The Frozen Californian!

3 Best: Stop-Motion Videos

2012-01-26T11:27:00.000-08:00

Sorry I'm Late

(Seen first on http://whereshouldistart.wordpress.com/)

The Joy of Books

(First discovered via Neil Gaiman's Twitter feed ... yes, I am one of the 2,000,000 people following @neilhimself on Twitter ... follow him, and you'll see why!)

Her Morning Elegance

(I don't remember where I saw this first! But it's, honestly, my favorite.)

10 Reasons I Like Toronto, and Why I'll Still Never Move There: II

2012-01-26T10:59:00.000-08:00

The border agent looks at me incredulously when I announce my reason for entering the country.

"So ... you're going all the way to Toronto ... to ... do homework?"

"Yes." I reply.

"Why?"

"I had the day off."

"What's wrong with doing your homework in Buffalo?"

"... Have you been to Buffalo?" I ask. "I like to get out when I can."

He laughs and, miraculously, permits me to enter Canada.

Numero Dos Reason I Like Toronto:

I go to a coffee shop on Spadina. It's in the same building as an awesome organization that rents out hourly office and conference space to artists and other interesting people who do interesting things.

I order a macchiato. What I receive is, in fact, a macchiato. As in, delicious espresso stained with perfectly-creamy steamed milk, served in a tiny cup. As in, contains no caramel.

I sit at one of the communal tables (I love communal tables, because I love spying on people). At this table, there are nine other people, and no fewer than:

4 MacBooks,
5 iPhones,
1 indie filmmaker pitching his film to a handsome someone wearing a fur hat with ear-flaps,
1 man taking notes in a book of industrial architecture,
1 girl with hipster bangs simultaneously knitting and reading the obituaries,
and 1 fellow working on writing some kind of script.

... And Why I'll Still Never Live There.

I bought gas at a PetroCanada, where the advertised gas price was 122.5. I have no idea what that means. Is that per ... liter? How much is a liter? Is that per kilosomething? Whatever it is, I don't like it. It feels expensive.

10 Reasons I Like Toronto, and Why I'll Still Never Move There: I

2012-01-20T08:45:00.001-08:00

Here, you may observe my mother, my niece, and me, coercing my father into a "food experience." We are sitting in a rustic little cafe in Kensington Market in Toronto. After embarking on a search for lunch, and having an unsuccessful first 30 seconds, I began to sense my father's growing impatience. As we rounded a corner, my heart (and stomach) gave a great leap and I took my mother's hand, making a beeline for the cafe with the giant wooden sign reading "The Grilled Cheese."

I had heard of this place, a cafe that only serves grilled cheese. A glance at the menu posted outside confirmed it. Ten different kinds of grilled cheese sandwiches, and a daily soup (today they offered potato-leek soup ... I nearly swooned).

A cafe that only sells grilled cheese sandwiches. How brilliant! How novel! How perfectly sensible!

This is reason #1 why I like Toronto.

But I'll still never move there, because having to obtain a visa just to move two hours away from your previous residence reeks of folly.

You can read my brilliant niece Sadye's account of the trip on her blog, Tales from Sagaboor.

That Stuff That I Hate is Starting To Fall From the Sky Again, What's It Called, Oh Yeah

2011-11-30T09:21:00.000-08:00

Snow.

These are precautions I'm taking in order not to fall into a snow-induced breakdown(in which I huddle indoors day and night with my electric blanket, fuzzy slippers, and Hulu Plus subscription):

1. I'm making soup. If there's one thing that can make a confirmed winter-hater sit up and say "ah," it's homemade soup. This season, I've got dozens of soups planned for rotation through the snowy winter months and the irredeemably snowy spring months. Potato leek, tortilla, squash-kale, potato-kale, tortilla II, veggie rice, lentil, tomato, minestrone, black bean, tortilla III ... with fresh bread, with dumplings, with noodles, with biscuits, with fried tortilla strips ... in cups, in bowls, in bread bowls, in tupperware bowls. No doubt about it, there will be much soup.

2. I'm starting to like sweaters. Or, rather, I'm making myself start to like sweaters. They are cozy (I tell myself), they are easy to wear (I tell myself), they mean having to hand-wash several pounds of laundry and them lay them on towels all over the apartment for days (I avoid telling myself).

3. I'm crocheting myself a headband-earwarmer sort of thing. It's made with fine alpaca yarn from Peru (thanks, Mom!), and if I ever finish it, it will make my ears warm as can be.

4.

5.

This is a post that's not about anything ...

2011-11-28T21:25:00.000-08:00

Except that it's about this.

Which isn't anything.

So ... that's all for now.

The Frozen Californian! Returns From an Unintended Hiatus and Tells Us What She's Thinking About Instead of Thinking About Her Thesis!

