Yeah. The camera's about two years old, and the damn latch on the film door broke.

Usually, I'd be okay waiting for my camera to be fixed, but on March 2, they still hadn't looked at it, and on that same day, Gina's brother and his wife had a baby. We decided we'd leave the next day to go see the new little boy. And me without a camera. Can you imagine?

So what do I do? The only practical thing there is to do. I go to Target on my lunch break on Friday and buy a little Canon Power Shot A520. You are now witnessing me moving into the digital age, dear readers, as this is my very first digital camera. I'm still partial to film, and I'll get my film camera fixed if it's not too expensive, but boy howdy do I love this new little camera. It hasn't left my side since Friday.

Now that I have that out of the way, I'd like to discuss some stuff. And of course, I have visual aides. Yessss.

First and foremost, after three adorable nieces, Gina finally has a nephew! His name is Giovanni Paolo. As my friend Wendy said when she heard the name, Viva la Roma!

Here he is, looking all pink and rosy thanks to the soft focus feature on my lovely little camera:



Gina kept calling me Uncle Katie, but the truth is, if anyone's the uncle, it's Gina. Giovanni can't really figure it out, though...



On our way home, we hit a huge rain storm:





A day after we got back, following several weeks of me cautiously talking about how well my car has been behaving, I was greeted to this:



GRRR.

In other news, I went out to dinner last night with some friends at The Abbey, which is a gay boy hot spot in West Hollywood. Whenever my group of friends and I see a girl who is most likely gay, or a group of most likely gay girls, we always say, "Ladies!" or we carry it further: "Ladies, please! We can work it out!" as though passing lesbians are like dogs and we're on their turf, and they're about to attack. We laugh quite a bit about this. So you can imagine our reaction when the bill came to our table last night and this is what it looked like:



And finally, one of my favorite things about our apartment is our view. Here is the view from our window:



Unfortunately, if you look to the right, this is also a view:



Hollywood, everybody!

Thing I'm working on: figuring out how to put a Flickr badge in a decent place on my blog. Every time I try to put it on here, it's all riding up on my text, ruining my life.

Commute

It's raining in LA today, something we're not really "accustomed to." My commute time was doubled this morning, which gave me some time to take these shots on my camera phone.

I promise... I'm going to buy a digital camera soon and quit subjecting you to these grainy pictures...

Here's the 101/170 interchange... there are normally very few cars on the road heading north, and I'm able to go a cool 70mph. Today I went 30mph.



Here's the intersection of Magnolia and Colfax, flooded:



And this is looking west on Magnolia... there's a rainbow there... can you see it? I promise it's there...

I always wanted a treehouse!

A fun game for me and Gina, and most of my similar-minded friends, is to spout lies for humor's sake. For instance, after a very large meal, Gina will often say, "Boy, am I hungry." Or, when playing blackjack and dealt a five and a seven, "I love twelve!"

Gina and I share a studio apartment. People, it is small. It's cozy, and we both really love it, but it's small. We have an incredible view of the Hollywood sign and Griffith Park and really all of the Hollywood hills from our window. There's also a beautiful tree with flowers (hyacinth? jasmine? we don't know) right outside the windows by our bed, so I often compare our little abode to a treehouse. It makes it seem like we're an exclusive club, eternally planning out ways to spy on our little siblings. It's us against the world!

Two days ago, I was in the kitchen cooking, and I was quickly running out of space, and my frustration was mounting. I could feel myself tensing up, panicking. So finally, I said:

"Man, there is so much space in here!"

"I know, right?"

"Like seriously, I don't know what to do with all of this counter space we have!"

"Yeah, I know! I was going to go buy some appliances to fill it up, but then I realized I had too much money."

Mama Mia

As most of you know, I'm a big fan of Dooce. It's the five year anniversary of her blog, and for the first time in probably two years, she opened up a comments board on her blog. She wanted to know about moms... moms who stay at home, moms who work, which is better, which each person prefers.

Apparently, Heather (Dooce) gets a lot of slack for staying at home. These folks argue she's slapping the feminist movement in the face by wasting her college education on being a stay at home mom. This, of course, made me revisit my own definition of feminism.

Here, in my comment on her page, you'll see what I came up with:


Hi Heather-

Congratulations on being able to make it work. You are living out my dream. Staying at home, raising a great kid, and writing. For money! It's perfect.

My mom was very much forced into every situation she found herself in. At age 20, she moved to Los Angeles to be an actress, was here six weeks and found out she was pregnant with me, and moved back home to Ohio and married my dad. My dad had a good job for a 26 year old, and she was able to stay home for a while, but eventually, she went back to work part time. She would take me with her when she went in the morning to clean this local bar. I would run around the dance floor, sometimes offering my help, other times just exploring. She and I would have the run of the place.

She continued working part time jobs - housekeeper, receptionist at a ritzy country club, accounts receivable/payable at various businesses. She was always home when I got home from school, until I was about 13. At this point, she'd had 2 more children... my sisters were 5 and 3 when she went back to work full time, and I babysat. Every day after school. Every day in the summer. Until I graduated high school. Today, my sisters feel more like my own children than they do my siblings.

If I could change anything for my mom, I would have had her go to college. She's been unhappy with her work her whole life. She's hated every job she's ever had. However, she would've been unhappy staying at home her whole life as well. I wish she could have gone to college, so that if she wanted to work, she could work at a place she loved. And if she wanted to stay home, it would have been an informed decision, not something she was forced into doing.

I'm a firm believer that the most important thing for a child when it comes to this is to see happy parents. If a mother is stuck at home with her kids (meaning, she doesn't want to be there), the kids are going to sense that. If a mother has a job she loves, and can find the energy and brain space to devote a lot of time to her children, the children are going to see a happy, fulfilled parent. It's most important for YOU to be happy with YOURSELF, to be fulfilled in whatever you're doing, because THAT is what Leta will learn from you.

Personally, I would love to be able to stay home with my children (when I have them). Unfortunately, it doesn't seem likely. Living in Los Angeles, working in cable reality television, being gay (unable to reap any benefits of marriage - so far), and partnered with a beautiful social worker, I'm sure we will both have to work. However, we both enjoy our jobs, and we both love children... so I think we'll make it work and we'll find a way to raise some cool kids.

As for my daughters, I just want them to always have an option to make themselves happy.

Feminism isn't dropping your kids off at daycare and pursuing a high-paying career. Feminism is being proud of being a woman, recognizing what you want, no matter what it is, and finding a way to get it.

So says me.

Remember when...

A few weeks back, I had lunch with my friend Chara. The subject of blogs came up, and Chara informed me that I, along with her current unemployment/stay-at-home-mom status, inspired her to start a blog of her very own. Every time a friend of mine starts a blog, I realize quickly that just about everyone is a better writer than I am, and maybe I should stop encouraging people to start blogs and effectively "steal my thunder." Then I remember: I have no thunder to begin with. Blog away.

Anyway, Chara was referencing my blog, and said, "Yeah, I read Katie’s blog, but every entry is about how drunk she was the night before, or how she went to this party or on that roadtrip." I wasn’t sure if I should be A) happy that she’s reading my blog, because she’s a great writer and a smart girl and I respect her opinion, or B) really offended and thereby revoking my friendship card with her. My blog isn’t all about drinking, nor do I lead a life of extravagance, where at the drop of a hat I will travel all over the land for a good time. Hrmph.

Having said that…

This weekend started innocently enough. A night at Girl Bar in Los Angeles, with Justine and Gina. We drank (for free…long story), we danced (a little), we had a lot of fun. Justine warned me she’d have to call it a night rather early because she was going to Vegas to see her mom the next day.

Then we started talking about Vegas… then we started talking about how I wanted to go to Girl Bar in Vegas the last time we were there, but instead wound up going to Rain in the Desert at the Palms with a bunch of hot straight girls… then Justine said: "I have an idea! You and Gina should come to Vegas tomorrow. You can stay with me at my mom’s, you can gamble during the day and we can go to Girl Bar at night!"

Now, this conversation came on the heels of a very disturbing email I received from my friend Chrissie last week, involving discussion that the Imperial Palace might be torn down at any time. The IP, as we call it, is our most favorite of all casinos, mainly because of their Dealertainers pit, where Ricky Martin will deal you black jacks, Dolly Parton will charm you with her southern drawl, and Bette Midler will shake her breasts over the table at each deal for good luck.

In my mind, the choice was rather simple. So I said, "If you can convince Gina to go to Vegas, I’m in."

Trying to convince Gina to go to Vegas is like trying to convince a Labrador Retriever to play fetch. It’s a sure thing.

We found ourselves in the car at 4pm on Saturday, full of Sharkeez fish tacos and a little bit of beer, on our way to Las Vegas. After getting stuck in traffic three times, Gina managed to get us there by 8:30. Nothing like going 105 miles an hour in the middle lane. We arrived, chatted it up with Justine’s mom, dropped off our stuff, and headed out in Justine’s car. We were at Girl Bar by 10:30, on the guest list, thankyouverymuch. We enjoyed the sights (the dancer looked like Kate Beckinsale!), and we drank our share (2 for 1 until 11… direct quote: "So, we should each buy one now and down it and then buy another before 11?" Justine, everybody. I feel somewhat responsible for this alcohol loving girl). We did a few obligatory drunken strolls through the nearest hotel (Aladdin), and we drove home and went to bed around 2:30.

The next day, Gina and I braved the strip and went to the Imperial Palace. And for the first time EVER, I left Vegas ahead. Not only was I head in gambling, but I was up on the weekend. I won a whole $50. I spent $30 in gas and $20 on food. Basically, a free trip. To Vegas. To the IP. With two of my favorite people. And we were home in time for The L Word.

