baggage claim

I've just finished packing for my weekend "get away." It's not much of a get away, but another one of my listless trips down south. It seems that lately I have had some trouble with packing. What was once my favorite part of trip preparation, I now dread.

I've packed the essentials: bras, panties, p.j.'s, tolietries--shorts, a few tops, and some dresses, and sandals. I've also packed an option for going out, accessories, heels, jeans. And despite what I see in the mirror, I mustered up the courage to pick a swimsuit and my big floppy hat. When I placed those two items in my bag, I sort of wished that's all I was bringing. I would have loved to fill a carry-on canvas bag with tunics, swimsuits, sunscreen, a dress, the essentials, a floppy hat, my journal and two good books.

It's not news that whats in your bag sort of determines where you are headed. But I think if my bag included the latter (and just that), I'd be in for a much more relaxed weekend. I guess this isn't much about what's in my bag, but my hopes that my weekend is not an on-going party, or 4 days of get togethers. I really hate that. Then I come back just as I left, tense. So here's hoping that by startegically placing the swimsuit, tunic, and floppy hat into my bag, I've won favor with the get away gods and I can enjoy a few days at their altar of nothingness.

how to begin a sentence

I did a little self-exploration today. I've noticed a few things about myself that are a little strange.

1. I begin more than half of my sentences with "I hate..."
2. I excessivly use the phrase "Oh My God..."
3. I'm not a people person--I get pissed easily

My goal is to tally how many times in one day I think or verbalize my hatred for someone or something. Today, I'm going to guess that I began at least (very least) 20 sentences with "I hate..." (I hate the I.E., I hate him (Byran Boy, Perez, Tom Cruise, W), I hate her I hate traffic, I hate when...the list goes on). Most of the time this expression of my hatred doesn't really capture my feelings toward that person, thing, or situation. Instead it's a convenient word and until something better comes along I figure I should use it to convey frustration and/or dislike. I don't think I really hate the things I claim to hate. I just like saying, "I hate..." Hey, I'm honoest.

removing me--belly button saga

There comes a time in a girl's life where she must bid farewell to her old ways--whatever they may be. In light of nearing my mid-twenties, I have given up making dates and not following through, driving fast, staying up late, over compensation, and as of Sunday, I gave up my belly button ring.

This was a notable accomplishment. I've been wanting to pluck that piece of metal from my body for about a year, but clung tight to it's symbolisms of freedom, rebelion, sexual liberation/prowess and the fact that it enlongated my belly button, which, in turn made me feel thinner. I was pierced on my 18th birthday with Ralph by my side muttering some nonesense about soroities and how when I went off to college, I should join one. In an instant and a painful breaking of my skin I stood up to find a barbell curved in what was eighteen years prior my lifeline.

I was proud for having gone through with the whole experience. I paraded around campus the following day eager to show off my new jewlery (as well as my flat stomach). I managed to only get infected once and rarely did my ring catch on clothes. However, at twenty-three I feel like I need to let go. That ring no longer symbolizes freedom, rebelion, or sexual liberation at all. Rather it represents that last year of high school, rebelion that I'm not longer interested in, a show, being eighteen and all the things that I no longer am. I certainly grappled with letting go. But I'm learning that's central to my character. I have a hard time letting go of things that make up my former person.

I took out the ring and now it sits on my dresser in two pieces. I wonder if the aligned holes in my stomach will close. Perhaps they won't, which is fine. It can symbolize personal growth and moving on. There are better things when you remove the garbage from the past...you may find that you simply have a belly button.

je m'appelle est bon vendredi

Yeah, Yeah, so my name isn't good Friday, but that's what it's turning out to be. I had no earthquake to wake me, but I did have the soothing taste of Peets to permeate on mine palate, I was a little early to work, the gossip was good and the Senior VP came up to me personally to thank me for doing such a great job. He says he's only heard good things. Which is great to know because I was afraid my ass was grass from all of my blog reading.

