Incoming! 411 bomb! This tid bit of knowledge is about two months overdue but whatever…
SO…I decided to pull the plug on the whole grad school snazzle dazzle business.
Jigga-whaaa?
Yep, it’s true. King me!
Frankly, I had been a grad school-flight risk since before I even moved to San Diego. But I never would have made the move if I hadn’t had a tangible reason for doing so. And I realllly wanted to come to California.
So, I kept paddling along in de Nile river, hoping I’d fall in love with social work.
Mmm not so much.
I only had class one day a week, which was outstanding. But after class every Wednesday, I would have a series of mini melt-downs, which got progressively worse with each passing week. These melt-downs were also super fun for my roommate to deal with, God bless her.
Withdrawing from SDSU was quite the snaggletooth situation. The school was being a little bitch about letting me out of their iron fisted grip. But dear old dad was ready to go all Johnny Cochrane on their asses and take ‘em down town Lester Brown.
It was nice to see pops play his white knight card for his darling daughter, but also slightly terrifying.
I started getting calls from the president of the university being like, “So…uhh…I spoke with your father today…(uncomfortable silence)…He seemed very…(wheels turning for words besides crazy, scarily hostile, hugely a-holeish)…concerned.”
So yes, like a proper gentleman sans a rubber, I pulled out before things really erupted.
Now I am a much happier camper. So pitch a tent for them apples.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Dum ti dum...
I’ve been kinda sorta seeing a sailor boy named Marc for a little while now (the aforementioned guy with the dildo toting friend, who as it turns out, is actually quite comical).
For the most part, I’ve been having a really good time with Marc. Yet, all of our rendez-vous have been menage a trois with boozeronies. So the question remains - how much of our ’good time’ is induced by the alky and how much is genuine? I’m still on the fence, but can't quite manage to get on the wagon.
He is incredibly sexy and awesomely sarcastic, but he appears to have some border-line controlling/dishonest tendencies. And my trusty sidekick, Feminine Intuition, has him pegged for a bit of a man whore (it is entirely possible that mountains are being made out of mole hills here though).
We also have basically zilch in common, except that we both kind of like the movie, Fight Club, and the show, The Office - but then again, who doesn’t like those things!? They - are - AWESOME!
It’s like in that song, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, by Deep Blue Something…
“And I said, ‘What about [Fight Club and The Office]?’ She said, ‘I think I remember the film [and T.V. show]. And as I recall, I think, we both kind of liked [them]. And I said, ‘Well [those are the two things] we’ve got.’”
Plus, did I mention that he’s really sexy? And he has nice hair! And is tall! - Damn it.
I am fully hot and cold about the situation. Superego says, “He’s just in it for the throw down. So get out now in case you get hurt.” Which admittedly is something to think about.
But on the other hand, Id also makes a very compelling argument, “He is WICKED sexy! Plus, you have fun with him, so don’t be a weenie. Stay put and stop letting history repeat itself.”
So, how ‘bout them Yankees?
For the most part, I’ve been having a really good time with Marc. Yet, all of our rendez-vous have been menage a trois with boozeronies. So the question remains - how much of our ’good time’ is induced by the alky and how much is genuine? I’m still on the fence, but can't quite manage to get on the wagon.
He is incredibly sexy and awesomely sarcastic, but he appears to have some border-line controlling/dishonest tendencies. And my trusty sidekick, Feminine Intuition, has him pegged for a bit of a man whore (it is entirely possible that mountains are being made out of mole hills here though).
We also have basically zilch in common, except that we both kind of like the movie, Fight Club, and the show, The Office - but then again, who doesn’t like those things!? They - are - AWESOME!
It’s like in that song, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, by Deep Blue Something…
“And I said, ‘What about [Fight Club and The Office]?’ She said, ‘I think I remember the film [and T.V. show]. And as I recall, I think, we both kind of liked [them]. And I said, ‘Well [those are the two things] we’ve got.’”
Plus, did I mention that he’s really sexy? And he has nice hair! And is tall! - Damn it.
I am fully hot and cold about the situation. Superego says, “He’s just in it for the throw down. So get out now in case you get hurt.” Which admittedly is something to think about.