On the way home, I was thinking Chara might be right. Maybe my life is a little crazy. Maybe I do go out a lot. Maybe I have one too many stories that start with, "I was sooo drunk…" And then I remembered: that’s what life is about. My plan for this long weekend was to do nothing. Relax. Watch movies. Sleep. I had a blast doing everything but that. I did something that will make for a great story in a few months or a few years. Or at least a great "Remember when..."

And really, I can’t ask for anything else.

Now you know.

1. I’m afraid of clowns.
2. This dates back to my childhood, when I had recurring dreams about clowns who lived at a store in the Campbell, Ohio area. The store was called Bargain Port, and it was a port of bargains. And scary, mean clowns.
3. I’m convinced my mom took me to the doctor for these recurring dreams. She insists she did not.
4. I fear weakness in myself.
5. I’m always afraid I’m not as smart as I make myself out to be.
6. I write much better than I speak.
7. I love it when my pillow is cold on my cheek.
8. I actually enjoy having freckles.
9. I was only grounded once in my whole life, and it only lasted about an hour.
10. I received only one detention, in middle school, for responding to the question, "Can I borrow a nickel?" with a "Yes," when the lights were out in the cafeteria. When the lights are out in the cafeteria, you’re not allowed to talk. I still think this was ridiculous.
11. I’m excited to turn 30.
12. I have had a lot of new-friend crushes.
13. I am not confident in myself about 80 percent of the time.
14. I play it off like I’m confident 98 percent of the time.
15. My shoe size is 8 and a half. It was10 in middle school.
16. I’ve never been outside North America.
17. I live 2 1/2 hours from Mexico and have never been there.
18. I don’t have a passport.
19. I have average credit. Not good, not terrible. Average.
20. I got a 29 on my ACT the first and only time I took it. I’m still proud of this.
21. Had I gotten a 30 on my ACT, I would have gone to college for free.
22. I owe $15,000 in student loans.
23. I still think I should’ve taken the ACT one more time.
24. I was in four spelling bees, and never won any of them.
25. The words I missed were, in order, starting with fourth grade: gymnasium, embroidery, grievance, and parallel.
26. I love spelling.
27. Since September 11, 2001, I’ve had 9 dreams involving planes crashing.
28. Five of these dreams occurred in the first six months after 9/11.
29. I have lived in Los Angeles for five years, seven months, 1 week, and 1 day.
30. I started reading when I was four.
31. I started kindergarten when I was four.
32. I’m happiest when I’m writing, or talking about writing.
33. I talk about writing way more than I actually write.
34. I buy, on average, about a book a month.
35. I read, on average, about a book every three months.
36. I’d like to read two books a month.
37. I hate reading electronics instructions, because I think it’s more fun to figure it out on my own.
38. My mom is convinced my second grade teacher is hugely responsible for all of my successes in my life.
39. My mom made it a point to make sure both of my sisters had the same second grade teacher as I did.
40. Neither of my parents went to college.
41. I’m the only grandchild so far on my mom’s side to graduate from a 4-year university.
42. I’m the second grandchild on my dad’s side to graduate from a 4-year university.
43. Out of all of my cousins, I’m the only one who moved away.
44. I live farther from Ohio than any of my other relatives.
45. My closest relative is my cousin who lives in Vacaville, CA. That’s about a seven-hour drive from Los Angeles. She moved there last year, and I’ve seen her once since then.
46. I haven’t had Thanksgiving dinner with my family since 1999.
47. I’ve never been molested.
48. I’ve never been physically abused.
49. I think I’m lucky.
50. I’ve never been in a fistfight.
51. I never skipped a class in high school without my mom’s permission.
52. I had my first alcoholic beverage when I was 19.
53. I didn’t like coffee until I moved to LA when I was 21.
54. I love coffee now.
55. I’ve had a series of celebrity obsessions. The major two have been Julia Roberts and Angelina Jolie. Julia Roberts made me realize I wanted to work in Hollywood. Angelina Jolie made me realize I’m gay. It’s weird, but it’s worked.
56. My favorite song is "Two Step," by Dave Matthews Band.
57. My favorite color is blue.
58. I majored in Theater in college.
59. I was 3 classes away from a double major in Psychology.
60. I lived away from home for only 9 months while I was in college. It was my junior year, and I rented a house with two friends. It was a three bedroom, 2 story house, with a basement and an attic, a huge front porch, and a nice front and back yard. It also had a driveway and a garage. We each paid $150 a month to live in this house.
61. I get jealous easily, for reasons I know aren’t valid.
62. I consciously work every single day on my jealousy issues.
63. My favorite book is "Catcher in the Rye," which I first read when I was 20 years old. I’ve read it three times.
64. When I was younger, I wanted to be the following things, at different times: animator, astronaut, teacher, Shakespeare scholar, actor, scientist (to discover the cure for AIDS), marine biologist, veterinarian.
65. I hate math.
66. I got straight As in Calculus my senior year.
67. I’m a terrible liar.
68. I’m a democrat.
69. I’m pro-choice, but not pro-abortion.
70. I’m against capital punishment, but think Scott Peterson and Alejandro Avila, the guy who killed Samantha Runyan, should be executed.
71. I like wearing glasses.
72. I have a very skewed vision of marriage and am generally not for the institution. I think gays should be allowed to marry, but I don’t know that I’ll ever marry. Still, I’m envious of people who get to have all of that.
73. My parents are probably going to get divorced soon. I can’t believe they’re still married.
74. My dad is a recovering alcoholic. Well, he was. He’s since started drinking again. This infuriates me more than I can possibly describe.
75. My mom and dad got married because my mom was pregnant with me.
76. I’m blessed with fairly healthy skin.
77. I’ve never broken a bone.
78. I want to learn how to play the guitar.
79. I want to learn Spanish.
80. I have not seen even one episode of the any of the following shows: Lost, Beverly Hills 90210, Melrose Place, Sopranos, 24.
81. I love to sleep.
82. I believe in God.
83. I hate guns.
84. I consider myself adaptable to different situations.
85. I hate mustard.
86. I read a lot of news.
87. I love learning.
88. I love Trivial Pursuit.
89. My feet are happiest when they’re freshly pedicured.
90. I rarely wear makeup.
91. I do not own a digital camera.
92. I don’t like to arrive to a movie theater after the previews have started.
93. I don’t trust the President of my country.
94. Popcorn gives me a stomachache.
95. I’m allergic off-brand Band-Aids.
96. I still like sleepovers.
97. I’m envious of how close my 2 sisters are with each other.
98. I Google people from high school.
99. I don’t like when people spit.
100. I’m good at keeping secrets.

More fun with Google... and a little Yahoo.

I visited Sitemeter today, which I like to visit every few weeks to see who is reading this and how they're getting here. My friend Jeremy often posts on his website about what search strings are brining up his website. I figure I'd share some search strings that are bringing up my website.

Someone found my website by going to Google and typing in "faux hawk women." My site was on the 2nd page of the results.

Probably my favorite string: someone found my site by going to Google and typing in "Being funny in conversations."

And lastly, someone went to Yahoo and typed in "Jessica Smith's breasts" and "Laguna Beach," and two sites came up. Mine, and Jeremy's. Mine was first. This might upset Jeremy, who likes to think of his site as the Unofficial Site of Jessica Smith's breasts.

Then again, who uses Yahoo to search anymore?

Quotes 2/10

The following quotes have made me laugh in the last 24 hours. Those which are left un-attributed have been left that way to protect the innocent.

"Thanks for the 'non-solution.'" (air quotes used here)

"I'd rather blow a horse."

"I pretty much have toothpaste around my mouth... at all times."

"Oh my gosh, it's so cold in here, I have mosquito titties all over my arms!"

And finally, one from TV last night:

"Wherever you go, around every corner you turn, I'll be waiting... nude." (Jack on Will and Grace)

I'm not *really* talking about work, right?

I am not a fan of talking about work outside of work, and especially on my blog, but I had a conversation with my field producer yesterday that she keeps replaying, and I think it accurately portrays our working relationship.

Me: You want the good news or the bad news?

Field Producer: The bad news.

Me: The bad news is, I forgot to get a release from this guy for the shoot this weekend.

FP: Okay. What's the good news?

Me: The good news is, if the guy has a problem with the release, you'll talk him into signing it.

I later discussed with my friend Lisa how my producer could sell snow to an Eskimo, and Lisa agreed but one-upped me: "She could talk a dog off of a meat truck."

The real good news: I got the release signed. The guy was totally cool about it.

Wherein I realize the need to have the option of categorizing my entries.

I've been keeping a blog for about a year and a half, and I still haven't managed to figure out a way to organize my entries. I'd love to have a system where I could tell my blog to file this entry under this and that entry under that. Alas, I don't know anything about anything, and therefore I'm forced to sift through this blog and my older one, looking for an entry about Target that I know that I wrote, although I can't remember when and I can't remember about what specifically... and now I've just given up and decided to write without linking this previous entry.

So here goes.

I'm not sure why I thought it was a good idea to go to Target late Saturday morning after a drinking spree which started at 6:30pm on Friday and ended with me unable to sleep Friday night. Everyone thought putting a Target at Santa Monica and La Brea was such a good idea. It'll be so convenient!

It's not.

Sure, it's close, but everyone that goes there is in a hurry to finish shopping before the one hour of free parking elapses, and therefore, this street corner has become one of the most violent in the city. Okay, that's an exaggeration.

At least four times someone in a hurry bumped into me without saying "excuse me." As soon as I got there, I went to get a cart. Naturally, six other people needed one exactly at the same time as me, and they had no problem cutting in front of me to get one. Finally, I forced my way in, and I was pulling my cart out, a woman was trying to pull one out right next to me. Of course they got stuck, and the lady would not stop. Finally, I stopped. And THEN she stopped. I glared at her. "GO AHEAD." She pulled her cart out and smiled. I did NOT return the smile, thank you very much.

I commence my shopping experience, and I begin looking for a silverware separator. Where would this be located? Probably in the flatware section. Probably in the section with all the utensils and such, right? I looked for maybe 15 minutes for silverware separators, and finally, I asked a clerk.