2011-11-14T05:39:00.000-08:00

My niece's half-crocheted Christmas present
My sister's as-yet un-crocheted Christmas present
Bones, Season 7
The Jamie Oliver cookbook
My pasta maker
Tobias Wolff
Lunch
Movie trailers
Episodes of Suits
Hulu
Netflix
Obscure British TV sitcoms
Obscure Chinese romantic comedies
Obscure French infidelity comedies
My sister's impending wedding
Handmade wedding invitations
Bridesmaid dresses
Online shoe stores
Facebook
McSweeney's
My unfinished novel
My unfinished short story
My unfinished screenplay
Jane Austen
Impromptu trips to Toronto
My food blog
My whine-and-moan blog
My untidy closet
My untidy kitchen
My untidy bedroom
My bed
Self-pity
Urban Solace's Cinnamon Buns with Caramel-Pecan Sauce
La necesidad practicar espanol en voz alta
Dinner
Craigslist ads for flats in London
Craigslist ads for apartments in New York
Craigslist ads for houses in Seattle
Craigslist ads for jobs in New York, London, Chicago, Washington, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, Boston, and Beijing.
Alec Baldwin's Twitter feed
My toenails
My neighbors' argument
The rotting vegetables in the crisper drawer of the fridge
My student loans
and Hugh Jackman

Missed Connections

2011-10-02T20:25:00.000-07:00

wfm: 24
For My Neighbor (West Side/ Allentown)

You: early 20s, red-head.
Me: early 20s, curly hair, African-American.

You're the neighbor I never see, though I hear you sometimes coming home late. We've only met once -- I made a little joke about how we were matching. I didn't get up the courage to ask you then, but: Will you sign for my UPS packages while I'm out? It's been several times now that I've come home to that little sticky note on my door telling me I've missed another delivery. I know it's a long shot, but maybe you'll see this.

If you're interested in some parcel-service collaboration (maybe FedEx, too), please respond with what color we were both wearing.

This is awkward to admit ...

2011-09-26T17:37:00.000-07:00

But sometimes when I'm very hungry and my food is finally in front of me, I talk to it.

Not just in any voice, but in the voice of a slightly campy British man baby-talking a trollop*.

As in,

"Oh, you come here, quesadilla, you naughty little minx, you. You clever little tart*."

*Woman of questionable morals.

You think I'm joking ...

2011-09-16T17:05:00.000-07:00

... But I really did enjoy the sweltering heat of Washington, DC this summer.

"It took all summer just to thaw me out from last winter," I've quipped to acquaintances during the obligatory campus "OMG! How was your SUMMER?" converstation.

But I still don't feel warmed through. Now the weather's turning chilly again, and every brisk breeze fills me with dread.

There's something about the swampy summer heat that's democratic. I'm sweaty, you're sweaty, we're all sweaty. The speaker of the house is sweaty, and the runny-nosed kid on the corner is sweaty. Everyone's wearing the absolute minimum clothing that decency allows (this is where men in suits get the short end of the stick ... for some reason, the sadistic code of Business Attire requires them to brave 100* days in long sleeves, long pants, AND a suit jacket. At least women get the benefit of short-sleeved blouses and skirts).

The winter is isolating. There are so many layers between you and the next person. No one is out on the street. It's insular. There are so many, many more decisions to make in the morning. How to find pants that match the shirt that match the boots that match the sweater that don't absolutely clash with the coat and the scarf and the hat.

I hate the nauseating smell of winter funk, of sweating inside three layers and a heavy coat.

There's something festive about getting goosebumps when you walk out of a hot day into a frigid grocery store. The cold is exhilarating as you hop through the frozen-foods aisle, rubbing your bare arms. Walking into a stuffy bank from the freezing outdoors just doesn't hold the same appeal. You feel instantly irritated, dragging hats off messy hair and disentangling scarves from purse-straps and coat-lapels.

It's just not the same.

The Frozen Californian Returns (Part Two of Two, What Joy!)

2011-08-31T20:05:00.000-07:00

I sublet my apartment for the summer to a 30ish law student from Pennsylvania who had an internship in downtown Buffalo.

He and his (girl?)friend came to see the apartment one rainy day in April. All summer I've referred to him as "my handsome subletter," following that with: "He sort of looks like Dennis from 'It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia,' if Dennis were as good-looking as Dennis thought he was."

It's been odd, thinking about someone else in my space for over three months. I've had to be in contact with him for various reasons over the summer(when his passport got forwarded with my mail, for example, and I had to send it back. The real irony is that the passport was mailed from his friend in Washington DC, got all the way to Buffalo, and was sent on to me in Washington DC, ending up around the corner from where it was sent).

But it's even stranger re-entering my apartment after someone I've only ever met once has lived in it. It almost didn't feel like my apartment for a while. I had to walk around, turn on lights, catalog the changes. He'd moved my kitchen table, which is an improvement, and rearranged some things in the kitchen.

He seems very neat ... the neighbors inform me he would vacuum twice a day. I am now the proud owner of disinfectant wipes, bleach AND 409 with bleach. Somehow it seems so intimate to be familiar with someone else's cleaning products. He also bought organic dish detergent (my favorite brand), and Arm&Hammer laundry detergent (my favorite brand), and a dispenser of hand soap (not my favorite brand, but then again, I don't really have a favorite brand of hand soap).

He also left an assortment of hot sauces, a can of black beans, and two packages of organic monterey jack cheese in my kitchen.

And that's the end of this blog.

Go, and meditate on the signficance of the cheese.

The Frozen Californian Returns (Part One of Maybe Two)

2011-08-31T19:23:00.000-07:00

Before I tell you how I felt when I saw the flashing lights in my rearview mirror, let me back up a bit.

I'll rewind to last Thursday. Picture me wearing shorts and rainboots, squeezing two students' life possessions and one mothers' luggage into a mid-sized sedan. Then picture a crammed car ride north from Washington, DC to New York, NY.

Then, Hurricane Irene comes in. I know we've "officially" downgraded her to Tropical Storm Irene, but considering the havoc she managed to create, I consider it appropriate to honor her with the superior title.