My French class is spectacular. I love saying the number 15, it sounds like Caaaaannnnzzz. Now I see why the French feel superior to Americans, their langue (language) is much more sexy as are their dishes, their designers, their history, their landmarks, their coffee, but not their men. French men still creep me out. They're comical but so not sexy. I still haven't decided which men I love best--oh wait I did really like that French Candian, but they aren't REALLY French.

eurf-quakes & oatmeal

At 5:24am I was gently rocked awake by a 4.7 earthquake. I get nervous at night and often feeling like I am falling in my sleep, however that wasn't the case today. After realizing what had just occurred, two thoughts clouded my brain--oatmeal and the fact that I had no desire to drive on the Bay Bridge today. I pondered other methods for getting to work which included: driving north and taking the Golden Gate (because only voluntary death happens there), then somehow managing to get east (which would entail my taking the Vallejo plank-of-a-bridge). Or I could go south and take the San Mateo bridge. I decided this was poposterous and there was no way to avoid taking a bridge.

I got back to those thoughts of oatmeal. I didn't have time for breakfast today because was more concerned with scrubbing last night's dishes. So, I arrived to work very hungry for flaxseed oatmeal. Still no avail--I think I should make this my dinner so in the event of another earthquake I'll have full stomach...not that that matters. Don't they always say oatmeal sticks to your stomach. Well that's just gross, although reassuring. Perhaps I was going through some psychological thing where I rationalized eating oatmeal during earthquakes help bridges to stay in tact. Just think if everyone on the bridge had a stomach full of oatmeal, the bridge would stay up because out of shock of being on the BB during a 7.5 would cause people to vomit their oatmeal and then the bridge would remain from all of the stick.

I'm hysterically laughing right now...

not a chameleon

Whenever I finish a book I get this sad feeling. Over the weekend I completed a book of short stories, Capote's Music for Chameleons. It was fantastic...the man is truly a literary genius. I furiously turned the pages anxious to see what sort of adroitness lie on the subsequent page. As of late, I've had a difficult time completing books--Amanda puts me up to a book finishing challenge everytime I begin something new. I'm a little dissappointed in my inability to read the way I once did, but I guess that comes with life changes.

I was down to four pages, but I couldn't finish the book due to a burning desire to go through and mark all of his ingenuity. My favorite line, "...she sounded the way bananas taste." I don't know why, but that line resonated within. Granted anyone could say it, however the attempt to wrap my mind around the juxtaposition of sound and taste was great. Two completely different senses, made to be synonomus shows just how fabulous Truman really was. Also, he addresses the issue of conversation, and how one can question the whole notion of whether conversation truly exists in a stunning dialouge with himself (or his alter ego). He discusses his dealings with Marilyn Monoroe (whom I don't have much affection for) with the same charm and affection he disscusses an inmate at San Quentin (participant in the Manson Family).

I've now begun Simone de Beauvoir's She's Comes To Stay.

drink up

I'm finding that it's easiest for me to blog on Friday's. I get home from work and I'm way too tired, or too busy trying to keep social that I forget to keep you kids abreast. First things first--I love Madonna with all my purple heart (and no I didn't wow her with my pop-locking leotard skills). Second, I won't be going back to Vegas for a long time--so over spikey hair and big taddies.

Now, while I'm inclined to tell you all about my sudden desire to get a nose job, I won't. I think that I get bored and come up with weird things to want for myself. So we'll attribute any nose job talk to boredom.

I went out for drinks with some ex-coworkers last night. I really had a great time! Although, ex-coworker Shannon told me that I shouldn't drink hooker drinks. I ordered a Midori Sour. Another ex-coworker (and favorite person in SF), Nicholas told me that I should parttake in what he dubs "literary drinks," i.e. sidecars, g&t's, manhattans. I'm afraid of all three.

I like my hooker drinks!

Amanda has also said now that I'm approaching mid-twenties I need to stop acting as though red bull/vodkas are cocktails (I'm really eager to try tab w/ vodka). I get a lot of slack for my taste in music, do I have to catch heat for my taste in poison? Growing up is hard! So for an evening out you can usually find me sipping on things that make everyone but really big queens and Britney Spears gag. I enjoy buttery nipples, midori sours, lemon drops, espresso martinis, margaritas and anything with an umbrella and a sweet after-taste. I do love a kir royal as well (not a hooker drink). So I don't know what to say to this except at least you'll never catch me ordering a COZZZZ-MO-POLITUN!