But on the other hand, Id also makes a very compelling argument, “He is WICKED sexy! Plus, you have fun with him, so don’t be a weenie. Stay put and stop letting history repeat itself.”
So, how ‘bout them Yankees?
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Pip, Pip Cheerio!
Gah! Totally forgot about the little tryst Stacey and I had awhile back with these two lads, Sam and Ray…
In dim lighting, Sam bore a striking resemblance to an emo version of James McAvoy (ya know, the pretty goat-man from The Chronicles of Narnia). And Ray was the spitting image of a slightly malnourished Tom Cruise.
Jackpot. We’re both such suckers for celebrity doppelgangers.
But then, things got even better. When James and Tom, I mean…Sam and Ray opened their mouths, British accents fell out!
Zoinks, Scoobs! T-t-t-tasty, celebrity look-a-like foreigners! Yesss.
The British Bobbsey twins were only going to be in town for a long-weekend but Stacey was in one of her delightful man-eating moods, so she invited them out with us the next night for dinner etc.
So truth be told, at the time of the British invasion, we’d been living in our apartment for just under two months, and we had yet to even contemplate cleansing the joint.
The situation really wasn’t that bad though. Stacey and I are fairly neat-nicky. But apparently, there’s nothing like a little male motivation to light a fire under your sponge.
All Friday morning, Stacey and I Cinderella-ed the crap out of our apartment. I’m telling you, it was spotless. We scrubbed, we scraped, we got our floors so clean you could eat off ‘em! Which you basically have to do anyways since we don’t currently own a dining set.
Then 6 o’clock hit, and I got the call…
…kick it Mr. Revere!
“The British are coming! The British are coming!”
Sam and Ray picked us up at our apartment in their swank-a-licious, little rent-a-car and drove us to the 50’s diner on Coronado (I just can’t get enough of this place!).
The repast was delightful. Stacey and I both ordered mountainous piles of ice cream and brownies. One pile definitely would have been more than adequate for the two of us to split, but there are no sharesies when it comes to mountainous piles of ice cream and brownies, uh uh.
After dinner, things got a little less delightful, however. The four of us went for a gambol in the ocean where Stacey and I stole a covert girl talk moment…
We decided that the combination of natural lighting and Sam and Ray’s personas had been a lethal one. And the evening’s projected magic had OD-ed on razor blade haircuts, and schadenfreudes.
Here are three of my favorite British quotes of the night…
1. Ray: “Hannibal Lector…he’s kind of a hero of mine.”
Exchange of uneasy, what-the-f-bomb glances between Stacey and myself.
Ray: “Well maybe hero isn’t the right word. But he’s definitely a legend.”
2. Ray: “And then, I don’t know why I did it, but I let go…I dropped a rock on my brother’s head!”
Additional uneasy, what-the-f-bomb glances.
3. Ray to Stacey: “My, you’ve got big feet for a girl!”
(Ray nearly got slapped in the face for that remark.)
But ya know, then Stacey and I both got a little moonshine into our systems and then, well…we didn’t want to have cleaned our apartment in vain…sooo yeah.
In dim lighting, Sam bore a striking resemblance to an emo version of James McAvoy (ya know, the pretty goat-man from The Chronicles of Narnia). And Ray was the spitting image of a slightly malnourished Tom Cruise.
Jackpot. We’re both such suckers for celebrity doppelgangers.
But then, things got even better. When James and Tom, I mean…Sam and Ray opened their mouths, British accents fell out!
Zoinks, Scoobs! T-t-t-tasty, celebrity look-a-like foreigners! Yesss.
The British Bobbsey twins were only going to be in town for a long-weekend but Stacey was in one of her delightful man-eating moods, so she invited them out with us the next night for dinner etc.
So truth be told, at the time of the British invasion, we’d been living in our apartment for just under two months, and we had yet to even contemplate cleansing the joint.
The situation really wasn’t that bad though. Stacey and I are fairly neat-nicky. But apparently, there’s nothing like a little male motivation to light a fire under your sponge.