As far as we could tell from the newscasters, Twitter, and the mayor of New Jersey, Hurricane Irene could only create one of the following three situations:

a. New York City Will Go Underwater, Ending Civilized Life As We Know It.
b. Flooding Will Cause Millions Of Subway Rats To Surface And Take Over New York City And Subsequently The World, Establishing A Ratocracy And Ending Civilized Life As We Know It.
c. Alec Baldwin Will Lose His House In The Hamptons, Ending Civilized Life As We Know It.

Fearing one or a combination of these situations, New York City shut down almost completely. In the end, this is what happened (in our neck of the woods, which is, for the purposes of this illustration, West Harlem):

a. It rained.
b. There was wind.
c. I couldn't leave on Saturday or Sunday, because some of the major bridges were threatening closure.
d. My mom's flight home to Brazil was canceled.
e. My sister's flight to Rome was canceled.
f. My other sister's college move-in day was moved.

There's something I should mention here. The night before Hurricane-But-Really-Tropical-Storm Irene hit, my car overheated. This may not be such a big problem generally, but it is a big problem when you've just had $1,300 worth of work done on the car to ensure that it doesn't overheat. So, to this list of Things Hurricane Irene Did, we might add:

g. Garages were closed.

Many thumbs were twiddled and many movies watched while we waited for the storm to pass. Meanwhile, I got a cold. Monday came, I watched the car towed away. More thumbs were twiddled and more movies watched as I waited for the mechanic to find more stuff wrong with the car. Wednesday came. By this point, I'd missed my entire first week of classes.

After picking up the car, I spent 20 minutes driving around Hell's Kitchen looking for a gas station, then another hour driving around the Upper West Side looking for a Bank of America. Finally, I was on the road.

Seven hours later, I was on I-90 between Syracuse and Buffalo. This is the home stretch. My hand was deep into a box of Wheat Thins (inexplicably my favorite snack ever ...), and I was listening raptly to a podcast of The Moth, hearing Fab from MillyVanilly talk about the pressures of being 19 and a fraudulent pop star. Apparently, I was listening too raptly, because that's when I saw the blue and red lights in my rear-view mirror.

A speed-trap in lieu of a welcome commitee. It figures.

The officer seemed persuaded by my pentitent face ("I was going 75 in a 65? Oh my!") and wrote me a fix-it ticket instead of a speeding ticket.

"Of course, your headlight's not actually out," he explained. He told me I could go to any police station tomorrow and show them my working headlights, and then everything would be taken off the record. He just had to write me some sort of ticket.

The irony? I am, in fact, missing a headlight. I had the bulb replaced twice last week, but no luck. I had to leave DC before I could figure it out. The trick is, I drive with my brights on, so no one (not even a police officer, apparently) notices that one of the regular lights is out.

I just hope my trick is good enough to fool another one.

Sadye started to read the directions on her new "Stepping Meter" ...

2011-08-04T20:44:00.000-07:00

At first, I thought Sadye's reading level had suddenly dropped to "remedial." I took the small square of paper from her and read it myself. It read:

Stepping Meter.

Product Characteristics: Counting the Step

Wearing Instruction:
1) When Starting to count the meter, the display show "00000"
2) Using the clip that behind the unit to fix the stepping meter horizontally

Operational Manual:
1) This stepping meter can only count correctly under the flat plant
2) Under the following condition the stepping meter can't count correctly:
(i) Moonwalking, wearing sandals
(ii) When walking in tricky condition
(iii) Vibration without walking
3) The stepping meter can be reset by pressing "Reset" button

Hello, August.

2011-08-01T14:51:00.000-07:00

This month, I promise to:

1. Not do all the things I shouldn't have done last month.
2. Do all the things I should have really done last month but didn't do.

Things I have not done yet this summer

2011-07-17T20:42:00.000-07:00

1. Flirted with that cute bartender
2. Flirted with that cute drummer from the drum circle
3. Flirted with that cute barista
4. Flirted successfully with that cute volunteer
5. Hung out with DC acquaintances
6. Gone anywhere after 8 pm
7. Replaced my rapidly deteriorating Urban Outfitters sandals from last summer
8. Written an award-winning piece of short fiction
9. Read anything to do with my field of graduate study
10. Managed to recover my San Diego bronze skin tone

Things I most definitely have not yet done in July

2011-07-08T13:15:00.000-07:00

1. Gone to yoga
2. Eaten a salad
3. Spent less money
4. Cut back on coffee
5. Researched my soon-to-be-required master's thesis proposal
6. Thought about my soon-to-be-about-to-be-required master's thesis proposal
7. Finished registering for fall classes
8. Thought about my Goals in Life
9. Written a novel
10. Re-painted my toenails

Things I will most definitely do in July

2011-06-27T11:49:00.000-07:00

1. Update my blog
2. Write entertaining things with which to update my blog
3. Brainstorm ideas for entertaining things to put on my blog
4. Keep a pen and pencil handy to record all the entertaining ideas I have for new posts on my blog
5. Read other blogs to find out what other people are posting on their blogs
6. Not despair at the cleverness of others' blogs
7. Strategize about how to make my blog bloggier
8. Define "bloggiest"
9. Set aside time to update blog; do not use this time for anything other than blogging, including but not limited to eating
10. Put photos on my blog. Or not.

