An Unlikely Scenario.

Full disclosure:  I kind of secretly want a little ginger baby.  I believe they have special powers.

Romance Abounds: Minus Two

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I knew a guy once who I was set up with.  I was 18, he was..... older.  I'm actually not even being coy, I really don't remember his age.  Obviously I had no business even going out with this worm, but I was 18, and therefore still on the upswing of my stupidity arc.  You see, sometimes precociousness reveals itself in desires to be rebellious.  I know, so profound.  So I went on this date, feeling like a badass and armed only with the information that this guy was older and he drove a blue Dodge truck.  As I pulled up to the restaurant, I saw a (late twenty-early thirty something?) driving a blue Dodge in front of my car.  He was changing his shirt in the front seat, and picking his teeth into his rearview mirror.  Out of his window hung a half-tanned arm, the hand on its end dangling a cigarette.  Niiiiiice.  After 45 minutes of forced conversation about NOTHING, he dropped the bomb.  Apparently, he was recently divorced from the mother of his 2 kids and really thought I would just the ticket to drive her crazy.  

                                      "So, whatdoyouthink. I've got a boat."

On Permanence.

Oh hey, I got another tattoo.

Here's my decision making process:

Ashley had been talking about getting a tattoo for a while.  We worked on font, size, placement.  She wore a Ming-sharpie version for a few days.  On our way to the tattoo shop, we get large iced coffees.  We hadn't eaten yet that day, I was feeling preeeetty good.

So I got a tattoo.

M2820 means Matthew 28:20, which is my favorite Bible verse.   Has been since Camp Bear Paw in 1997, when I was flipping to the end of Matthew, in order to find space in my Bible to doodle.  This verse is the very last of the Book, the very last line in Jesus' Great Commission to his disciples.  He is telling them to go out in the world, to teach them everything they had been taught.

 ".....and surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age."

Sometimes, I think that the reason I like being alone so much is because I know I never really am.

Love Love Love.  

Evidence.

Sometimes, I get correspondence to this effect. 

I just want you all to know that even when my blog is seemingly unattended to and un-updated, I really do think about it quite a bit.  LOOK:

I keep a note in my phone to jot down things that I want to remember to blog about.  Unfortunately, the truth is that I don't really recall what any of these little blurbs mean.  You know, it's been so long.  "teachers intimate"?  Sounds like it would have been good.  Well poop.

Anyway, here's a photo of me wearing my favorite cherry red leggings.  They make me feel like a super hero.  Ashley says I should feel like a super hero every day, which is great advice.  Thanks, Ashley.

Romance Abounds: Mrs Robinson.

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I knew a guy once from childhood.  He was a few years younger than me, but always around hanging out with my friends' little sibs.  He was a total social nuisance, a mud baby and Lost Boy.  I used to roll my eyes at his antics, glad that I wouldn't be the one having to bail him out of jail some day.

Well a while later, he showed up to a summer gathering at a mutual friend's house.  I hadn't seen him in years, and the years gone did him good.  He was tall, tanned, and all of a sudden, matured.  He cycled.  He was going to art school.  He played the guitar.  He had dreams.  We laid on our backs on the lawn as it got dark, and he told me myths about the constellations and how the moon affects our weather.  He would lean his head in to touch mine as he pointed out the stars.  I started humming Simon and Garfunkle in my head, only to be interrupted by his friends, barking at him that they wanted to move on to the next gathering down the street.  My friends were barking too, to come get in the hot tub.  Wordlessly, we both got up.  I looked up at him and shrugged.  He grabbed my hand and pulled me into the shadow of the hedges along the house.

"Wish I was getting in the hot tub," he breathed into my ear.  He sauntered off, turning around to wink at me.

                           I stood there in the dark, paralyzed.

For those who might be curious, he did find me again, but the romance ended there in the shadows.  Drama.

On Career Paths.

Satisfied customers.

Does there exist such an occupation where, I could come to your wedding..... and make it fun. 

I think I could make a LOT of couples happy. 

I mean, these people spend countless hours and thousands of dollars trying to create the Perfect Day, right?  In all reality, what people talk about is How Fun/Lame the Party Was. 

What I Will Bring to Your Day:

1. No one will remember how you ran out of champagne if I am delivering a toast.  I will likely be singin, crying, gesturing wildly, or a  combination of all three.  The drama of it all will distract all attendees from the waitstaff forgetting to bring the rolls out.  (Not the ROLLS!)

2.  I will always gladly take on the task of Starting the Dance Floor.  Every bride is always concerned with this Great Feat.  Rest assured, I don't care about how I appear to your dorky relatives from Iowa.  Strike it up, Mr. DJ.

2a.  I know all the steps to the Electric Slide, Boot Scootin Boogie, Bunny Hop, the Pretzel, Cupid Shuffle, and Dougie.  I would throw this service in for free, but will charge if I have to put my hands on your Aunt Marge's shoulders or if I get stepped on.  