All Friday morning, Stacey and I Cinderella-ed the crap out of our apartment. I’m telling you, it was spotless. We scrubbed, we scraped, we got our floors so clean you could eat off ‘em! Which you basically have to do anyways since we don’t currently own a dining set.
Then 6 o’clock hit, and I got the call…
…kick it Mr. Revere!
“The British are coming! The British are coming!”
Sam and Ray picked us up at our apartment in their swank-a-licious, little rent-a-car and drove us to the 50’s diner on Coronado (I just can’t get enough of this place!).
The repast was delightful. Stacey and I both ordered mountainous piles of ice cream and brownies. One pile definitely would have been more than adequate for the two of us to split, but there are no sharesies when it comes to mountainous piles of ice cream and brownies, uh uh.
After dinner, things got a little less delightful, however. The four of us went for a gambol in the ocean where Stacey and I stole a covert girl talk moment…
We decided that the combination of natural lighting and Sam and Ray’s personas had been a lethal one. And the evening’s projected magic had OD-ed on razor blade haircuts, and schadenfreudes.
Here are three of my favorite British quotes of the night…
1. Ray: “Hannibal Lector…he’s kind of a hero of mine.”
Exchange of uneasy, what-the-f-bomb glances between Stacey and myself.
Ray: “Well maybe hero isn’t the right word. But he’s definitely a legend.”
2. Ray: “And then, I don’t know why I did it, but I let go…I dropped a rock on my brother’s head!”
Additional uneasy, what-the-f-bomb glances.
3. Ray to Stacey: “My, you’ve got big feet for a girl!”
(Ray nearly got slapped in the face for that remark.)
But ya know, then Stacey and I both got a little moonshine into our systems and then, well…we didn’t want to have cleaned our apartment in vain…sooo yeah.
Monday, November 3, 2008
My Before Sunrise
The roommate and I went out for a little karaoke jam session a couple of weekends ago where we met an adorable Australian boy and a German Danny Zuko, who came complete with a leather jacket and flawlessly lubed-up pompadour…“sommer loving, hat mich ein blast!”
I ended up spending the next 3 and a half days basically velcroed to the Australian’s side. What can I say? I got bitten by the smitten!
It all felt very Before Sunrise-ish. Except, I was a far less elegant and far more gauche version of Julie Delpy. And instead of Ethan Hawke, the slightly greasy philosterbater, there was Andrew, the electrical engineer, whose idea of foreplay involved sweet nothings on the inner ear and it’s semicircular canals (trust me, it was adorable).
The montage portion of our movie would run as follows:
-- GASLAMP - NIGHT 1 -- dinner at La Strada…mmm gnocchi in my belly -- post-dinner promenade by the pier with a little interdigitation -- “So this is what the inside of a Days Inn Motel room looks like…”
-- CORONADO - NIGHT 2 -- burgers and ice cream at the 50’s Beach n’ Diner -- moonlit romp along the beach -- 1 ceiling tile, 2 ceiling tiles…
-- FASHION VALLEY - NIGHT 3 -- shopping excursion for man-shaped clothing -- dinner at the glorious Cheesecake Factory -- oops, got a little sauced at Henry‘s -- 22 ceiling tiles, 23 ceiling tiles…
And then, unfortunately, our movie had to come to an end. Thursday morning, I escorted my adorable Australian from his hotel room to his taxi cab. Smooched him one last time, dropped a tear in his wineglass, and put a period at the end of my whirlwind romance with the thunder from down under.
I think I might actually miss him.
I ended up spending the next 3 and a half days basically velcroed to the Australian’s side. What can I say? I got bitten by the smitten!
It all felt very Before Sunrise-ish. Except, I was a far less elegant and far more gauche version of Julie Delpy. And instead of Ethan Hawke, the slightly greasy philosterbater, there was Andrew, the electrical engineer, whose idea of foreplay involved sweet nothings on the inner ear and it’s semicircular canals (trust me, it was adorable).