Things I will most definitely not do in July

2011-06-25T15:22:00.000-07:00

1. Web-stalk
2. Web-stalk poorly
3. Miss buses
4. Pine for San Diego. It is self-defeating to yearn for what is most certainly the best city on the planet.
5. Buy clothes
6. Forget to register for fall classes again
7. Forget to re-register the car again
8. Forget
9. Drink more than one cup of morning coffee
10. Read any books by Helen Fielding.

The Unnaturalist Diary IIII

2011-06-24T13:30:00.000-07:00

# of buses missed this a.m.: 2

The Unnaturalist Diary III: I Have A Question About the T-Shirts

2011-06-10T10:52:00.000-07:00

Who are the t-shirts for, exactly? Does matching promote team-bonding? Is it just for the photo-ops? Does it inspire employees to see themselves as a unified team, without the dividing distinctions of designer wardrobes? Why does the boss person get a special light-blue t-shirt, while the lowly team-members get the same photogenic royal-blue shirts? Isn't that a divisive choice? How much extra did it cost to order just one light-blue t-shirt along with the box of royal-blue t-shirts? Did the people at the t-shirt printing company think it was nuts to make one light-blue t-shirt and thirty royal-blue t-shirts with the same design, or are they used to this type of request? Or maybe somewhere else in DC, there's a nonprofit swarming with a team of financial strategists in light-blue t-shirts, led by a royal-blue t-shirt.

The Unnaturalist Diary II

2011-06-06T12:51:00.000-07:00

This morning, I took the bus almost to my internship, then changed my mind and got off the bus, went to get some coffee, and then ended up walking halfway back. The reason I walked (in case you were wondering) is that I seem to have a mystical ability to repel buses.

It happened last Friday, too. Today the 52 bus was running every few minutes as I walked *down* 14th street to the coffeeshop. I go in, get coffee, cream-and-sugar it, walk back across the street to the bus stop and ABRACADABRA. No more buses for the next fifteen minutes. I decide that I might as well start walking back up the hill while I finish my coffee and contemplate why I'm so repellant. Meanwhile, I count about seven buses with "Not in Service" signs up.

Why aren't they in service? Why are there so many buses not in service? Presumably they're paying these non-serving bus drivers ... where are they paying them to drive, and why can't they pay them to drive me up the hill?

Sigh.

I reach my place-of-intern (like place-of-work, but I don't get paid) a few minutes late. This is okay, because there's nothing going on this morning. No kids, no famous authors, no pageant queens (actually there *was* Miss America, but that was unexpected and a different story entirely).

I round the corner. It's already hot, and I'm squinting because I've worn glasses today in lieu of contacts, so my sunglasses are useless.

I round the corner, just in time to see the tail end of a large group of middle-school students filing into the Museum of Unnatural History. I check my internal calendar -- nope, nothing doing. Who are these children, and why are they here?

I have to muscle past a few 6-foot girls and a 4-and-a-half-foot boy to get through the museum. Inside, the other two interns have just arrived and are as confused as I am. I try to do a head count (the gigantic ones obscure the shorter ones, making the count difficult and inevitably futile), I make copies, I help move tables as we prepare for a field-trip blindside.

30 6th-graders. 3 interns.

Luckily, our programing director arrived before we attempted the impossible (or at least, the Herculean, or perhaps the Sisyphean). She worked out the date mix-up with the teacher, and the strange beings that are 6th-grade humans filed back out.

In other news, they're shooting a music video outside.

The Unnaturalist Diary I

2011-06-01T11:28:00.000-07:00

YESSsssss.

Highlight of my day: Giving the Unnaturalist spiel to a pair of Mormon missionary boys. (Question: How do they stay so pale when a large part of their duty is walking around outside all day? Never mind.)

“Welcome to the Museum of Unnatural History, DC’s only museum for the alternative sciences.”

Pointed know-it-all-conservative gaze: “What do you mean, the alternative sciences?”

“You know. Pseudo-paleontology, quasi-archeology. Occasionally we dabble in some theoretical biology. “

“ … “

In Memoriam: My 23rd Year

2011-05-25T05:00:00.000-07:00

My 23rd year slipped away last Friday night with very little fanfare. I was eating a late-night dinner, looked down at the clock, and suddenly the world had become May 21, and I was legally 24 (technically, I suppose, 23 lingered on for a few more hours, finally giving itself up somewhere around 3 a.m. while I lay sleeping).

I owe the dearly departed 23 a few words on its passing.

23, you were quite a year. You were not quite so productive as 22, and not so fun as 21, but you were unique in my ever-increasing memories of life so far.

You came in time to witness a sudden resurgence of interest in graduate school, and my haphazard attempts at applying to programs for which I had no previous interest or experience.

You saw me flailing wildly, struggling with "What Happens Next," and you saw me get four jobs to fill the void of "Actually Doing Something."

You saw me pack up all my worldly goods and move across the country to a place where it (Gulp) snows.

And you saw me through five shivering months.

So, thank you, 23. Together we've managed to get through a lot.

Springtime Blues (or: Why Daffodils Make Me Irritable)

2011-05-18T18:17:00.000-07:00

I spend my childhood yearning for the lush springtime foliage of The Secret Garden, Anne of Green Gables, and any other children's book I read and re-read as guidebooks to the world, and getting the golden brown flat grassland of Northern California instead. I cordoned off a corner of our backyard and planted snapdragons, petunias, and lilies in neat lines, and then watched as they failed to flourish in the tough California clay and harsh California sun.