3.  I will get your crankiest family member on the dance floor.  He (it's always a he) will find me adorable, or in the very least oblige me in fear of appearing racist.  

4.  I will request the sleeper hit.  I'm not embarrassed to make the DJ download Justin Bieber on his iTunes.  Everyone will love it, and everyone will talk about how cute it was that the DJ had such "bad taste". 

5.  I will stop the conga line. 

6. I will inevitably end up having a heart-to-heart with one of your immediate family.  The Big Pink Elephant will be resolved, and you will leave on your honeymoon in peace. 

7.  I will make sure you get your money's worth from the bartender.  Sometimes, I will even surprise you and pay for a keg.  Because I didn't bring a gift.  Because I never do. 

8. I will end up in the bathroom with the bride at a very opportune moment.  To hand her my lipstick/shoes/ponytailer/the rest of her dress.

9.  I will randomly bring the "ONE THING youcantbelieveyoudidntthinkof" that made the party.  Like glowsticks. 

10.  I will play along with any 'wedding clingers' I might come upon as to maintain the fun of your reception.  I will give them all fake numbers, but there will be no 'scene' to buzzkill your Wedding of the Century.  I will run interference on all of your bridesmaids and young cousins.  Everyone will think they fell in love at your wedding, until the next morning.  

Feel free to contact me to discuss pricing!  Discount if you mention my blog!

Possible Business Card Ideas:

Romance Abounds: Minus One

Hey,

I am not going soft.
Don't think all this remembrance of Romance Past doesn't also bring about memories of Very Unromantic Moments.  I shall also share with you my most vivid VUMs, and you can decide which are Mini-Series worthy.

Once, in an otherwise intimate moment, This Guy sat up from where we were intertwined, looked at me seriously, and declared:

"You know, you actually are quite attractive."

Umm, excuse me?  Did I tell you I thought I was unattractive, or did you simply find me unattractive until this very moment?

I didn't actually do that math.  Declared him a Spoon and called it Tuesday.

On Movement of Time.

She tells me this is how I should be applying night cream.
I'm not taking note. 

Every one has that Year.

The one where you don't necessarily feel invincible anymore.

The one when the girls at the Nordstrom counters seem impossibly spry.  and annoying.

The one where the music at Intelligentsia just feels a bit too loud and the lighting at all of the hip little corner restaurants feels too low.  HOW DO I SEE OR HEAR ANYTHING?!

The one when no one asks for your ID anymore.  (except at the movies?!  what?!)

The one where you learn what an IRA is and why your parents were always talking about 401ks.

The one when your friends are all talking about eye serum and varicose vein prevention.

The one when you realize that all eligible men in your age division are A: already attached to Mrs. Right, or B: already attached to Mrs. Wrong. (read: you're gonna have to wait for the divorce/breakup/widowing)

The one where intended "All Night Ragers" end up like this:

.... and there is no rallying.  Once this happens, you must be taken home and put to bed.  Even if it's 11pm.  You don't remember putting your jammies on.  Because you were in REM sleep the entire time.

The one where you kind of don't seek out new music anymore.  You already have so much you know you like, and not enough time to listen to it all.  Gasp.

The one where you don't find grammar mistakes cute, and write people off for in-eloquence in correspondence.  Likewise, you find well spoken-ness irresistible.

The one where you start wondering who will be taking care of you in your old age..... even if you decide just to not live to an age that requires taking care of.

The one where you start listening to NPR in the car.  Groan.

The one where you finally relent and admit.... you probably can't pull off that pouffy skirt or gingham dress anymore.  But you keep the tutu and cowboy boots.

Oh hey, 26.  You're an asshole. 

Romance Abounds: The Jacket Man

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Hey Girl,  Aren't You Freezing?


I met a guy once at a dinner party.  He was the best friend of my best friend's fella and, unbeknownst to both of us, the entire gang had been scheming this set up for months.  He was sweet, goofy, and completely unaware of his own boyish charm.  He had terrible taste in music and no sense of style.  Still, I thought he was darling and was taken by his sheepish glances in my direction.  After our meal, two of girls decided we wanted to head downtown to go dancing.  He requested to come along (good move, man.).  As we stood outside in the crisp Fall night awaiting admittance into the club, I was shaking and shivering in my skirt and tights.  With a very apparent twinkle in his eye, he turned to me with his hands in his coat pockets.
 "Come here."
                 He smiled, and opened his coat for me to join him in.  I wrapped my arms around him, and he wrapped his jacket around both of us.  He swayed us around on the sidewalk, and I completely forgot about how I always roll my eyes at everything.

Now, when I think about it, it makes me laugh at how easily I fell for that move.  Then I roll my eyes.