The montage portion of our movie would run as follows:
-- GASLAMP - NIGHT 1 -- dinner at La Strada…mmm gnocchi in my belly -- post-dinner promenade by the pier with a little interdigitation -- “So this is what the inside of a Days Inn Motel room looks like…”
-- CORONADO - NIGHT 2 -- burgers and ice cream at the 50’s Beach n’ Diner -- moonlit romp along the beach -- 1 ceiling tile, 2 ceiling tiles…
-- FASHION VALLEY - NIGHT 3 -- shopping excursion for man-shaped clothing -- dinner at the glorious Cheesecake Factory -- oops, got a little sauced at Henry‘s -- 22 ceiling tiles, 23 ceiling tiles…
And then, unfortunately, our movie had to come to an end. Thursday morning, I escorted my adorable Australian from his hotel room to his taxi cab. Smooched him one last time, dropped a tear in his wineglass, and put a period at the end of my whirlwind romance with the thunder from down under.
I think I might actually miss him.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Kerry and Spiff
The fantastic Kerry Mullins and her spiffy friend Jon…aka Spiff came down from L.A. last evening for a visit.
For dinner, I took them to my favorite San Diego hang out. The fabulously kitschy 50’s Beach n’ Diner on Coronado Island.
While we were looking over the menus, I got a call from Marc, the guy I met two nights ago at Henry’s. At first, I thought he was being kind of sketchy on the phone. Asking questions like, “Where are you sitting in the restaurant?” and “What did you order?” Questions that were border line, “The call is coming from inside the house.”
But then he said, “Look up!” And ta-daaah! There he was with his friend standing in front of the diner.
I never fare well when I am caught off guard. And so, true to form, I started having a stroke while I was trying to introduce everyone.
I passed Kerry's intro with flying colors. But for the life of me, I could not think of Jon’s name.
JON! His name is JON! Could he have a simpler name to remember? It’s not like he goes by something like Agamemnon Punxsutawney Phil the III! Whiff - swing and a miss.
Ok go-go-Gadget brain power…
I got Marc’s name OK but my damn brain stroked again and I was firing blanks on his friend’s name. (ADAM! Yet another mind-boggling, brain teaser of a name)
…engine sputters and dies.
I felt like such a tard-face. Super nice and fun guys, well Jon is at any rate. Adam, the jury is still out...
On Halloween, his costume involved the haulage of a dildo, which he wagged in my face several times - I have tepid feelings towards men with dildo batons.
Anyways, aside from me having Alzheimer’s, dinner was lovely.
After we ate, me, Jon, and Kerry went and played in the Hotel del Coronado, then frolicked on the beach.
I have been to this beach three times now, all at night, and I have yet to ever leave with dry pants. Good times, friends.
For dinner, I took them to my favorite San Diego hang out. The fabulously kitschy 50’s Beach n’ Diner on Coronado Island.
While we were looking over the menus, I got a call from Marc, the guy I met two nights ago at Henry’s. At first, I thought he was being kind of sketchy on the phone. Asking questions like, “Where are you sitting in the restaurant?” and “What did you order?” Questions that were border line, “The call is coming from inside the house.”
But then he said, “Look up!” And ta-daaah! There he was with his friend standing in front of the diner.
I never fare well when I am caught off guard. And so, true to form, I started having a stroke while I was trying to introduce everyone.
I passed Kerry's intro with flying colors. But for the life of me, I could not think of Jon’s name.
JON! His name is JON! Could he have a simpler name to remember? It’s not like he goes by something like Agamemnon Punxsutawney Phil the III! Whiff - swing and a miss.
Ok go-go-Gadget brain power…
I got Marc’s name OK but my damn brain stroked again and I was firing blanks on his friend’s name. (ADAM! Yet another mind-boggling, brain teaser of a name)
…engine sputters and dies.
I felt like such a tard-face. Super nice and fun guys, well Jon is at any rate. Adam, the jury is still out...
On Halloween, his costume involved the haulage of a dildo, which he wagged in my face several times - I have tepid feelings towards men with dildo batons.
Anyways, aside from me having Alzheimer’s, dinner was lovely.
After we ate, me, Jon, and Kerry went and played in the Hotel del Coronado, then frolicked on the beach.
I have been to this beach three times now, all at night, and I have yet to ever leave with dry pants. Good times, friends.
Happy Halloweenie!