Now for the first time, I'm surrounded by lush green grass, timidly burgeoning leaves, surprising shocks of tulips and daffodils, and a sudden rash of dandelions. It's the springtime of my childhood dreams, punctuated at intervals with sudden rains that require (oh goody!) galoshes.

But something's happened. In the past few years I've grown attached to the high desert, the arid canyons of San Diego. Now, I see flowering dogwood trees, and it makes me wonder whether the jacarandas have bloomed. I see tulips and I think of matilija poppies. I look at dandelions and I miss lavender, rosemary, and thyme.

It doesn't help that daffodils remind me of William Wordsworth, whom I can't stand.

Top 10 Indicators That I Am Procrastinating

2011-05-07T15:31:00.000-07:00

10. Every flat surface in my apartment suddenly needs cleaning.

9. The dirty sweaters in the laundry basket suddenly need hand-washing.

8. Good ol' fashioned slow-foods like homemade bread, homemade ravioli, homemade granola bars, and homemade tomato soup suddenly need cooking.

7. My body suddenly needs exercising.

6. High-school friends suddenly need Facebook chatting.

5. Buttons suddenly need sewing. And, while the kit's out, holes suddenly need mending and cut-off jorts suddenly need making.

4. File boxes suddenly need purging.

3. Family photos suddenly need re-organizing and reminiscing.

2. The State of One's Life suddenly needs contemplating.

1. Lists suddenly need writing.

Is there a Christian name for the day after Good Friday and before Easter Sunday?

2011-04-23T19:42:00.000-07:00

Come on, Jesus ... Rise From the Dead Already Saturday

Mary Magdalene and That Other Mary Go Shopping For Ointment Saturday

You'd Better NOT Spill That Egg Dye on the Carpet Saturday

Honey, What Do You Mean the Grocery Store Is Out of Vinegar Saturday

Why Couldn't Your Sister Have Told Me She's Vegetarian LAST Week Saturday

Last-minute Dress Shopping Saturday

Eleventh-hour Shoe Shopping Saturday

Forget the Boiling Pot on the Stove and Come Home to a Sulfur-scented Mess of Exploded Eggs Saturday

Drive Around the Park Hoping to Find a Spot Before the Easter Eggs are Gone and Before the Child Wets Herself Saturday

Jesus Takes a Day to Go Down to Hell and Kick the Devil's A@# Saturday

I'm just going to stop telling the truth ...

2011-04-18T15:55:00.000-07:00

... not in general, and not about important information. Just in response to these two questions/comments that I regularly receive.

Question: How do you pronounce your name? Oh, that's beautiful! What does it mean?
Truthful Answer: It's from a children's novel written by a dead white guy.

New Answer 1: It means "Blessed Virgin of the Sparkling Eyes."
New Answer 2: It means "Who shalt ask of this woman the meaning of her name shall be henceforth cursed with uncontrollable flatulence forever."
New Answer 3: It's the name of a pansy used by tribal shamans that, when crushed and applied under the eyelids, facilitates entry into the spirit world.

Comment: Well, I think your hair is beautiful!
Truthful Response: Yes, so do I.

New Response 1: Really? You do? I'm so glad. I've been secretly craving your approval.
New Response 2: That's nice.
New Response 3: You know, before you said that, I was suffering from feelings of inferiority because of my naturally-curly, gravity-defying hair. I'm very glad that you've been able to rescue me from this state of insecurity and negative self-image. THANK YOU.

It is the 26th day of spring.

2011-04-17T07:31:00.000-07:00

Aravis: It's ... I don't know what that is. Is that rain?

Juliana:

Aravis: I don't know ... it's about 34 degrees outside. And I can't tell, maybe it's hail?

Juliana:

Aravis: Frozen rain, maybe ... I can't really tell if it's ... it's not hail.

Juliana:

Aravis: It doesn't bounce. But it's not sticking, either ... I think it's frozen rain.

Juliana:

Aravis: I don't even know what frozen rain is.

Juliana:

Aravis: I really want to say it's rain. Frozen rain. I want to say it's frozen rain.

Juliana:

Aravis: Dammit. It's snow. It's snowing. There is snow. It is snowing outside.

Juliana:

Aravis: It's snowing.

Juliana:

Aravis: I was thinking if it was nice today I would take a nice long walk, I really need a walk. But now it's ... it's snowing.

Juliana: You can take a walk in the snow.

Aravis: It's ... if it were warm and raining, I would take a walk I've got my nice cute rain boots and an umbrella but it's snowing.

Juliana:

Aravis: I can't believe this.

Juliana:

And this is what made me laugh today.

2011-04-13T19:02:00.000-07:00

I know that I usually stick to a "monthly theme" for blog postings, but this month I'm really not feeling up to it. It's April. The weather is still hovering in the 40s. There is a month left of the school year, four projects pending, one internship to find, and the all-important question of the Thesis Topic yet to be explored. I just don't find myself sticking to single theme this month. I'm having a hard enough time keeping my mind on one theme per half-hour.

Right. On to "And this is what made me laugh today."

I've found a mention of CP time* dating back to 1862.

*CP time, or "Colored People Time," is the reason why black folks are always late.

A Brief Interlude to Vent*

2011-04-09T10:21:00.000-07:00

I don't know whether it's the lingering winter weather, or the end of the semester anxiety, or residual angst from the teenage years that I thought I left behind me, but recently I've been just a tad touchy.