Romance Abounds: My JT

I met a guy once in Jr. High.  He was the older brother of a friend of mine, and I always saw him at youth group functions and summer days on the lake.  When he smiled, he looked exactly like Justin Timberlake, and had some serious skateboard skills.  He knew how to dance and was adorably protective of his little sister, in the way that drives preteen girls wild.  Of course by my 13 year old perception, he had no idea I was alive.  Then one night, our youth group spent our weekly meeting at the neighborhood rollerskate rink.  You know, disco lights, YMCA, chicken dance, the whole deal.  NSYNC’s “God Must Have Spent a Little More Time on You” started overhead (I know! best song ever!), and they announced the couples skate.  I was being dragged onto the rink by the little Germ that was following me around at the time, and thus I was bemoaning my very existence.  From behind, my JT whizzed up between us, breaking our handhold. 

“Excuse me”, he declared. 

                                                     “But she should be skating with me.”

He grabbed my hand (the boyfriend way!!) and basically dragged me around the rink for the remaining four minutes.  I merely tried my best to maintain consciousness through the song.  Even now, my heartbeat quickens in remembrance.  Logically, I bet he was sent to save me by my meddling Mean Girl friends.  But man, it was romantic as hell.  

Feeling nostalgic?  Wanna read this again while being serenaded?  Well I would not deny you that. 

Romance Abounds.

Think she would do my Theme Song?? {credit}

Did you know: dating can be a very unproductive distraction??   I've been unproductive lately.

I cant figure this out.  People assume that my dating life is just one episode after another of The Bachelorette, just endless beautiful people and fantastical dates.

MAJOR exposé :  My eventual mini-series to be featured on HBO  will be called "Ten Thousand Spoons (when all I need is a knife)"  and will make "GIRLS" seem like a Garry Marshall rom-com. 

A rudimentary story board.

The last six months I have been pacifying myself with oh, so many spoons.  There is just always something not quite right about every single one.

All of this lackluster might be enough to make a girl stop believing in real affection.  I mean really, the nonsense I put myself through is enough to just sew myself shut and go live among the bushmen in the Amazon.

Well, I'm not.

But my sour attitude is concerning.  In an effort to prevent the Extreme Display that may result, I spent an afternoon recalling the most romantic moments of my life.  Don't you want to know?  Behold, a series.

Oh Hey, guys.

Wondering where I've been?  Yeah me, too.

The truth is,  this is what's been going on.

One Day:

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AH! LIFE IS SO GRAND!

I LOVE LA!  THE SUN! THE FUN!

I'M SO HOPEFUL ABOUT MY DREAMS!

I HAVE TALENT!

I AM FIT AND VITAL!

LET'S GO DANCE ON THE BEACH AND MAKE OUT!

The Next:

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i hate everyone.

i hate la. 

shut up.

i'm just gonna watch season 2 again. 

I swear, some days I just feel so fantastic about who I am and where I am headed, and other days I can barely scrape my face off of my couch cushion.  I feel miserable, exhausted, and beyond pathetic.  I stare annoyedly at the ringing phone and decidedly don't contact daylight.  I fall in and out of sleep, while distracting myself with any form of entertainment that can make my mind quiet.  My mail piles up, because I can't stomach the anxiety of having to open any of it.  I know, it's mail.  

Well, my usual remedy for this illness is to run toward another fresh start.  This girl just thrives on something ELSE.  So I start dreaming of places to go, things to see.  My fingers start flying over my keyboard, searching Craigslist for sublets in Nashville and jobs in Chicago.  I mean, there are still so many cities I want to live in, and so many people I don't know yet....  

Well poop.  I just can't yet stand the thought of leaving all of the improv, comedy, acting stuff.  Coco JUST moved here, and I really do love so many things about LA. 

So here's my compromise to myself.  I basically took the summer off from ambition, laying around and being a piece.  At this point, I'm gonna give this all another good college try.  Really do it.  After the end of the year, I'll run away somewhere else if I still can't calm myself.   Ready, steady....

Dork-winism

Picture this:  there's a neighborhood park a mere two blocks away from my house here in LA.  It's one where people gather.  There are tennis courts, basketball courts, playground, and a small baseball field.  Kids run around, teens loiter.  I go and run the sidewalks around it, because I don't like having to waste energy on watching for cars.  Running requires enough of that.

So last week, I am running laps around this park and I see a group of tweens standing about in my path.  There are a few boys and a few girls, about the age of 12.  I spot one in particular from a block away.  She's physically predictable.  Her legs are gangly and her hips narrow.  Her shirt-front is undisrupted and she carries just the last bit of baby fat in her cheeks.

But she is not like her friends who exist with her upon that sidewalk.  She stands jauntily on one foot.  She twirls her hair through her fingers absent-mindedly, but in a way that makes her magnetic to the little boys (and hell, me!) she speaks to.  She giggles.

It was just in a mere moment that I noticed all of these things, but the greater impact was this: as I ran past her and her group of adorers, I understand that she must have just been born with that.  Some people are just genetically predisposed to smolder.  Some people just know how to attract people.  This little girl was just that, a little girl, and yet she carried more feminine wiles in her sparkly purple fingernails than I, in my fully-functioning-developed-adult-woman-body.