"Where can I find silverware separators?"

"Oh, they're in the back of the store with Pets and Chemicals."

Pets and Chemicals?

This is the moment where I flash back to the movie Better Off Dead, when Lane (John Cusack) is at dinner at Ricky's house, Ricky being the fat kid from Head of the Class, and Ricky's mom says that Ricky and Monique (the cute French foreign exchange student) are learning the International Language of Love. Lane points first at Ricky, then at Monique.

"Him? And her? That makes sense."

I'm TRYING to be tolerant with you, public, but you make it so easy to hate you. You're pushy when it's not necessary. You're rude and inconsiderate.

I can't really pass blame onto anyone, because I'm the dumbass who went there on a Saturday to Pick Up A Few Things... and nothing that I even NEEDED. It was just a few random things for the apartment. I realized this when I had the following conversation with my friend Wendy:

"You went to Target on a Saturday? What did you need?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Oh my god. I just went to Target on a Saturday and I didn't even need to go. What's the matter with me?"

Items purchased: silverware separator, 2 loofahs, vitamins for Wendy, birthday card for co-worker.

Items considered: microwave.

Items searched for and not found: chalkboard eraser (for Wendy's daughter).

I have to say, the pain of the day was eased when I got to go home and separate the silverware into the new separator. I like organizing things. What can I say?

No Sarcasm Allowed

I’ve always wanted to get kicked out of a bar.

My friends usually don’t get kicked out of bars. Usually, my friends are the reason OTHER people get kicked out of bars. Why is this, you ask? It’s because I have sexy friends. When a big guy picks a fight with my friend Chrissie at her local bar, he’s going to lose, and get kicked out, which you can read about here on my old website.

There was the one time when Amy got kicked out of a bar for forgoing the long line to the ladies’ restroom and going into the men’s restroom, which you can read about here.

Nothing tops the absurdity of what happened on Friday at O’Brien’s Pub on Main Street in Santa Monica. Justine and I had one of our many non-romantic dates at Bossa Nova, after which we made the drive to Santa Monica to go to O’Brien’s Pub on Main Street. Chrissie was meeting a friend there for a going away party, and she invited us to join. Just about the whole group would be there, so naturally, we wanted to go.

We found parking quickly, and then went and stood in line for O’Brien’s Pub on Main Street in Santa Monica. O’Brien’s Pub on Main Street in Santa Monica isn’t normally a venue we would frequent, being gay girls, but we’re always open to experiencing new bars. There was a line of about 10 people, we were in the back. After 15 minutes of standing in the cold, we were finally at the front of the line. Two self-important bouncers stood guard at the gates of O’Brien’s Pub on Main Street in Santa Monica.

A guy a little taller than one of the bouncers came up to said bouncer and said, in his guyspeak, "Hey man, we’re trying to get in to meet some of our friends, can you just let us in?"

The line at this point was only about 5 people long, and we were at the front. The bouncer said, "No," and motioned to the line.

The guy replied with, "Oh, come on, our friends are in there. We don’t want to wait in this stupid line."

The bouncer looked at him with a look of not wanting a fight, so he let him in.

Justine smirked and sarcastically said, "You know, we’ve been waiting in line too, and we’re ALSO meeting a bunch of people in there. You don’t see us making a fuss. I see you let the boys in."

The bouncer looked at her as if he didn’t have to justify his actions, because HELLO, he’s a BOUNCER at O’Brien’s Pub on Main Street in Santa Monica. She might as well be questioning God, or P. Diddy. The bouncer’s reply was: "You know what, I don’t respond to attitude, so I’m not letting you in."

Never one to plead, Justine said, "Fine," and got out of line. I followed her. She made a call and within three minutes, six of our friends, all girls, all beautiful, four of them hovering around the 6’ tall mark, filed out of the bar. Lindsay said loudly, "It’s cool, we can take our business elsewhere." Eight girls total, we probably would have spent between $200 and $250 there, including tips and buying rounds and guys buying drinks for us. And because this guy has a small dick and makes $7.00 an hour at a bar that doesn’t matter to anyone anywhere except for people that live within a mile radius of O’Brien’s Pub on Main Street in Santa Monica, we weren’t allowed to drink there. We stick together… if one of us leaves, we all leave. Not only did he effectively kick out a bunch of beautiful girls, he also kicked out two television producers who have worked or will at some time work on TV shows about bars and nightclubs. He also kicked out two USC students who have a bunch of 20 something friends, and one 30 something who can drink any man or woman under the table in a heartbeat.

And we will never go back there.

Instead, we’ll go to Finn McCool’s, a great Irish pub JUST DOWN THE STREET, on Main Street, in Santa Monica, which is where we ended up Friday. They have Pyramid Hefeweizen ON TAP. And we also met some really cool, funny guys there, and walked away with cool bottle openers for our keychains.

I also got really drunk and was extremely hungover the next day, but whatever.

A Letter to Myself as a Mom

Dear Mama Katie,

First off, allow me to introduce myself. Or rather, re-introduce myself, because I am sure by now you have forgotten me. I’m you at 27 years old.

I’m confused about life about 90 percent of the time. I’m conflicted about so much… about the direction of my life, about the direction of the world. But one thing I know is, the past six years of my life and I imagine the future five or so years have had one consistent goal, and that is to become YOU. I just want to remind you how much you wanted to be a mom at my age, how good you thought you’d be at it, how afraid you were of it, and how much you looked forward to it. Every day.

I want to tell you that taking your children to Disneyland isn’t a bad idea. Me personally, I hate all of the marketing to children Disney as a whole forces on America. I hate the consumerism of it all. I hate how much money they can make because of one little character and all the spin-offs thereof. But I still remember being a kid, I still remember the magic Disney World afforded me, I still remember the joy I experienced being there with my family. Living in California, I still visit Disneyland once a year. And I still have a Sorcerer Mickey antenna ball and a Sorcerer Mickey trinket inside my car. No matter how much evil Disney might represent, it’s up to you as a mother to teach your kids what’s important…and if they want to go to Disney once a year, take them. Let them be kids.

Create a loving environment for your children. Don’t create unrealistic goals for them. Respect them, and encourage them to respect you. Don’t make any plans for their futures other than socking some money away. Encourage them to make the right choices. Don’t give in to temper tantrums (or at least TRY not to). Make sure they eat a lot of fruit. Volunteer with them when they’re old enough. Teach them to recycle. Don’t shelter them too much. Don’t transfer YOUR constant worrying onto them. Watch what you say around them. Don’t make any promises you can’t keep. Write letters to them that they can read when they're adults. Do NOT disappoint them. Teach them to make their bed every morning. Teach them to put away their toys. Give them an allowance in exchange for some light, easy chores: it will give them a sense of work ethic and responsibility. Stay involved in their lives, from infancy to toddlerhood to the elementary years, through adolescence and into adulthood. Insist on this involvement. Be their disciplinarian before you’re their friend, but make sure they’re not afraid of you. Kids need rules, guidelines, and boundaries. Foster your relationship with them in a way that they will always feel comfortable coming to you with any problems. Hug them a million times a day and kiss them twice as much. Love them with every fiber of your being. Tell them you love them all the time.

And when you’re frustrated, angry, sad, heartbroken, and ready to throw your children into a fiery pit, just remember me, a girl who wants so badly to make everything work, a girl who is overwhelmed by how difficult it will be to even conceive, let alone bring children into this a world, a world in which I have wavering faith…a girl racked with unfounded jealousy, a need to be in control, and a preference to be ignorant as opposed to hurt. Remember me, and be thankful.

Love,
Katie

A Million Little Paychecks

Has anybody read this book A Million Little Pieces by some guy called James Frey? Well, apparently, Mr. Frey wasn't so honest in his little memoir, an account of the author... well, falling into A Million Little Pieces. Clever title, James.

I haven't read the book, but I will, eventually. I'll read it because I hear it's interesting and well written. But all of the Oprah followers are getting their collective panties in a bunch because James Frey embellished a little bit, and now they're all out to get him. He's returning to Oprah today, apparently, for a public stoning.

I want to ask all of you: who cares? Who cares if he embellished? Does it change your life, the fact that he added/changed a few details here and there? Because you know, sometimes, when people add or a few details here and there, it DOES change lives. Can you think of any examples of this? Any?

How about embellishing details that lead to war? About some weapons or something? I mean, just as a for-instance, let's just SAY there was someone in charge who fudged some intelligence, or used outdated information... let's just SAY this happened. And let's just SAY that embellishment led America into an war we can't win, a war where thousands of Americans die. Would there be as big of a backlash as there has been on this poor crazy fellow James Frey?

It's not a rhetorical question. The answer is no. What you would do, the majority of you Americans who live in the middle of the country, is you would re-elect the guy in charge for another four years. That's what you would do.

You would also take The DaVinci Code as the truth.

What did they ever do to me?

In the years since I moved to Los Angeles, I have realized something very unappealing about myself. That is that I'm easily startled. When I was younger, I loved scary movies, haunted houses, and all things spooky. The older I get, the less I enjoy these things, and if someone ever manages to drag me to a haunted house, I will walk through it with my eyes closed and my ears plugged, hoping that the friend I'm with cares about me enough to guide me through it. I also can't handle many scary movies anymore. I liked The Ring, but if Naomi Watts hadn't been it, I would've skipped it. The "Saw" movies are films you couldn't pay me to see. Maybe that's an exaggeration, but the point is, I no longer find it necessary to go to the movies to become scared.

I have ALWAYS, for as long as I can remember, had a strong aversion to bugs. All bugs. I HATE THEM SO MUCH. Living in Ohio, the bugs aren't too bad there. They're rarely anything more than an annoyance. Mosquitoes, flies, ants. All okay bugs as far as bugs go, but annoying nonetheless. As I've gotten older, the only bug I can really tolerate is the ant. Flies have even become to gross me out. But the ant - the normal sized ant, not one of those huge queen ones - is a cute little bug. And I've always been a fan of the phrase, You're as cute as an ant's eyebrow, because come on... an eyebrow that little? CUTE.