My day generally starts out nice: The weather so-so instead of snow-storm, my cup of coffee hitting the spot, and the right song coming on the radio when I pull away from the curb.

Then, something happens that just ... sets me off.

Sometimes, it's a series of red lights.

Sometimes, it's a woman with greasy hair knocking cigarette ash out the window of her speeding Toyota Tercel.

Or it could be the 55mph signs on the highway.

Sometimes it's the "Love, peace and happiness ... love peace and joy" song coming on twice in one shift.

In the worst scenarios, there's no apparent cause for my anger. It could be directed at innocent students walking too slowly, or innocent classmates with nail polish that's too pink, or innocent mall-shoppers whose rear ends are too wide.

I'm usually a fairly placid person ... at least it generally takes a lot to get me riled.

I must need a vacation.

* Not an original title. In fact, a stolen title from http://thecoolestaddress.blogspot.com/

Food, good.

2011-03-27T08:40:00.000-07:00

Yesterday at about noon, I sat on my couch reading a book. I sat very carefully. I had to leave for work in twenty minutes, and I didn't want to crease my shirt or accidentally gouge a hole in my fifth pair of black tights this winter. As I sat, I thought of the checklist I'd made in my head. Shower, done. Do hair, done. Get dressed, done. Put shoes in my bag so I don't have to clump around work in snow boots, done. I was missing something, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

I was getting on the highway when some now-forgotten train of thought made me realize: Ohhhh. I forgot to eat. I'd had a small pastry with my coffee earlier in the morning, but it was now afternoon and I'd forgotten to eat.

During my 15-minute break, I grabbed my wallet and headed down to the frozen-yogurt stand. In the Upstate New York mall I work in, frozen yogurt is the only edible susbtance that won't make me want to murder my own digestive system inside of an hour. It was a Saturday afternoon. The yogurt line was 10 people long, and not moving.

I wasn't even hungry yet, but my inability to access food was really starting to piss me off. On my way back to work, I nearly knocked over a teenage boy loitering outside of Hot Topic, and I didn't apologize.

I finally settled for a bag of kettle-cooked potato chips from the convenience store.

Back at work, I glared at the women overturning stacks of t-shirts I'd just straightened, and nearly bit into my co-worker's arm when I found a blazer that someone had reticketed wrongly.

I left work in the early evening, and had to run errands on the way home. I barrelled through Target, nearly colliding with children and emo-styled teeny boppers. I nearly ran over three pedestrians.

Finally home, I shoveled some leftovers onto a plate and stuck it into the microwave before I even took off my coat.

Two and a half minutes later, I held a steaming plate of butternut-squash enchiladas, spanish rice and black beans in front of my face, tears in my eyes.

I'd never experienced such deep, pure gratitude as I did in that moment. The warm colors of my food, each portion taking up a third of the plate, sending up fragrant steam and scenting my kitchen with chilis and cumin. I really, honestly, fell in love with myself at that moment. I suddenly understood, with almost-transcendant clarity, the saying "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach." Because, if someone else had handed me that plate of hot food in that exact moment, I would have knocked them to the ground and ravished them.

I took the plate to my couch, cooing words of endearment to myself for my suberb cooking skills. I might have murmured all through my meal, though I hardly remember now. I don't know what kind of endorphins were released after the first bite of creamy, spicy enchiladas (smothered with my own special mole sauce, and covered with melted jack cheese), but I believe I reached some sort of alternate consciousness usually only achieved through a lifetime of meditation or LSD.

"Food, good." I whispered to myself as I licked the plate clean of sauce and munched with reverence on the last morsel of roasted poblano pepper from the black beans. "Food, good."

A short blog for the girls sitting at the table in front of me.

2011-03-20T09:23:00.000-07:00

Okay, people. St. Patrick's Day is OVER.

Put away the green mardi gras beads (what kinds of sense does THAT make, anyway?), the obnoxious green t-shirts, the green suspenders and bow-ties, the green jewelry and eyeshadow.

It is March 20. The holiday is done. Your determination to make the magic last demonstrates a wanton disregard for calendar logic that I find hard to ignore. And aesthetically, the kelly-green/lime/forest-green/sea-foam-green/chartreuse combinations approach a kind of pathology.

... And you just pulled a spare set of clover antennae out of your green handbag.

If it was 6 a.m. and you were clearly hungover, I would perhaps be able to excuse the inexecusable. I would concede that you were obviously out last night celebrating the last hurrah of the alcoholics' holiday. Partying green on March 19 is plausible. But breakfasting, clearly sober, in full St. Patty's regalia, on March 20?

Please. For the love of St. Patrick. Move on, already.

Rejected from McSweeney's Internet Tendency: Item #1129

2011-03-04T12:06:00.001-08:00

Dear dirty old man who stared at my legs this morning when I passed you on the sidewalk:

Yes, those were legs.

They are in fact my own. I've had them since before I was born, and they really did naturally grow this way. Unfortunately I cannot tell you where to procure a similar pair, in case that was the reason for your neck-wrenching stare as I walked down the street. You might have stopped and admired them aloud, but I suppose you thought silent appreciation was the subtler route.

And yes, those were leggings.

I'm sure you've seen similar pairs striding down the streets, even in such a modest working-class city as this. And if not recently, I'm sure your wife must have been sporting a pair last time you ogled her, which was probably sometime back in the 80s. These, you can pick up at any women's clothing store, if you desire to acquire a pair.