And now, I think I understand evolution.

Loo Lingo

Man, are people getting so stupid that we know need instructions in the restroom? Doesn't this seem like basic potty training information? Do we really need refreshers?

Teste. Teste. 1 2 3.

My friends are so good to me.  Darling Lindsay (aka my blog cattle prod), has always been such a supporter of my butterfly-chasing hare brained ideas.  She gave up her birthday and last day of LA vacation a year ago to tag along to a pilot shoot.  She reads this blog and is always on schedule with her regular, yet gentle nudges to update.  She politely tells me I'm hilarious.  So when I started rolling the idea of going to Seattle to drop Marsha off sometime this month, her response was: "YOU MUST COME DURING THE SECOND THURSDAY OF THE MONTH AND DO STAND UP AT KONA."

Well, okay.

{Comedy Darlings. Photo credit: Lauren Opstad!}

She and her friend Lauren are basically beneficiaries of this little local comedy night, held in the back of a Hawaiian BBQ restaurant.  They, along with a friend organize local comics to perform once a month.  It's low-key.  It's casual.  Sometimes, their group of friends are the only people in there.  Well not this night!  My darling friends Meg, Frank, Monica and newlyweds Alison and Marc came out to witness the spectacle.  How tickled was I.  Eek.
So there ya have it, Linds.  You cattle prod my blog and now my stand up practice.  Man oh man do I owe you for the acting career I don't even have yet.

Is this love?  I think so!  Might you enjoy a uploaded video of the new things I am complaining about lately?

{Disclaimer: for those of you know me, please remember that this is an act.  Standup comedy is really just an overwhelmingly narcissistic monologue.  Some, or all of it, may be completely made up.  The idea is to be funny, not always truthful.  Also, sometimes I swear. Yeah, the jig is up.}

What Match wont Catch.

In related news, I feel I must address the topic of online dating.  In this day and age, we turn to the internet for just about everything.  I mean, really.  I carry out so much of my life online that I'm sure many of you expect this habit to extend to love and intersex relations as well, right?

WRONG.  

I cannot date online.

The way I see it:

Online dating is essentially taking a human phenomenon that is inherently meant to be very, very, sexy..... and taking ALL OF THE SEXY OUT OF IT.

There is nothing coy about laying all your cards out for the world to see, and declaring yourself 'open season'.  I liken it to digitally ringing your dinner bell to summon all the cowboys to "COME AND GET IT!".  Groan.  I just can't stomach it.

About me: I am horrendously awkward in any and all romantic situations.  While I am apt to maintain a charismatic conversation with just about anyone, as soon as it turns any kind of romantic, I desire to hide my face and run to my car.

Don't compliment me.  It makes me feel weird.  In my house, 'pretty' was not celebrated.  There's no merit in attractiveness, and the culture at the Sun household followed suit.  So, even now, the easiest way to make me shut up and lose speaking ability is to say something sweet.  I'd rather you insult me.  Seriously.  That, I can work with.

So with online dating, it's all awkward conversing and blatant agenda.  You are already declaring yourself as 'interested' with the first correspondence.  Yeuck.  Part of the frustration and excitement of dating is the initial unknowns.  Is he single?  Into it? In a band?  These are all things I would like to hear from you, not from reading your carefully typed-out profile.  Plus, there are so many factors that can't expressed via website.  I need to know if you talk with your hands, what your laugh sounds like, and if you're an interrupter.  (like me).

I am constantly being harassed to try it; apparently being a nomadic soul and an extrovert guarantees excel in online dating.  What-EVER.  I do not desire to subject myself to any series of half-blind dates (see Blind Date Policy) with people who may seem statistically compatible with me.  I have had numerous friends who are apparently bigger people than I, and have treaded the waters of this Gen-Y trend.  Some have met the love of their lives, while others are still wading in the mess.  I can't definitively declare it good or bad; I just know I'll have nothing to do with it.  My dinner bell will remain unrung, even if the cows never come home.  

Not a Drop in the Bucket.

{don't let the festive apparel fool you; this girl can be a real B*^@#}

Here's the thing.

As much as I subject you all to the pathetic details of my dating woes, I must report to you that the stories chronicled here aren't even a drop in the bucket.  I still feel weird telling personal stories on the inter-web, and still have enough self consciousness to think before posting for all to see.

So you don't even know the half of it.  My dating life is really just gross.  It seems that all I encounter is unavailable, undesirable, or unattainable.  This, in combination with my rampant intimacy issues has resulted in a somewhat (totally) begrudged 26 year old whom has never carried on with a fella for longer than a few months.  I don't know, it feels weird to me, too.

I have, however, carried out a string of slinky affairs.  I know, color you shocked.  Yes, this single girl admittedly does enjoy occasional attention from the male species.  Rather, holds herself (to herself) so tightly 345 days of the year, that the other 20 days is spent in explosive bursts of questionable energy.  Too much?