We used to visit Florida every summer, where they have fire ants (ew) and bugs the size of miniature ponies. This was what I hated about Florida. I was never able to get over the bugs, and I was never able to shake the feeling that at any moment, one was going to land on me. These large bugs that I'm thinking of (palmetto bugs, roaches) are very harmless. I know this. And I have never had any horrible experiences with bugs... but as a friend of mine once said, there's something to be said for something so little and quiet that it can sneak up on you and startle you. This is what I hate about bugs. That, and they're really ugly.

Naturally, as in any big city with a warm climate, Los Angeles sees its fair share of bugs. I am so incredibly grossed out/afraid of said bugs that I usually walk with my eyes toward the ground so I don't step on any, and if I can see one from a few feet away, I will cross the street to avoid it. I understand this is extreme, but this is my life, people. I'm just telling it like it is. I'm bringing you honesty, and all you can do is judge me. Thanks, really. It's helping my bug phobia.

My old apartment building, the one I just moved out of this weekend, is not in the cleanest of neighborhoods, and as convenient as it is that we have a trash chute, it really just welcomes bugs into the building. My old roommate has a similar aversion to bugs (even though she grew up in Florida). I realized just how strong this is when they were painting our building, inside and out. They taped around our doorbell so they didn't paint over it. One day, on the exposed adhesive of the masking tape, I saw a little bug, trapped. A textbook cockroach. Tiny, ugly, gross. I had to look at this little cockroach every day for about three weeks until the lazy managers FINALLY removed the tape. My roommate also had to look at this little bug, every time she came home or left. We were both equally grossed out and freaked out, so much so that we would not go near enough to the bug to remove the tape which in turn would remove the DEAD bug. We'd rather it stare back at us than go near it.

The other day, when I was packing my stuff up from that apartment, I opened the door to listen for the washing machine, to see if it might be free. When I opened the door, a little brown bug (species still undetermined) came flying for me. In a very hurried move, I slammed the door shut, but the little bastard managed to squeeze in and land on the wall. Now here's where I wish I would have installed that hidden camera, because in the same move as slamming the door shut, I jumped away from the entrance to the apartment and turned my body 180 degrees (in the air), landing in an en garde position, facing the door and wall with offending bug, with my feet spread apart and my fists in the air.

That's right. My fists were literally in the air. I was ready to go to blows with this bug.

I couldn't even turn on the light to get a better look at the bug. The less I saw, the better. I raced into my bedroom, grabbed a shoe, swallowed my fear (I don't even like to KILL bugs), and slammed the shoe onto the wall, right on top of the bug. I held it there for a second, making sure the little creep was really dead. In my head, I pretended it was a small moth, because had it been anything else, I probably wouldn't have been able to kill it. Of course, had it been a moth, I wouldn't have killed it in the first place, but the risk was too great to not kill it.

It would be one thing if this was the only thing that really startled me. But it's not. Today, I was filling up a cup with water from the water cooler in my quiet office. I jumped about two feet in the air when the air inside the water forced its way to the surface, causing a loud "plop" sound. I realized then that I either need to stop drinking so much caffeine or I need to CHILL THE FUCK OUT.

Maybe a little of both.

Su-Crack-Ho

It was about 17 years ago when I was first introduced to Tetris on Nintendo. The brilliant game of fit-the-piece-here-or-there fascinated me. The colors, the shapes, the music - it was all addicting. I played it for hours on end, so much so that when I went to sleep at night, I could still see the shapes floating through blackness, and my mind would try to arrange them to make rows disappear.

I kicked the addiction when I lost the game cartridge. Actually, come to think of it, it wasn't even my game to begin with. Oops.

A few months ago, I walked up on my friend Elizabeth during her lunch break at work, and she was at her desk, hunched over a piece of paper with a pencil.

"Whatcha doing?"

"Sudoku."

"Sue what who?"

I was thus introduced to Sudoku. For those of you who don't know what it is, it's this crazy crossword game with all numbers. It's fun and MADDENING. I have never been the smartest gal when it came to logic and numbers, but I hate admitting that... therefore, my plan is to become a Sudoku Kick Ass Master. (Not really.) (Okay, maybe a little.) Patrick got a couple of Sudoku books for Christmas and yesterday brought some copies of some puzzles in for me. I'm on the first puzzle in the easy section. The EASY section.

I've had to erase the whole fucking thing twice already.

Coincidentally, I had a dream about my friend from high school Kris last night. Why did she pop up in a dream? Because she's always been the smartest person I know, ever since we were in fourth grade, and all day yesterday I kept thinking of the fact that this game would be cake for her.

I guess I'd rather have Kris pop up in a dream than for my sleep to be plagued with visions of numbers dancing through my head.

It's Something! Now with more This!

Again, in an effort to update this daily to keep my readers happy, I'm just going to touch on a few things.

1. Sister Gets Fired - Whenever I call my sister Jessie, she usually answers her cell phone with a very groggy but happy, "Heeey..." as if she's always thrilled to hear from me but barely awake to be conscious of it. She's 19 years old and a sophomore in college, so her life consists of work, class and partying, and sleeping every second in between. She's at that magical age where her life elicits both pity and envy. She's going through every rite of passage 19-year-olds endure, and she's having a hell of a fun time doing it. Today, she informed me that she got fired from her job as a Video Store Chick. She has expressed to me a number of times how much she loves this job, and as I talked to her today about the circumstances of her termination (she called in sick from a high fever and was late the following day - apparently at jobs where you make $7.00 an hour, that's grounds for firing...??), all I could think of was this little girl born on a Wednesday in the summer of 1986, the answer to my pleas to my parents to give me a little sister; the little girl whose curly hair was always kept up in a little fountain-like ponytail on the top of her head, her face always covered in thick freckles, and her blanket dragging on the floor behind her like a shadow.

2. Jeremy’s Endless Array of Useless Knowledge - My friend Jeremy is an interesting guy – nerd turned sexy boy, an asshole that would do anything for you. I gotta say though, he constantly outdoes himself with his geekiness. Starting with his football talk, seen in full force here, onto his obsession with Laguna Beach and Jessica Smith’s breasts, onto the latest installment of Jeremy Abramson is a Total Geek and Also Pop Culture’s Dream Come True. You’re seeing this right, folks. He is beginning his Ultimate Hump List of all of the previous SIXTEEN SEASONS of Real World cast mates. Two things here: how does he remember everyone and to which season they belong? And, how in the hell can it be possible that Real World is entering it’s SEVENTEENTH SEASON? I’m a hundred years old, apparently.

3. Celebrity Sighting - Doogie Howser, MD, or, as he prefers to be called now, "Neil Patrick Harris" (whatever) at Subway on the corner of Riverside and Laurel Canyon.

4. Movies That Are Not Comedies - Munich. We saw it last night. Great movie – not a comedy.

5. Favorite Movies of the Year - Walk the Line, King Kong, Brokeback Mountain, Capote, Munich, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Look for more later about these movies – I’m sure I’ll write a pre-Oscar post.

6. Moving - I’m moving in with Gina. I have 32 issues of the New Yorker I can’t seem to throw away, even though I’ll most likely never, ever get around to reading them. Sigh.

7. Best Coffee Available Within Walking Distance of My Job - A little place called "It’s Coffee Time." Ask me how many times the following conversation is had during a week:

Person A: Hey, guess what time it is?
Person B: What time?
Person A: IT’S COFFEE TIME.

Estimated date this joke will get old: the 15th of NEVER.

"Twenty" questions...

Everyone's familiar with the game 20 questions, right? Someone thinks of something, it can be a person, place, thing, or whatever, and the other person can ask 20 questions to guess what it is. The questions have to have yes or no answers. With people like my friend Patrick, you only get a certain amount of guesses: that is, you can ask questions like, Is it living? Is it a certain color? until you get to 20 questions, but you can't ask, Is it a duck? Is it a handbag? Is it a waterfall? more than maybe five times. Ideally, if after 20 yes or no descriptive questions, the guesser hasn't guessed the correct answer, the game is over and a new "thing" is thought of, and the game starts over.

Gina and I used to play this game ALL THE TIME. Looking back, I think it's how we got to know each other as adults. Our rules are a little different. You don't have a limit as to how many questions you can ask. We have played this game so much that exchanges like the following sometimes occur:

Is it a person?

No.

Is it a place?

No.

Is it language?

Um... no.

...wherein the guesser begins guessing what it is right away, trying to come up with the most obscure thing the other person could possibly be thinking of. How did this happen? It all started about 2 years ago at The Sidewalk Cafe in Venice over tuna salads when I came up with the ultimate game of 20 questions. It took Gina damn near 45 minutes and several clues to realize that thing I was thinking of was The Letter K. Unbeknownst to me, this particular round of this game has haunted Gina since then, and it is her lifelong quest to think of something that beats The Letter K.

Here is a list of some of the answers from last night:

Condom
Piano
Stripes (probably the best one of the night)
Yearbook
The Spirit of Christmas (which I guessed in an surprisingly short amout of time)
Orion (the constellation)
Oil Change
Tooth Decay

You might be thinking, well those are all fine and dandy, but still not better than The Letter K. And you know what?

You're right.

Rushing out the door.

I'm trying to update this every day. I'm not sure why, because there are maybe 3 people that read this every day (thanks Gina, Kim, and Chrissy). But for those three readers, who are three of the closest people to me in my life, I want to update, dammit. I also need to write.

I don't have anything interesting to say today. I do not mean to imply that I ever have anything interesting to say, but at least I only write about stuff that slightly interests me. So instead of writing about one thing in particular, I'm just going to mention a few things. I'm already trying to guess what kind of mean comment Jeremy will leave me.