Also, yes, it is highly inconvenient that you should have to crane your head to see them as I walk down the sidewalk past you -- if God had been Hugh Hefner, he would have placed them alongside my breasts for greater ease of viewing.

I'm terribly sorry for any inconvenience my legs might have caused you. I'm acutely aware that your deep concentration might have resulted in your missing a step, or walking into the street and being struck down by a passing vehicle driven by similarly dirty old men, similarly transfixed by my legs. The situation could have been tragic.

In my (weak) defense, I can only say that when I put on my leggings to walk to the farmer's market this morning, I had no conscious intention of doing any harm.

Please accept my sincerest apologies.

Yours truly,

Aravis Moore

Rejected from McSweeney's Internet Tendency: Item #345

2011-03-01T16:08:00.000-08:00

Trendy wine bar, or non-denominational youth-oriented church?

1. Neighborhood
2. Flood
3. Splash
4. Mosaic
5. Existence
6. Counterpoint
7. Vineyard
8. Rock

Bars: 1,3,6
Churches: 2,5,7,8
A bar and also a church, not affiliated (to the best of my knowledge): 4

I'm 5'9 (ish), amused, and apparently appear to be an adolescent.

2011-02-21T09:45:00.000-08:00

I suppose I should be alarmed that I'm sometimes still mistaken for a young adolescent.

Alarmed, or frustrated, or something.

It doesn't happen often -- in most situations it's clear that I'm at least old enough to drive.

But last weekend, at my first group outing with my 13-year-old mentee, I was taken for a teenager not once or twice, but four times.

This might have had something to do with the fact that I was the only black woman under the age of 50 among the mentors, but this explanation only goes so far.

Out of my usual car-keys-in-hand, college-campus, card-carrying-adult context, I apparently still look 15.

I find it vaguely awkward correcting older people on their assumptions, for their sake, not mine (I mean, hey. When I'm your age, lady, I'm going to look like I'm 25).

In fact, I'm used to being taken as younger than I am. Most of my co-workers assume I'm maybe 20.

I'm used to appearing as the youngest of four sisters, although I'm second-to-the-top.

I'm used to being carded everywhere.

I'm even used to being taken as younger than some of my friends (although being mistaken for my best friend's adolescent daughter at church once was not a flattering assumption for either of us. As assumptions go, it was also a fairly puzzling one, as she is white and a month younger than I am).

Being mistaken for younger than I am doesn't interfere with my everyday life. I'm 23 and a half, and I've got a janky piece of New York State-issued plastic to prove it. It's just in these odd contexts when I realize that people sometimes see me not as an independent, capable 20-something graduate student, but an awkwardly lanky high school sophomore.

It's partially genetic -- as a 22-year-old married woman giving birth to her first child, my mom was actually chided by a nurse who assumed she was an unwed teenage mother.

Having decades of youthful looks ahead of me, I suppose this adolescent 20-something phase is the vaguely irritating price I have to pay for my 20-something-30s and my 30-ish-40s.

Hate me all you want, but I ask you: when was the last time a middle-aged woman asked you and your 13-year-old companion "if you girls are freshmen or sophomores"? Or the last time a customer entering your workplace stopped and asked your age point-blank, following your answer with "You look like you're 13!"

Exactly.

I'm 23, cold, and confused.

2011-02-04T07:09:00.000-08:00

As famously stated by both a fictional flying boy and a fictional talking giraffe, "I don't want to grow up."

Or, if I must grow up, I'd like to skip this awkward 20-something part, the part where I "sort it all out."

I'd much rather Pass Go and Collect $200, and skip right on to Having it All Sorted Out.

What do you mean, 'it doesn't work that way?' Do you mean the Milton-Bradley time travel metaphor, or the assumption that grown-ups have got it all sorted out?

'Both,' you say.

Lame, I say.

I don't need to stay in the future, of course. I just need to go and experience like, a week or two. Just enough so I can come to a startling realization that I've wished away the best parts of my life, that mistakes are the fabric of life, that my next-door neighbor is my true love, etc. (I'm, of course, drawing liberally from the plots of Big, 13 Going on 30, 17 Again, and the Sweet Valley High book where the twins wake up as grown-ups.)

Then, amidst a shower of magic sparkles and to an accompaniment of chimes, I will wake up 23, warm/fuzzy, and enlightened.

You shake your head.

Well, so did Elizabeth and Jessica's doubting parents in Sweet Valley High.

Because I need validation:

2011-01-31T16:45:00.000-08:00

The 2nd Official The Frozen Californian! Followship Drive

If you like ellipses ... please follow.
If you prefer Aravis not to crochet doilies for every horizontal plane in her apartment AND yours, please follow.
If you support the prevention of domicilius psychosis (popularly known as "cabin fever"), please follow.
If you prefer ice cream to frozen yogurt, please follow.
If you prefer frozen yogurt to ice cream, please follow.
If you prefer referring to frozen yogurt as "fro yo," please ABSTAIN from following.
If you frequent the Linda Vista, San Diego establishment "Fro-Yo," please follow.
If you would like to see my sing karaoke, please follow.
If you know me well enough to know that I will never sing karaoke even if my life is at stake and I'm the only English-speaking human in a room crowded with Klingon-speaking Neanderthals, please follow.
If you would like me not to ruin the end of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, please follow.
If you would like me not to tell you who killed Harriet Vanger at the end fo the The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, please follow.
If you would like me not to tell you that it's the butler who did it, please follow.
If you would like me to tell you that's a lie and promise not to spoil it, please follow.