Well as skilled as I have gotten in ignoring the consequences of my seasonal poor decision making, I have also gotten to a point where I have become quite disillusioned with the nonsense.  I don't want to be the girl guys cheat on their girlfriends with anymore.  It's not cute to take advantage of people and use them as playthings.  You know what?  Men have feelings, too.  I KNOW, I WAS ALSO SHOCKED.

You know, I really don't accept mediocre in any other arena in my life, but somehow I have settled for the life of ordinary slut when it comes to love.  Ironic, no?
So, I guess I'll just cinch that belt in a liiiiittle tighter, and wait for something Exceptional to cross my path.

Wrong Asian.

{photo: ABC.com}

I love Modern Family.  It's hilarious.  But guys, don't we really think that that show has a Ming-sized gap?  Aren't I what's missing from the scenario??  Thankfully for all of us, I have come up with the perfect solution to fill such a void. 

The Way I See It:

So Cam and Mitchell hire a Vietnamese nanny for Lily so she doesn't lose touch with her Asian roots.  You know, it's very important for her to stay connected to her culture.  Angelina Jolie does it with her kids. 

They go through interview after interview of terrible Asian nanny applicants.  One they can't understand because of her horrendous accent.  Another threatens to beat Lily if she doesn't play the violin.  Yet another believes she is only there to teach her multiplications tables.  Finally, they find the perfectly balanced Asian nanny.  She was born overseas, but raised in the US.  She knows how to cook Asian food, but also sings Sesame Street songs.  She speaks her native tongue to her parents but has no accent in English.  Unbeknownst to them, their perfect nanny one is actually Chinese.  In their defense, they did see so many applicants and they all look the same!  Plus nowadays, you cant just ASK someone what race they are! Insensitive!

Lily and they love her, and she becomes another member of the family.  They play Asian dress up, Nanny teaches her how to use chopsticks.  The whole gang starts learning...Chinese phrases.

{photo source}

Big reveal that she's not Vietnamese (which I suppose I can leave up to the Emmy-award winning writers over there at ABC)....Cam and Mitchell are mortified but can't fire her for being the wrong kind of Asian?!  I mean seriously, what will the gay-parent community say!  Gay parents can't discriminate against race, can they?!  Disaster!

(Cut to Nanny via single camera interview)

She knew she was the wrong kind of Asian all along.  But she needed the job to fund her hip hop dancer dreams, and the Chinese are taking over the world anyway.  So really, she's doing them a favor.  Plus, like her mother says, all Asians are basically Chinese.  (in Asian accent): "Like-uh figh sousand yeuh hees-tori".  (five thousand year history)

Umm, will someone pass this idea gold-mine to whomever they know at ABC, please?  I will be awaiting the call from the head writers.  I would like to be hired as actor AND writer, ala Mindy Kaling.  Please and thank you. 

Life High on the Highway.

Don't you just love road-trips?  With my recent car swapping activities, I was given the task of transporting Marsha back up to the PNW for pickup by my father, whom she will now serve.

Did you know it's 1,135 miles from LA to Seattle?  Last week, I made the 18 hour drive up the Best Coast.  It was delightful.  I realize that, to most, the very thought of spending an entire day would conjure thoughts of suicide.  But you've never road-tripped with me!

Road-tripping with Mingni:

I listen to horrible music while road-tripping.  Seriously.  It's a nonstop spin of country, Celine Dion, and any other 90s pop I dig out of my CD collection prior to departure.  I bellow Spice Girls and wail along to Hootie and the Blowfish the entire way.

I don't stop for food.  Fast food is gross and I don't get hungry while road-tripping.  Weird, eh? I just pack snacks and stay high on coffee.  You know, healthy-like.

You can keep your fancy GPS.  This girl was trained for the highway on a Road Atlas, and that's just how I like it.  I love propping that huge spiral bound book on the steering wheel and doing all of the distance calculations by mile marker.  I love tracing the state highways I pass to see where they lead.  I like knowing the elevations of the mountains that I drive past.

I like driving alone.  The gross, selfish human in me likes not having to be concerned with anyone else's agenda but my own.  I pee when I WANT TO.  I play whatever disgusting music I want to sing LOUDLY to.  I make phone calls.  I talk out loud to myself.  I giggle as I try to recite poetry I memorized in high school (I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea.....)

I do some heavy thinking.  There is something very satisfying about driving alone, over long distances.  The progression is very apparent, and you're very aware of milestones and your accomplishments.  I make short term goals to make it to certain spots in a certain amount of time.  I do lots of mental math.  I recall specific stopping points that I have driven past previously, and feel pride in remembering exit numbers and town names.

I get reflective.  Prior to this trip, every long drive I have done has been a runaway of sorts for me.  It's quite difficult to describe; the feeling of packing up and leaving a place entirely with the anticipation of starting anew somewhere foreign and far away.  On these long drives between assignments, it was inevitable for me to think back on that place, the events and people I was leaving behind.  I've become quite addicted to that feeling.  Isn't there something so powerful about being the One who leaves, who scampers off in search of something new and (probably) better?  It's my favorite thing.  Since I have been in LA for so long now and have no plans for leaving at this moment, I have missed these runaways!