1. After going to Molloy's last night to see Lindsay shake her ass Coyote Ugly style, I was really tired this morning when I woke up and was able to justify a trip to Starbucks. I drove slighlty out of the way to go to the Starbucks near my work. I pulled in the parking lot, fished in my bag for my wallet. Suddenly, the world slowed down. I could hear birds chirping in a slow motion garble. Cars slowed. Clouds gathered in front of the sun. I didn't have my wallet. I didn't have a credit card, a dollar, a quarter. So... no Starbucks.

2. I went to Gelson's with my producer for lunch, and I saw this beautiful woman, obviously a lesbian, walking towards us. My producer is a lesbian who knows pretty much everyone, and when I saw this woman, I knew my producer would know her. She did. It was a semi-famous woman, who is about to become a bit more famous among us queer girls. Strikingly attractive.

3. It's 6:00PM on a Friday and I'm still at work, but I have ONE LAST THING to mention...

4. My friend Lisa read my blog today and asked why I never mention her. So, here's a shoutout to Lisa. Hi Lisa! Thanks for reading!

You have to TELL me these things!

I have a friend named Amy. I adore Amy, everything Amy. We became fast friends when we realized we have pretty much everything in common. We view the world around us very similarly... we have the same sense of humor, and we want similar things out of life.

Having received this backstory, you will understand my shock and horror that came from the following conversation:

K: I can't believe how long this entry [on Jeremy's website] is!
A: I know! And it was longer. He cut it down. It was six pages in Word.
K: Oh, he writes his entries in Word first?
A: Yeah.
K: I don't do that.
A: Me neither.

*Here's the turning point in the conversation. Amy tends to be distracted while we're on the phone, so I figured this was another instance of that. So I said:

K: You don't have a blog, Amy.
A: (silence) Oh. Um, I do actually. Have one.

Amy and I spend maybe 60 percent of our time together talking about how we both need to write more, we both need to share our comic genius with the world. And she fails to tell me she has a blog??

So naturally, I go to her "blog," which I cannot link here because her excuse for not telling me is that she doesn't "want anyone to read it" (whatever), and I realize why she failed to tell me about it.

It's funnier than mine. It's better written, with a more defined voice. She has better stories, as evidenced by this blurb in the "about me" section of her myspace.com page:

"My family consists of Jews, Catholics, drug addicts, hookers, homos, blacks, whites, and retards. So basically, I'm a really good catch."

(All true.)

Sigh. This girl from Ohio has nothing on that.

Resolutions 2006

1. Patience
2. Tolerance
3. Forgiveness
4. Acceptance
5. Communication
6. Creativity
7. Presence
8. Awareness
9. Appreciation
10. Perspective
11. Courage
12. Love
13. Understanding
14. Passion
15. Compassion

Mom

My mom has always been... different from other moms. She talks openly about many parts of her life, including (but certainly not limited to) her drug use during her first pregnancy (yeah, that's me). She had moved to Los Angeles to pursue a career of fame and money-making... she had no real plan beyond that. Once she was here in LA, she found out she was pregnant. This is how she describes her six week stay here in LA:

Mom: It rained the whole time, and we all just sat around smoking pot...
Me: You were pregnant with me!!
Mom: Katie, I did a lot worse when I was pregnant with you... you're lucky you weren't born with a horn coming out of your head.

(Direct quote)

I've become accustomed to having a relationship with my mom where I'm usually the more adult one. This isn't to say my mom is irresponsible... it's just that she's a lot more reckless than I have ever been or ever will be.

My mom has gone through a lot over the course of her life, especially in the last few years. However, this past holiday, I noticed a change in her I didn't like... one I can't describe exactly. People keep asking me how my holiday was, and my response is always, "It was fine, it's just that my family is so...dysfunctional right now." Everyone's response is the same: "Everyone's family is fucked up."

I was talking about this with Gina, and she said it perfectly: "Yeah, everyone's family is weird, that's true. But when you go home and everything is completely different than it was the last time you were there, that's hard." And that's just it. My family has changed without me, and they have left no place for me. I should be more specific... my parents have changed, and that in turn has affected the way my sisters deal with their own lives.

Admittedly, it's not their responsibility to make sure I always "fit in" when I go back home. And I still love them just as much as I did before. But it's like watching a close friend drift away from you... you see them changing, maybe not in a way you like, and you realize you have less and less in common with them, where before, you felt at home. And there's nothing you can do.

The good things:
1. I will not be going back home often without Gina, since we're both from the same hometown.
2. My sisters and I are still as close as ever, and I don't see that changing. I don't think any of us would let that happen.
3. My mom still shows some shadows of the mom I remember, as evidenced in this photograph, taken with my phone (since I don't have a digital camera), where she has reacted to Gina paying the bill at Steak-n-Shake by giving her a very lipstick-y kiss on the cheek:

Love...

Last April, I was in the delivery room when my friend Kim gave birth to her firstborn, Kyle. This is what he looked like, about two days after he was born:



Kim lives a good 35 minutes away from me with no traffic, which means it usually takes me about an hour to get to her place. Needless to say, I don't get out to see her and Kyle nearly as much as I'd like. But the past six weeks have been a record, I think. They left for CT for the holidays right around Thanksgiving, and just came back to town this past week. I was booked as Kyle's babysitter for last night, and having not seen him since mid-November, I was especially excited. He's doing all sorts of fun things now, like sitting up on his own (and crawling!)...



...grinning a little boy grin...



...and, my most favorite thing, whining and giving me a look that says, "All I want to do is lay still and cuddle!! Can we do that? Please?"...



This is what we did for the rest of the night. He just lay there, on top of me, staring into the distance. I swear he was thinking about something, although what I can't begin to imagine. I set him down a couple times to crawl around and be a little boy-kid, but he wasn't into it. He just wanted to snuggle with me. Little does he know, that's what I wanted to do too.

$11 nap and the state of Hollywood

With entertainment technology advancing as rapidly as it has over the past 10 years, people are not going to the theater to see movies anymore. Why pay between 7 and 14 dollars to see a movie you can rent three months later and play on your HD surround sound plasma TV?

For me, I will always love going to the movies. I love the idea of a room full of strangers in the dark experiencing the same thing and leaving with completely different thoughts. I love that I can be in a room with hundreds of strangers and forget that they're all there, and be engrossed in the movie. Living in Los Angeles, I'm lucky enough to experience some of the best movie theaters in the world, with the best sound and the best picture quality.

I'm willing to pay $11 regularly to see a movie, because I love seeing movies. I'm also willing to drop $60 in a night at a bar, because I love hanging out with friends and drinking and talking and laughing. What I won't do is combine the two. I will not pay $11 to sit in a theater while a movie is playing and chat with my friends. I assumed most people would agree with me on this. Apparently not.

I know it's trite to talk about people talking during a movie, but last night, Gina and I went to see King Kong. It was a beautiful, exciting movie... however, I was incredibly distracted by the three drunk MIDDLE AGED WOMEN sitting two rows behind me. They talked from the moment they sat down (half way through the previews) until the movie was over. What on EARTH were they talking about for 3 hours straight? And WHY DID THEY COME TO THE MOVIES TO DISCUSS??

I should mention that I'm kind of psycho about anything disturbing me during a movie. I've been known to call off a movie-going night if I know I won't get there in time for the previews. I like to be sitting in my seat a good two to three minutes before the previews start. I don't like anyone around me to talk... at all. Not during the commercials, not during the previews, and CERTAINLY NOT DURING THE MOVIE.

The Cineramadome has been in Hollywood for a long time, but about five years ago, they shut it down and remodeled, adding (I think) 14 theaters. They upped the ticket prices to a whopping $14 on weekends and $11 on weekdays. Why would people pay this much for a movie? Arclight (the new theater complex name) boasted the best sound, the best picture, assigned seating, and ushers that would get rid of anyone who caused annoyance during the movie. This is why I have no problem paying this much money for a movie.

But last night, there were no ushers to tell these women to SHUT UP. And even though throughout the movie, the seven seats in front of them emptied with annoyed patrons finding other seats, these women could NOT TAKE THE HINT.

Also, the woman next to Gina paid $11 to take a nap and snore through half the movie. Awesome.

Rose Bowl

I love college football. I'm not like your average guy who likes college football, who can tell you who rushed for how many yards, or who even knows the names of all of the different positions. I can rarely tell you any team's record on the season. But none of this changes the fact that I love it. It's an incredibly fun game to watch, and it reminds me of being in college.

What also reminds me of being in college is the fact that I have a friend, Becky, who is IN college right now. This is the first college friend I've had in 6 years, since I graduated from college. (That's right. Six years ago.) She makes me feel old most of the time, even though she's only three years younger than me, but she often also makes me nostalgic for my days in undergrad. And it's because of her that I've watched so much college football this season.

She goes to USC, and Chrissie lives right down the street from Sharkeez, a known USC bar in Manhattan Beach. So the lot of us have hauled our asses down to Sharkeez to watch USC games through the course of the season. I've maybe seen four games this season, which is really a record for me.

Naturally, Becky roots for USC. I have nothing solid against USC, but I'm always a fan of the underdog. I think this comes from growing up around a continuous feeling of immense disappointment when it comes to sports. When you come from Northeastern Ohio and your family roots for Cleveland teams, you get really used to losing... or even worse, coming close to winning, and losing anyway.

I discovered last night there's a very good reason I don't follow sports. I like watching almost any sport, but if I'm at all emotionally invested in the game or who's playing, it's simply too much for me. I've rooted against USC all season because, COME ON, they needed to lose a game. They haven't lost a game in 2 years. Also, they cheated during the Notre Dame game, ADMITTEDLY. Every team that has played USC this year has been the underdog.