Halloween was pretty bitchin’ this year. My roommate went as the Hamburglar and I rocked a preggerrific Juno. Which was like the most comfortably amazing costume ever.
Usually, when the roommate and I go prowling around town on the weekends, I try my best to avoid toting a food baby around with me. To accomplish this, I ixnay as many of those evil but deliciously awesome carbos as I can from my daytime diet to keep my tummy looking as much like the pre-Columbus world as is possible.
But not this Friday, boy-o. This Friday, I let my inner fat kid tear it up. And the carbier the better! Pasta la vista, contents of my fridge! After all, as Juno, I had to look as preggers as possible.
I once read that Matt Damon lost something ridiculous like 40 pounds in about an hour for two days of shooting as a Gulf War vet in the movie Courage Under Fire.
I share his fortitude for whole heartedly committing to a role - but on the total opposite end of the spectrum. Way more fun becoming a tub of chub than a Kate Moss.
Before the roomie and I hit the town, we had some delightful trick-or-treaters come a-knockin’ on our door. Thankfully, Stacey had bought some Reese’s to hand out. All I had to give were either some stale Zips, a hand full of dried cranberries, or a swig of strawberry flavored Smirnov, which I didn’t think would bode well with the munchkins’ parental units.
Since Stacey was decked out as the Hamburglar, we decided to pop into Mickey D’s for ha ha’s on our way downtown. Unfortunately, the hilarity was utterly one-sided.
No one batted an eye when she walked in - not even the employees! Not a single person feigned distress over the imminent pilfering of their greasy beef products. Bah! Humburger!
This cheesed me off, so I said to the guy who was taking our order, “Don’t you know who this is!? This is your arch archenemy! It’s THE HAMBURGLAR!”
To which he responded, “I don’t believe in that.”
Me: “Oh..uhh..ok?”
Doesn’t believe in corporate mascots? Gwaaahh?
The whole event was highly disappointing. We had envisioned a far more dramatic response, in which Mickey D’s goes into full lockdown mode with the employees darting around shrieking, “This is not a drill, people! It’s go time!” as steel cages descend from the ceiling to safeguard all of the compromised burgers.
No such luck.
It was still a fantastic night.
Usually, when the roommate and I go prowling around town on the weekends, I try my best to avoid toting a food baby around with me. To accomplish this, I ixnay as many of those evil but deliciously awesome carbos as I can from my daytime diet to keep my tummy looking as much like the pre-Columbus world as is possible.
But not this Friday, boy-o. This Friday, I let my inner fat kid tear it up. And the carbier the better! Pasta la vista, contents of my fridge! After all, as Juno, I had to look as preggers as possible.
I once read that Matt Damon lost something ridiculous like 40 pounds in about an hour for two days of shooting as a Gulf War vet in the movie Courage Under Fire.
I share his fortitude for whole heartedly committing to a role - but on the total opposite end of the spectrum. Way more fun becoming a tub of chub than a Kate Moss.
Before the roomie and I hit the town, we had some delightful trick-or-treaters come a-knockin’ on our door. Thankfully, Stacey had bought some Reese’s to hand out. All I had to give were either some stale Zips, a hand full of dried cranberries, or a swig of strawberry flavored Smirnov, which I didn’t think would bode well with the munchkins’ parental units.
Since Stacey was decked out as the Hamburglar, we decided to pop into Mickey D’s for ha ha’s on our way downtown. Unfortunately, the hilarity was utterly one-sided.
No one batted an eye when she walked in - not even the employees! Not a single person feigned distress over the imminent pilfering of their greasy beef products. Bah! Humburger!
This cheesed me off, so I said to the guy who was taking our order, “Don’t you know who this is!? This is your arch archenemy! It’s THE HAMBURGLAR!”
To which he responded, “I don’t believe in that.”
Me: “Oh..uhh..ok?”
Doesn’t believe in corporate mascots? Gwaaahh?
The whole event was highly disappointing. We had envisioned a far more dramatic response, in which Mickey D’s goes into full lockdown mode with the employees darting around shrieking, “This is not a drill, people! It’s go time!” as steel cages descend from the ceiling to safeguard all of the compromised burgers.
No such luck.
It was still a fantastic night.
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