OK, so I just read back all of that and it's totally for the best that I do all of this alone.  Otherwise you all would be pushed over the Mingni-limit and discontinue your associations.  Be thankful I get all of that nonsense done without accompaniment.  

Marsha E. Mallow

Just like so many who venture to this town, Marsha came to LA, but had to leave.  The reason?  Morbid obesity.  See, LA doesn't take kindly to the portly.  In order to thrive here, you must be svelte and slim, at your optimum always.  Marsha didn't fit in the spaces required of her, she required too much food, and no one was impressed with her power and prowess in other arenas.  So she had to go.  

OK, I'm talking about my car.  Marsha Mallow. 

She was a graduation present when I finished college.  She really has been a phenomenal car, but just didn't make sense for LA anymore.  While I was running around the country, a V6 engine and AWD was requisite, Lord knows I was packing some stuff around.  But here, she's just too fat!  She doesn't fit in any of the parking lots, she eats through gas, and is constantly out of alignment from barreling over the speed bumps and pot holes.  I was totally ready to move on, but not before an overly nostalgic blog-post about our times together.  Marsha and me:

Just look at all of the places we have been! This doesn't even include all of the trips to Cashmere, Yuma, San Diego, Austin, and the like in between work assignments.  

It's been a good run, Ms. Mallow. 

In the name of change, I just purchased this little guy last week and we are still getting to know each other.  He's a 2009 VW Rabbit, and I am thinking of naming him Buggs.  Not sure yet, but one thing I do know, he has some big shoes to fill. 

Surprise Me. I Dare You.

Do you ever feel like technology is taking all of the romance out of our lives?  Not just in the classical boy-meets-girl sense, but in our every day goings on?  Sometimes I really crave cosmic interference, which is arguably the worst thing technology has robbed us of. 

Are we eradicating the chance encounter, a surprise, wondering, and random coincidence?

Where has all the serendipity gone?

Remember when we were younger.... You would be driving down the street with the radio on, poring over a recent conflict or impasse.  Suddenly THAT song came on the radio and a flood of emotion and memory would pour into your being and overwhelm your state.  It was definitely a sign.  That silly song, playing at THAT MOMENT made you think that somehow God knew you needed to hear it.  

...Nowadays, I can hear whatever song I want whenever I want, at the touch of a screen.  Hearing it at that moment doesn't mean a thing; except that I have to take responsibility for my music tastes. 

Remember when you would run into someone you didn't even know was in town... and end up spending a day together?

.... Nowadays, I can see where my friends have eaten, what they have seen, and what they thought about it, in live time.  I know where everyone lives and when they go somewhere.  

Remember when you would lay about in your backyard with friends, wondering why the sky was blue or grass was green, where the phrase "Okay" came from?

......Nowadays, as soon as a question pops into my mind, I have the ability to know the answer.  Google doesn't make me think about it. 

With the advent of the smartphone, comes the departure of speculation.  

While I was among the first to run to the Apple store for access to the interweb at the touch of a screen, sometimes I really crave powerlessness.  I forget what it's like to be at the mercy of the universe, and to live life trusting that all things even out and that kindred spirits will meet again.  It seems like my iPhone keeps me connected to the all of the world, but really connected with no one.  It seems like I can barely remember the last time life threw me for a real loop and all I could do was ride it out.  Nowadays, I have entirely too much control.

Allen Stone wrote a great song about this generational epidemic:

"Whatever keeps you occupied,

whatever gives you contact high.

Whatever keeps you busy, baby

....will never make you satisfied. "

Rockin' Me Baby.

You remember how, most everyone between the ages of 3 and 12, thought they were gonna grow up to be a rock star?  But then, years went by, you grew up, wised up and got over it?

That last part never happened for me.

I grew up worshipping the stage; staring agaped-ly at the kids on the Mickey Mouse Club, staying up too late to watch the Grammys, memorizing classic musicals, and sneaking music videos on MTV (my parents didn't understand the songs, but I wasn't allowed to watch them on the basis of musician's apparel and attitude. ahem.)

I did grow up a little, and channeled by exuberance into musical theatre, band, drama, choir, piano lessons, and eventually, karaoke bars.

But here's the thing:  I just really need to know how to play the guitar.  Being who I am and loving creative outlets as I do, it's just STUPID that I don't know how to do it.  Music is so dear to me, I want to be able to have it in my hands, whenever I want.  iPods are not the same.  At some point, Lord willing, I will have a beach house somewhere.  So much of my annoying future antics revolve around forcing my guests to sing around the bonfire!  Im serious.  We're learning harmonies.