All day yesterday, I told everyone I was rooting for Texas in the Rose Bowl. I added that I thought USC would win, and I would be happy for the home team, but I was rooting for Texas. Six minutes from the end of the game last night, after two missed field goal attempts on Texas's part (one for an extra point, one for 3 points), I was ready to leave the bar. I was annoyed. I told Chrissie, Texas doesn't even deserve to win this game! USC is playing better! I decided to stay, despite the fact that Texas was, at this point, two touchdowns behind.

Keep in mind, I don't REALLY care about either team. I have no emotional attachment to Texas... on the contrary, I HATE Texas for producing George W. Bush and continuing to vote him into office. I hate everything Texas stands for. But dammit, I was going to pissed if USC won this game.

During the last minute of the game, when Vince Young failed to complete two passes, and found himself in a 4th down with five yards to go, my heart was racing. I was on my feet. The score was 38 33, with USC winning. The bar, full of USC fans and maybe six Texas fans total, was filled with screams and hoots. Vince Young scored the winning touchdown with maybe 26 seconds on the clock. After the two point conversion, the score was 41 38, Texas, and with only 19 seconds left, not even Reggie Bush could carry the ball back into the end zone. And for the first time this season, in what I have to say was a moment of silent revenge on a team I had rooted against all season, Sharkeez was full of dark red and yellow, and was... quiet. USC's fans sat, stunned, staring at the 40 televisions in the bar, hoping to find one that produced a different outcome. USC has won every single game for the past 2 years... and this, arguably the most important game of the season... they lost. THEY LOST!

Needless to say, Chrissie and I, for fear of our lives, waited until we were outside to celebrate. Chrissie walked down Highland screaming, I HATE USC! And then whispering to me, I can't believe USC lost.

After realizing how emotional I can get during a football game I don't even care about, I kept saying, THIS IS WHY I DON'T WATCH SPORTS! It was too much. But this morning, I woke up sad to realize that college football is over for another year, and am wondering maybe if last night is why I DO watch sports when I can... picking a side is fun, screaming and drinking beer is fun, the adrenaline rush is amazing. Also... it feels SO GOOD to have your team win, especially if it rarely happens.

Thank you, Starbucks!

For your support of the gays and for your newest offering, the CINNAMON DOLCE LATTE!

It's cinnamon-y, coffee-y, with a hint of brown sugar.

Oh, Starbucks, you never disappoint. Except your gingerbread lattes sorta sucked ass this holiday season.

Rigatoni

My friend Chrissie is probably my closest friend in Los Angeles. I met her a couple of years ago and since then it's been nothing but bitches and barbecues. Okay, maybe not "bitches," necessarily, but I was going for the alliteration.

Chrissie lives in this rockin' apartment in Manhattan Beach, about a block from the water. She has a back yard with a BBQ, and when I met her, she had two cats and a dog. Cats: Sauce and Toonie. Dog: Riggs.

Riggs was this beast of a Rottweiler. His steps were lumbering, and we was too big for the back yard when it was full of Chrissie's friends. He was constantly knocking over dips and salsas accidentally, and he was always on standby for any fallen meat. He loved everyone, and followed Chrissie around loyally. He always seemed to be "in the way," but we all loved him so much we didn't care. We laughed about how big he was, and how he had no clue of his size.

He fell a couple of months ago, and when Chrissie took him to the vet, they realized he had diabetes. He lost a lot of weight and ate like a king for a few months. The doctor put him on a diet of pasta, ground beef, and chicken, with regular shots of insulin. He wasn't walking well, but his spirits were good.

When Chrissie texted me the day before Christmas Eve, I knew it would be a rough day. Her text said, "I think it's time for Riggs." He had been up all night, sick. He couldn't get up to go to the bathroom. He had stopped eating. He was refusing water. She planned to drop him off at the vet and see what they could do. I told her to call me when she knew more. She called me in the afternoon and said she decided it was time.

Gina and I met her at the animal hospital. Her eyes were red, but she was her normal self, joking and laughing about everything. She assured me she cried all night long and snuggled with her dog. She led us into Riggs' room, where he was hooked up to an IV. He looked miserable. He was panting heavily and his tongue was a splotchy red, not the normal healthy pink. He was congested and his eyes were watery. He didn't raise his head or even wag his tail when he saw us. He just lay there, helpless, miserable... ready.

The three of us gave him lots of love, scratched his ears, and told him we loved him. Chrissie's girlfriend Lindsay arrived, and about 15 minutes later, the doctor came in with two syringes. Because of Riggs' size, the doctor figured it'd take a lot to do the job. I was worried it would be traumatic to him, to us, to Chrissie. I was worried we'd see death rip him from us. Instead, the doctor, who loved this dog almost as much as we did, gently rubbed Riggs' head, assured Chrissie she was making the right decision, and administered the shot. Not a quarter of the way through the first syringe, Riggs, this 110 pound Rottie, left peacefully. His breathing slowed, and he was gone, with an audible sigh of relief. We cried, but all of us, Chrissie included, knew we did Riggs a favor. He was done... he wasn't the same dog. And we sent him off with love and heavy hearts.

We miss you, Riggie. Big Rig. Rigatoni. Riggles. Gettin' Riggy with it. Multiple Riggs.

First day of winter

Today is the first day of winter. It is 78 degrees in Hollywood at 4:07pm.

I leave for Ohio this Saturday.

The forecast for Los Angeles this weekend:
Saturday, Dec. 24: High - 79. Low - 50. Partly cloudy.
Sunday, Dec. 25: High - 75. Low - 48. Sunny.

The forecast for Ohio:
Saturday, Dec. 24: High - 43. Low - 31. Rain, snow showers.
Sunday, Dec. 25: High - 41. Low - 31. Rain, snow showers.



Sigh.

The 2nd time in 11 years

I think people who know me best will agree that my adult life is a healthy mix of grown-up responsibility and childish foolishness.

I make excellent decisions when it comes to my safety and my well-being. I won't get on the back of a motorcycle because I know if something were to happen to me, my mother would be devastated. I don't speed often, not because I can't pay a speeding ticket, but because I don't want to lose my good driver's discount on my insurance. My producer at work asked me if I wanted a massage or shoes for Christmas, and I couldn't pass up a practical gift like a good pair of shoes. I have two life insurance policies, a small savings account, a good job and a nice computer. I know a whole lot about babies and kids, even though I have none of my own. All of these things make me feel like an adult.

After a shopping spree at Old Navy last night, 48 hours before a trip to Las Vegas and an unpaid 2 week hiatus, I called Justine. We had some details to work out regarding Vegas, and I hadn't really had a good conversation with her in about 6 weeks, so we were catching up. I pulled up in front of my apartment right in the middle of our conversation. I have underground parking, which means I can't continue conversations once I'm home because I'll lose signal on my cell phone once I'm in the garage. I often find myself parked illegally with the car running while I finish up conversations with friends. I was in such a situation last night, finishing up my chat with Justine, when all of a sudden, my car made sort of a "putter" noise and died. I turned the key... putter, putter, die.

I ran out of gas. Parked in front of my apartment. No, wait... parked ILLEGALLY in front of my apartment. Luckily (or not so luckily, as it turned out), my roommate was home and, as good roommates will do, she went to get gas for me. It wasn't enough gas, though... so we called AAA, and they came to the rescue, even though this comedy duo of tow truck guys they sent laughed at me.

When they put gas in the car and it started right up, I raised both of my arms with balled fists in an excited gesture of triumph. Gina said, "Score!"

The tow truck guy jokingly said, "Aw, don't get my hopes up."

What was the lesson I learned from last night? Always drive on a tank that's above 1/4 full? That the fact that this only my 2nd time running out of gas in 11 years of driving does not make it okay? Nope.

The lesson: everyone loves my girlfriend.

Labels

As I get older and more settled down, I have realized that the most difficult thing about being in a same-sex relationship is the lack of validation from many people outside my own little community. This absence of encouragement makes me question my reality more than I care to admit. I have never had a problem with it until recently, since I have finally started to feel more settled down and have begun to give serious thought to grown-up things, like purchasing a home, having children, and always having a good bottle of red wine in the house.

We went to Gina's sister-in-law's baby shower this weekend. When we arrived, the sister-in-law's mother greeted us with warm hugs, and I was immediately grateful that she remembered me from the wedding last year. She said, "Come on in, girls, I have to give you a name tag so everyone know's who you are."

She wrote out Gina's: "Gina - Frank's sister." (Frank is the papa-to-be.)

She wrote out mine, asking, "Now, you know Gina from Ohio, right?" I responded yes, and she wrote out: "Katie - Frank and Gina's Friend - Ohio"

Gina noticed what she was writing and said, "You know, she's my girlfriend. You can just write that."

She responded, "Oh, well, I just wrote Frank and Gina's friend from Ohio."

Hi, Round Hole? I'm Square Peg.

I'll take three... no, four!

Like most people, I find out things about myself every day that make me think, Boy, I sure have changed since _________. Or, I sure think differently than I did when I was ___ years old. People grow, things change.

One thing that has not changed for me is the fact that I want kids. I have two younger sisters: my sister Jessie was born when I was seven turning eight years old; my sister Jackie was born when I was ten. I spent my childhood summers babysitting - feeding, changing, playing. And I liked it. I loved it. Sure, there were times I would've rather been doing something else, like hanging out with kids my own age, but I loved my sisters so much and was so grateful for them, I was okay with it. And they were so M-Fing CUTE.

I blame this period of my life for my desire... or NEED to have children. I'm so comfortable with babies and kids, and even though I know once I have kids my life will no longer be my own, I look forward to that day more than I've ever looked forward to anything else.

Well, I'm 27 years old now. When my mom was my age, she had a seven year old and a newborn. CRAZY! WEIRD! EW! Gina wants kids probably more than even me, so we talk about it a lot. Maybe too much, but we like it. In the last few months, we have realized that we should start thinking about when we might be ready, and Gina came up with a Two Year Plan, which gets us pregnant in 2007. Of course, we still have to work out exactly where we'll get the baby making material, i.e., sperm. We have some plans, don't worry.