So after a year of 'research' (read: dragging my feet)  I finally just dragged Ashley into the music store yesterday.  We had some time to kill before our comedy show, and I was just gonna "look and see if they have the one I want".  Uh huh.  Of course, they had the one I wanted, a Baby Martin, but I ended up with an upgrade, this 7/8 size Taylor.  What's funny is, the gentleman who sold it me was really against that one, but admitted that the two of us just look right together.  Well, I quite agree.

So today, after work, I went and picked up my new pear-shaped friend.  I hunkered down on YouTube and started the guitar playing portion of my life.  I mean I've now been playing for 90 minutes and I'm pretty sure I've got it:

Tomorrow I learn to play without making those faces.  Never too late!

Love Love Love. 

So. Af.

(I taught her everything she knows.) 

Butthead Baby Sister is studying abroad in SOUTH AFRICA next fall.  As can be expected, I am totally going to show up, steal all her thunder, and make her do all of the things I want to do.  She's already all hot and bothered about making a plan, and I'm allergic, so she's just gonna have to deal with my tendency to just decide when we get there.  It's really just the way our relationship works.  I'm thinking 3 or 4 weeks in December.  I will hug a giraffe to celebrate the Birth of Christ.

 I Just Gotta Do:

-Hike up Mt Kilamanjaro
-Swim up to the edge of Victoria Falls
-Be scared by wildlife.  Stampede, anyone?
-Ride a bike through Capetown
-Volunteer either on Mercy Ship or with another org I believe in.
-Is So. Afr.  where you can dive with the great whites?  
-Play and run with many, many African children.  I want to chase them down dirt roads.

Wanna come with??

This Thing On?

Alright, so a few of you know that I did my first stand up last week.  This was something that I had put on my bucket list many years ago, and I finally grew some balls and just did it.  A friend of mine from my first UCB class is a hilarious comedienne and she inspired me to just dooooo it.  I was preeeetty nervous the 30 minutes before went on, but as soon as the guy announced my name, I felt great.  Man, I just love the feeling of a mic in my hand.  Always have.  Are you shocked??  Thankfully, all went well and people laughed.  It was perfect for my first time.  There were only about 25 people in the room, it was a happy hour, and it was mostly other comedians.  Well, this is a little clip of the PG portion of my 3 minutes.  If you would like to see the full version, I'm going to need a written paragraph detailing your most vivid memory of riding the bus to school as a child.

Mine was when I made Trevor Baker cry for making fun of me in the 4th grade.  He was sitting in the seat in front of me, taunting and making racist comments.  I told him to shut up, reached over the seat, and yanked his ear so hard he stood up and turned around, trying to punch me.  I dodged and he missed.  Embarrassed, he sunk back into his seat, red faced and with huge crocodile tears in his eyes.  I actually kind of felt bad when I saw that, but there was no way I was gonna let him know.  8 y.o. me was a thug.  When I later told my parents about it, I got a very stern and mortified talking-to from my mother.  That was completely unacceptable behavior for a young Asian flower.  My dad took me out for ice cream.  Guess whose message rang louder.


Don't resort to violence.  Talk it out.  Hug each other.  Love Love Love.

Rolling. (my eyes)

I mean, does she know about YouTube kitties?  Surely they can lighten her up.

So has it been long enough?  Can I talk about Adele yet?  I mean, I love the girl but may I just say.  She is twenty one.  What the hell could have happened to this girl before the age you can rent a car that causes such deep and gut wrenching inner turmoil?!  She has a beautiful voice and undeniable talent but PLEASE.  Every time I listen to her record, I am stricken with unbelievable anxiety because..... I have no idea what she's talking about.  My palms start to sweat and my heart pounds into my throat.  Shit.  I haven't lived.  Man, this girl is really feeling something and just don't know what she means.  Am I the only one missing out?  Do people of the first world really feel such profound emotional crisis over an ex-boyfriend getting married and not being invited?!  What does "Rolling in the Deep" MEAN?  To my knowledge, to be "in deep" is usually followed by shit.  Which has nothing to do with the song.  Psht, woman please.  The only people who should identify with this level of torture are holocaust victims and the Invisible Children.  Here in the first world, its like:

 "AH!  My facebook friend didn't guess my Draw Something depiction of Usher!"  

Closely followed by:

"♫ We could have had it AAAAAAALLLL ♫......."

Oh, go slap yourselves.

No Business

I took this photo inside of a restaurant in the Venetian.  At first it  just disheartened me, now there's a poignancy to how miserable a place Las Vegas is.  Bah Humbug.

Every time I go to Vegas, I swear I'm never going again.  But then, someone that I like goes on vacation there and I am lured by the proximity and the prospect of fun and fellowship with a friend I don't see often.

WELL THAT'S JUST QUITE ENOUGH.  I am making this declaration that the city of Las Vegas is now blacklisted.  I refuse to pour any more funds into plane tickets and gas to get there or otherwise support their local industry in any way.  LET'S LEVEL IT AND BUILD A WILDLIFE RETREAT.

Don't believe me?  Well, allow me to present my case.

TOP TEN REASONS TO HATE VEGAS.

10.  Well crap, it's dirty.  Is this still even America?  This city is not 200 years old, and why would I believe that raw sewage once flowed from those streets?  If I wanted to contract a skin infection from a sidewalk or door handle, I could go visit Mumbai, thankyouverymuch.  Risk of illness must come at the reward of experience.  Vegas gives the bad end of both. 

09.  Well crap, it's bright.  Yes, the lights are spectacular.  Yes, they're obnoxious.  Get your message across, marketers.  Don't punch me in the cornea with your show poster.  Also, aren't we in a recession?  Who pays for all of this?  Don't we need the water you've chlorinated and pumped into your cheesy Euro-trash fountain to water fields for growing produce?!  

08.  Well crap, it's slutty.  I know it's commonlaw, but people be acting crazy there.  Oh, so being within the confines of city limits makes it okay to touch people in inappropriate places on the street?  It makes it okay for 120 ft tall posters of busty blondes wearing an extension cords to be draped over hotel buildings?  No wonder we have such a 'prosti-tot' epidemic with children today.   

07.  Well crap, it's drunk.  There. are. no. limits.  No bartender ever cuts anyone off, drinks get cheaper as people get drunker, open containers are displayed proudly, and no one gets apprehended for any misbehavior short of assault.  I was literally seen at the Palms Lobby vomiting into a trash can, lifting my head only to run my fingers through the "sparkly black sand" (ahem, ashtray) in the top of the receptacle.  No one batted an eyelash.  Really?  I deserved to be thrown into the drunk tank, and yet just  carried on.  

06.  Well crap, it's needlessly stuck up.  Well doesn't Vegas just think it's so hot?  Everywhere you go, the environment just oozes over-confidence and status.  Well ooouuur hotel places you in the lap of luxury.... dont weeeeee look hot because our receptionists are dancers...... don't yyoooooouuuuu aspire to seem as beautiful and virile and rich as weeeeeeee do?  Snort.  Get over yourself.  You have no local culture except the sex trade.  Shut up. 

05.  Well crap, it's BORING.  So what the hell do you do there other than get drunk at night and sleep it off all day?!  Geez.  We had some free time in the afternoon the day we left and seriously couldn't think of anything to do.  We left for the airport early.  I can only sit by the pool for an hour, tops.  I bring books, magazines, music, snacks, and whatever else I can think of to occupy my time.  After about 20 minutes, I want to get in the water because I'm so bored of sitting there.  After that, I want to leave and find a real interactive activity.  My dad calls the event of ladies by the pool a "Pork Roast" and I guess I have to agree.  I just feel like a burnt pig, slapped over a lounge chair. 

04.  Well crap, it's cheesy.  Not the good kind, like when I get smushy about singing love songs.  It's dirty cheesy.  Cheap nonsense being sold everywhere, bad clothes, fake plants, real implants, climate controlled, and excessive.  There is no character to the culture there, nothing to warm the heart.  I need that in a place.  More than I need a plastic long necked souvenir drink holder.  Way more. 

03.  Well crap, what do I eat?!  It's either disgusting buffets, overcrowded greasy chain  restaurants, or stupidly over-swanky 'hot spots' (see item #06).  I don't like any of those options.  No fresh salads, no grocery stores in sight, not even a taco truck for the love!  I just want a little bistro where I can have a salmon salad with fresh cucumbers.  I ended up with froyo and food courts.  Yeeeuuuuck.

02.  Well crap, it's loud.  Perhaps it's my increasing age but I am just as sound sensitive as ever.  Do ALL of the slot machines have to make noise?!  Do they HAVE to make THOSE noises?!  Do these people know they're all in the same room?  WHY IS THAT BILLBOARD YELLING AT ME.  Does that band playing in Margaritaville know how bad they are?  

01.  Well crap, it's fat and lazy.  I'm just gonna say it.  Vegas is for people who don't know how to really be humans.  They sit idly by the concrete and tile pool.  They sit idly indoors in front of the slot machines.  They sit idly at the bar drinking sugar-laden preservatives and artificial colors.  They sit idly in strip clubs watching someone else exert themselves on a shiny pole.  They sit idly in buffets and gorge themselves on horrendous food.  I almost lost it while walking down the strip.  You have to go over skywalks to cross a lot of the streets; there are stairs and there are escalators.  Wanna guess how many people were on the stairs?  Mostly just me.  In contrast, people were lined up at the bottom AND TOP of every escalator.  Seriously!  In line!  Waiting!  People with no luggage, fully functional legs, and no screaming children in tow.  EVEN GOING DOWN.  All I could think about was my patient I had just left in LA, confined to bed because he was paralyzed.  Oh, what he wouldn't give to run up those stairs.  This was the defining moment for me; I just can't invest time and money in a place where people go to just be lazy pieces.  I just plain have no business there.  

Go love on all of the wonderful places in this world that love back.  I'll meet you there.

Love Love Love.