Gina has 3 nieces, and another niece/nephew on the way. (Her brother and his wife haven't found out the sex of the baby... it's not like they're giving birth to a hermaphrodite or anything... we just don't know if it's a boy or girl yet). The baby shower for the unborn is this weekend, so naturally we had to go to Babies R Us and spend our combined weight in gold on the package due to arrive at the end of February.

We learned something yesterday: we shouldn't go to Babies R Us together.

If we were a straight couple, I'd be pregnant today. That store got us convinced we had to have babies NOW. We were already planning our baby registry. I know, I know. It's weird. But we can't help ourselves!

So naturally, I had a dream last night that we had a baby. A girl. And she was so cute and perfect. My dream included me being pregnant, going to the hospital, and giving birth... and the baby was clearly about 3 months old. Not a newborn. We didn't have a car seat, and I kept thinking, why didn't we have a baby shower? Why are we not prepared? Am I dreaming this? I don't want to be dreaming. Am I? No, I'm not. Wait... am I?

I was.

I told Gina about it this morning... and wouldn't you know it, she had a dream we had a baby too - a girl. Her dream baby looked like her mom... my dream baby looked like the baby on the package for the Swaddle Me blanket we bought for her sister-in-law. Hey... I'll take what I can get.

In related news, we'll apparently be bringing up baby in an apartment, because with homes at a median price of $500,000 in California, 85 percent of households can't afford to buy a house.

Nice.

Conversations

"Hey, what was that funny phrase we said at lunch today, and I said I was going to make a top 10 list of funniest phrases and that was going to be on it?"

"Oh... um..."

"It was around when we were said rootin' tootin' cowboy."

"Rootin' tootin' cowboy! That wasn't it?"

"Nope."

"What were we talking about?"

"You were saying how babies are dangerous like on Bugs Bunny when the baby had a rifle in the stroller and it was shooting at Bugs, but the baby was really Elmer Fudd."

"No, it was Yosemite Sam."

"I know, but you said Elmer Fudd first."

"Oh, right."

"It wasn't 'ticking time bomb.' It was in the knife-on-the-ceiling fan conversation..."

"Oh... um.... butter in the ceiling fan..."

"Right before you said, Check out the midwestern sweatshirt."

"OH, shit, I think that lady heard me, because she glared at me on my way out."

"Was it her glaring, or the teddy bear wearing a santa hat on her sweatshirt?"

"Oooh, I'm not sure."

"So what was it? The phrase?"

"It's right on the tip of my tongue. What did I tell you we needed to look for tonight?"

"OH! Um... space heaters... and... diapers?"

"No, not diapers... um..."

Pause. Pause. Pause.

"Well, if you think of that phrase, call me."

"Can opener!"

"That wasn't it."

"No, that's what we need to look for tonight."

Simply Unnecessary Vehicle, vol. 2

Being gay is funny, sometimes. Take last night, for instance. Gina and I went to see The Drowsy Chaperone at the Ahmanson, and instead of fighting 6:30 traffic on the 101/110, we decided to take the subway. This means we had to, you know, walk around the streets of Hollywood, which is only a pain in the ass because of all of the tourists.

When we got back to Hollywood from downtown, we were waiting at the crosswalk at Hollywood and Highland. A blue Suburban, with tinted windows and music thumping its way out every nook, was waiting to turn left onto Highland. Gina and I were holding hands, as couples are wont to do. The blue Suburban was filled with a brood of young Hispanic girls, early 20s. A girl in the back rolled down the window and was yelling at us, something about taking our picture. But she was saying it in this teasing sexy voice, like, "Yeah, baby, can I take your picture?" This made her look like more of a tool than I already knew she was, so instead of responding to it, I made eye contact with her and just started at her, sympathetically.

She yelled out the window, "Yeah, girl, I'm talking to you. Uh huh."

I shook my head slowly in that way adults do when they see young punk kids. The car rolled past. I said to Gina, "What is life like for someone like that?"

Gina: "Short."

Simply Unnecessary Vehicle.

I have realized lately that the older I get, the less tolerance I have for people. In general, really. This tops my list of Things To Work On In Order To Be A Better Person, but I'm sort of stuck with it right now.

This attitude shines when it comes to my apartment complex. Put a person with no tolerance in a building with 100 other people, make her share parking spaces, washing machines, and mailbox areas, make her follow "rules" about where she lives, and she'll be a hard core bitch. You can count on it.

Honestly, I'm a nice person. I mean, I try to be. I hate conflict, which is why I can't seem to ever finish a good short story. In order to avoid conflict, I go to great lengths to change my mind about things, or alter my situation so that no one around me will be upset. This has been working rather well with my friends, but with strangers? I turn in to this conflict-lovin' lady.

Our apartment complex has underground parking, which I'm grateful for, and it's a commodity in Los Angeles. My roommate and I share tandem spaces, which can be annoying, but it beats the alternative of having no parking at all. If she's behind me, I'll move her car to get mine out and then I'll re-park hers... she does me the same favor. It's no big deal.

Recently, we got new parking neighbors. A couple - a guy who drives a late 90s mustang, and a girl who drives a white Dodge Durango roughly the size of a yacht. These underground parking spaces are not large. Their first night in the building, they parked that white beast RIGHT ON THE EDGE OF THE YELLOW LINE separating her space from ours. I ran into her in the parking garage and explained to her that we can't get in our cars if she parks like that. Things have been okay since then, besides my total intolerance for SUVs.

This morning, I had to move my roommate's car. In order to do that, I have to back the car out of the space and park it somewhere in the garage. I park it out of the way of most cars... even though it's only going to be there for 45 seconds. I park the car and begin heading back to my car. Well, Dodge Durango girl is leaving, and she zooms out of her space in reverse and doesn't look like she's going to stop before she runs into my roommate's car. After all, my roommate's Honda CRV is dwarfed by the Durango... maybe she didn't see it at first. She stopped, and then had to do a 60 point turn to get her "car" out of the garage. She rolls down her passenger side window and mumbles something in her tiny straight girl voice. I walk over to get a better listen.

"Is there a reason you're parked there, because it's really hard for me to get out," she whines in a chiding voice.

"Yes, I have to move my car."

I walk away as she whines something else.

A few things: She had PLENTY OF ROOM. If a girl that size is going to drive a car that large, she needs to be able to have some sense of depth, and some sense of how big her car is. Secondly, does she not know she looks like an asshat driving a car like that?

And most importantly: I will NOT alter MY life in order for YOU to drive a gas-guzzling Sport Utility Vehicle that you don't even NEED, because you live in a one-bedroom apartment in Hollywood with your BOYFRIEND. Maybe if you had bought a more efficient car, you could afford a house in Los Angeles. If you want to drive a car like that, go ahead. But I'll be DAMNED if you're getting any special treatment from me beyond looks of disgust at how ignorant you must be to be driving a car like that unless you have a brood of kids and sporting equipment (and even then... it's gotta be upwards of $150 to fill up that tank!). YOU picked that car, tiny woman... not me. YOU decided to move into this building, even though you knew the parking situation.

And BESIDES, I was totally here first.

Icky...

Hearing your little sister's friend, who you met six years ago when she was about 12, tell your sister: "Oh my god, I just got a massage. It was better than sex!"

Check, please.

And I thought I wasn't addicted to anything...

Since I learned what the word "cliche" meant, I've had this overwhelming, sinking feeling that I've been nothing but cliche my whole life. So present is this notion, the very mention of the word "cliche" is... well, cliche.

To add to this, I'm about to tell you the most cliche 21st-century-life-in-Los-Angeles thing ever: there is a drink, a very special drink, available only at your local Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, to which I am addicted. That's right... addicted. It's the White Chocolate Latte... so glorious is it, I must use capital letters to refer to it.

Growing up with an alcoholic father, I don't like to use the term "addiction" lightly, so maybe I'm not quite addicted. But I really love this cup of coffee. I've decided that I'm going to allow you to be the judge... a very rare instance where I'm encouraging judgment from other people.

This morning, I left early for work for a few reasons: Gina and I are going to dinner in Anahiem tonight with her brother Frank who is in town from the Bay Area. I'll need to get out of work early to make it there before tomorrow. Also, I needed gas in my car. As soon as I woke up, I thought: Oohhh... I'm totally going to take Laurel Canyon to work instead of the 101 so that I may stop at Coffee Bean to get a White Chocolate Latte! That's right: I actually planned altering my usual route to work JUST so that I could get this cup of coffee.

Allow me to back up for a second: three weeks ago, I swore off coffee during the week. Last week was a really busy week which included a whirlwind trip to Ohio, so I allowed myself to have coffee last week, fully intending on resuming my coffee-on-the-weekends-only rule once this week started. Ha.

Back to this morning: I stopped at the gas station, convincing myself I needed gas in my car more than I needed a sugary latte. I was making the right decision! No coffee! I'd just have tea when I got to work! Just like I should be doing! I went inside to pay and the line, nearly 8 people deep, didn't move for three minutes. I'm my mother's daughter when it comes to my ability to wait... for ANYTHING, so I turned around and left without getting gas. And because I couldn't get gas, I thought I deserved my White Chocolate Latte.

On my way to Coffee Bean, as I snaked up Laurel Canyon, I talked myself out of getting the cup of coffee. You don't need the sugar, you don't need the caffeine, don't get it. And yet, as I neared the turn, my car inexplicably turned into the parking lot. And after I finished listening to the NPR story about the case being heard before the Supreme Court regarding universities allowing military recruiters on campus even though they discriminate against homosexuals, I walked myself right into that Coffee Bean and ordered a LARGE White Chocolate Latte, extra hot. And man, it was tasty.

Addicted?

Christmas time... is here...

Actual incident over long Thanksgiving weekend:

(on radio) ... and I just want to dedicate this special song to my husband, because he's so great, and I just want to give him the best gift ever!

Katie & Gina, in unison: Give him a blowjob.

Friend or Foe-hawk?

I gotta say, officially, I'm over the faux-hawk. I still approve of it some instances, such as the following: if you're not a raging bitchy dyke, then yes, a faux-hawk is still okay. Otherwise? Shave it. Do us all a favor.

This is why I hate this hairstyle: in my many, many nights spent in lesbian bars over the last few years, I have maybe met one or two worthwhile women sporting this 'do. The rest of them have been entirely forgettable if not downright unfriendly.

Last night, gina and I went to Guys. I used to go to this bar all the time, and I would have fun there. Last night, however, the crowd was about 10 years younger than normal, and it was apparently free drink night if you showed your "I'm a bitch" card at the door.

I really try to give people the benefit of the doubt, but I witnessed something last night that made me realize my hasty generalizations might not be so hasty. Two girls who looked exactly the same, both with faux-hawks and stretched earlobes, were standing at the bar, waiting for their drinks. It was clear with one look that these girls thought they were the bee’s knees. I mean, we were all so lucky to be in their presence.

I watched a short cuddly-looking girl with braces, not much older than 22, walk up to these 2 faux-hawks with a look of excited recognition. Yay! She was meeting friends out and she found them! She hadn't come alone... she was flanked by two shy girls who waited behind while she walked up to the two faux-hawks. She tapped one of the faux-hawks on the back. Nothing. Tapped her again. Nothing. Put her full hand on her back and rubbed it in that friendly sort of way that usually illicits a warm hug. Faux-Hawk 1 turned around and looked at her. Cuddly girl waved and smiled. Faux-Hawk 1 turned back to the bar.

THEN, Cuddly Girl did the same thing to Faux-Hawk 2, and Faux-Hawk 2 had the same response. Looked at her, and turned back to the bar. No hug, no motion that said "hang on a sec, I'm ordering a drink," nothing. These Faux-Hawks totally blew off this girl, a girl they clearly knew but maybe didn't want to know.

In my most adult move of the day, I complained about it to gina, motioning to the Faux-Hawks, and then I started making faces behind their backs: "Oh, I'm SO important! Look at my faux-hawk!"

I'm lucky those girls didn't see me, because they could've kicked my ass, for sure.

What's funny?

My friend Amy calls me just about every day in the morning. She plays it off as "I'm just calling to say hi," but really, I think she's using me for my ability to make her laugh. I enjoy the attention, so I don't say anything.

She called me this morning and the following conversation ensued:

Amy: I love slash hate you right now!
Me: Why?
Amy: Because I just visited your new journal and I saw dooce.com linked on it, and I was thinking, oh, what's this website? I clicked on it and...
Me: I know! Magic, right?
Amy: I literally have been reading it for three hours, thinking, how could she have not told me about this website??
Me: I DID tell you!
Amy: I need to start listening to you more.

A little later...

Me: That's why I haven't posted on my blog in a week, because nothing funny has happened, and I only want to write about funny things.
Amy: Funny things happen all the time.
Me: Yeah, but I'm not creative enough to realize it.
Amy: Yes you are. You know what you should write about?
Me: What?
Amy: You should write about how our answer to a bad day is a shot and a pitcher of beer. That's real healthy.

She is referring to this past Saturday... when the following conversation ensued:

Me: (answering phone) Hello?
Amy: Hi! Wait. What's wrong? Are you okay?
Me: No.
Amy: You and I need to be drunk right now. How soon can you get here?

...which led to the following drinks being consumed between the two of us at a bar in Manhattan Beach:

3 pitchers of beer
2 kamikaze shots
1 vodka tonic

...wherein we learned that some problems have no reasonable solution, and you have to just basically take it up the ass.

*shrug*

I'm learning...

You want to know what I can't figure out how to do here? I'll tell you.

Thanks to KTP, I learned of HaloScan comments. I like the fact that you can type in your name, email, and homepage, and leave a comment. It's very user-friendly.

Naturally, when I started up this version of my blog, I wanted to use HaloScan comments. I went to the website and since I'm HTML illiterate, I opted for the automatic setup of HaloScan. All it asked for was my blogger name and password, and ta-da! HaloScan comments are added.

HOWEVER, when I make ANY template changes, the HaloScan comments disappear. It's like the code for the HaloScan comments is not in my template, and it's somehow magically appearing on my blog anyway, and the minute I change my template to, let's say, add on another site I visit, the HaloScan comments disappear.

This sucks.

So... until I learn how to fix it, I have to add to my list of sites I visit every day a website I didn't have the address for last night when I was working on this. (The address is on my computer at work, so I checked it today and made a note to add it.)

The website is: Amanda B.'s Very Zen website. Amanda, if you read this, as soon as I figure out what the hell I need to do to add you to the side of my page, I'll do it.

Um, that's not your cup.

Gina, being the environmentally conscious gal that she is, has a cup she bought from Starbucks about a year ago. It's a black travel mug, and it has seen better days. Its biggest offense is that it's missing its lid, so coffee spills quite a bit in her car, but dammit, she's not throwing anything away! She used to frequent a coffee shop in the Bay Area, a very Bay Area type of coffee shop whose employees most likely think Starbucks is the incarnation of all that is evil in the world, and upon suggestion of someone at that Bay Area coffee shop, Gina covered the "Starbucks" logo on the cup with a recipe for Pear Ginger Tarts (provided, I believe, by the offended Bay Area coffee shop).

Last night, we went to a Starbucks in Van Nuys. Gina strolled in with coffee cup in hand and ordered her soy caramel latte (sauce AND syrup, thanks). I ordered a tall decaf drip, as I have given up caffeinated coffee (except on weekends). As we waited for her coffee to be ready, we stood several feet away from the bar, chatting. The barista set her cup on the bar and pushed it towards a girl maybe a little younger than me, and then asked, "Did you want caramel on top?" The girl smiled and said yes, and Gina and I watched as the barista amended the drink in Gina's personal cup for some stranger. The barista put the caramel sauce on top, and the girl took the cup. She looked at the protective sleeve, and brought the BLACK STARBUCKS CUP MISSING A LID to the cream and sugar bar. Gina and I watched with an amused disbelief. We wanted to see how long it would take her to realize she had someone else's cup. She went to POUR SUGAR into the CARAMEL LATTE, and I finally said, "Um, that's not your cup."

She gave me a puzzled look, and for a moment, I thought she might not speak English.

"Look at it," I said. "That's not your cup."

She looked at it, confused. Then, as if we offended her, "Well, I'm sorry, that's the one she gave me."

I wanted to say, "So if I give you the keys to my cavalier and take the keys to your BMW, you'll take my car because those are the keys I gave you?"

Instead, we just walked away.

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

What the HTML are you talking about?

I don't know HTML. What does it even stand for?

Bear with me.

This time, we're drawing blood.

It's official. I'm moving my journal to blogger.com. And here it is! You've found it!

I'm switching over for many reasons, none of which I'll entertain you with here, but I think my 3 readers will enjoy this format more.

Eventually, I'd like to have a place where I'm archiving all this stuff, but for now, if you'd like to read any back entries, feel free to visit my livejournal:

http://www.livejournal.com/users/eternal_buzz/

In the meantime, come over here so I can ceremoniously cut you.

Alarming

You know the normal car alarm sound? It's like: whoop, whoop, whoop, whoop, nee-ner, nee-ner, nee-ner, nee-ner, pow, pow. pow, pow, doo-DOO, doo-DOO, doo-DOO, doo-DOO.

You know.

Well, today, as Gina and I were in the parking lot at Starbucks for our daily fix (I'm going with the caffeine-free espresso drinks, an oxymoron in the highest terms), we heard a small, unobtrusive beeping. It was similar to that of a large truck backing up, but if it had been a large truck, it would've been about a half mile away, it was so quiet. I then thought it was a smoke alarm... again, a half mile away... some sort of outdoor smoke alarm, I imagined.

We finally got out of the car and I saw the source of the noise. It was the ever-threatening alarm for the pinkish red Dodge Neon parked a few spaces away. It's lights were blinking on and off and it wasn't even making a "beep-beep" noise... it was more like, "bep bep bep."

I didn't know Dodge Neons were such hot items these days.

These mistakes...

Here's what I've been thinking about today:

So many things happen to us in our lives. From the time we're born, we go through these dramas every day or every other day. Once we become adolescents and adults, they're a much bigger deal, certainly. And at the time, they consume us. These events make day to day functioning near impossible. But then, somehow, time passes without us realizing it, and these events become nothing more than a speck of our story, a detail which we'd only relay to the closest friends... and even upon relaying the story, we'd undoubtedly be unable fully explain the way we felt at the time, the impact it seemed to have at the time... we can only vaguely explain the lesson it taught us, and perhaps let our mind drift as to who we would be had the event not happened.

It's strange to me to think of how many stories the people in my life must have that I'll never know, and likewise for those that seek out my company...

You!

Since I moved to Los Angeles and started working in television, I avoid watching TV like the rest of America seems to avoid reading a newspaper. But I have it on right now for a dose of the Simpsons, and there's a T-Mobile commercial on that I have to write a bit about.

It starts with a couple sitting in their living room and the guy says, "My wireless bill is so high." The girl says, "Mine too." (beat) "Who are you calling?" (beat) The guy says, "You." Following this is a series of couples, each with the same premise... couples realizing all of their calls are to their significant other, and they're almost blaming each other for it.

What's so special about it? One of the couples is a GAY COUPLE. That's right, a GAY HOMOSEXUAL COUPLE. Yep, TWO DUDES IN LOVE.

See? I've said it before and I'll say it again: Equality will come... and it's worth the wait. This commercial is a step in the right direction, and I applaud t-mobile from a distance.

I'm not switching from Verizon, though. I'm not THAT gay.