Because I am bored and it is very cold outside ...

2011-01-22T11:54:00.000-08:00

For my entertainment, please answer the following questions:

1. Marry/Boff/Kill: Hugh Jackman, Hugh Dancy, Hugh Grant.

2. Would you rather live out the rest of your days (A) in Buffalo in perpetual winter, or (B) in Phoenix in perpetual summer? (Note: You will suffer no adverse health effects from the extreme heat/cold, but you will feel the same measure of discomfort. i.e. You will never actually suffer heat stroke or frostbite, but you sure will feel the heat/cold.)

3. Gene Wilder vs. Johnny Depp: Who is the "real" Willy Wonka?

4. Have you ever seen/read a Tom Stoppard play? If so, can you explain to me what in the world it was about?

5. Marry/Boff/Kill: Jerry Rice, Jerry Sienfield, Condoleeza Rice.

6. Would you rather live out the rest of your days (A) on a remote island with one individual of your choice (Note: You will have no contact with any other individual, you will have all your material needs met on the island, and you cannot procreate.) OR (B) in a foreign land surrounded by people who speak a language that you can never hope to learn?

7. Do you make your bed with the flat sheet right-side up, or right-side down?

8. How do pineapples grow?

9. Which is more plausible: That Atlantis existed, or that Paul McCartney actually is dead?

10. Marry/Boff/Kill: Mr. Rogers, The Person inside the Barney suit, Any or All of the Wiggles.

Because I want to share this weekend's horror with you.

2011-01-17T08:36:00.000-08:00

Thursday, 11 am. Revelation: No one to take me to the airport, as it seems my mother is leaving out of San Francisco the same time as I am leaving out of Sacramento. Solution: Change Southwest flight to leave out of San Francisco at the same time, so my uncle can drop both of us off together. So what if the flight is a little bit later. I'll still have plenty of time to get to San Diego, exit the aircraft, claim my baggage, go to American Airlines, check myself and my baggage in, and go through the security line to board my flight to Buffalo.

Friday, 10:30 am. Revelation: My SFO - SAN flight is an hour late. An hour! Due to ... weather? What kind of weather do we have in California that can delay planes? Excessive sunshine? I am going to miss my SAN - BUF flight. Solution: Call American Airlines, call Southwest Airlines, call my mother. Cry. Tearfully ask the Southwest gate agent "if there's anything they can do -- I just want to (hiccup) go home! I'm a (hiccup) student!"

Friday, 2:25 pm. Revelation: I have landed in SAN twenty minutes before my SAN - BUF flight is scheduled to depart. This is not good. Solution: Rush off plane, nearly trample hard-of-hearing flatulent elderly Asian man who was seated next to me on the plane. Abandon hope of claiming baggage; race to next terminal and wait anxiously in line. Cry. Tearfully accept next-day standby ticket. Retrieve baggage. Enjoy sunshine outside the terminal. Call a friend to pick me up.

Friday, 2:35 pm. Revelation: I have left my brand-new, emerald-green DKNY coat on the plane. Solution: Rush to baggage claim office. Demand to know where the plane has gone. Demand to know why planes aren't checked for lost belongings when the passengers have disembarked. Cry. Tearfully write down the number for the San Jose baggage claim office, where the plane is rumored to gave gone. Note that "that's an odd (hiccup) route, San Francisco to San Diego to San Jose."

Friday, 10 pm. Go to sleep, having enjoyed a warm evening, a too-pricey dinner, and an entertaining movie with best friends.

Saturday, 4:30 am. Wake up.

Saturday, 4:39 am. Wake up.

Saturday, 4:45 am. Wake up. Jump out of bed. Throw clothes on. Brush teeth.

Saturday, 5:20 am. Get to airport, wait in security line. Ruefully surrender jar of blackberry jam my mother had shoved into my bag at the last minute.

Saturday, ?? am. Get to Chicago. Track down coat and arrange to have it sent. Nearly fall asleep waiting for seat assignment.

Saturday, 4:12 pm. Revelation: It's 20 minutes past my Chicago - Buffalo scheduled flight. I have not heard my name. I have not heard the boarding announcements. Besides twenty minutes charging my cell phone in an alcove a few gates away, I've been within earshot of the gate. Solution: Approach gate agent. Demand to know how I didn't hear the flight called. Insist I was right here the whole time. Cry. Tearfully accept next-day standby flight. Call sister and explain that "I don't (hiccup) know how I missed it." Outline other high points of the (hiccup) nightmare trip. Tearfully accept hotel reservation at "Distressed Passenger Rate." Inwardly appreciate the delightful appropriateness of the phrase.

Saturday, 4:30 pm. Revelation: Bag has been checked through to Buffalo. Solution: Smell self, appreciate that fridge-like climate of airport has prevented mustiness.

Saturday, 6:00 pm. Check in to hotel. Go downstairs and order cheapest item from restaurant menu. Return to room and eat soup sitting on the floor, watching "Two and a Half Men."

Saturday, 9:45 pm. Go to sleep, calmed by hours of channel-surfing, cup of complimentary Tazo Wild Sweet Orange tea from the coffee bar in the room, and fluffiness of hotel pillows.

Sunday, 5:40 am. Wake up.

Sunday, 5:49 am. Wake up. Get out of bed, consider shower but realize that without deoderant, it might be better to wait. Put clothes back on. Watch "Tom and Jerry" while drinking complimentary Starbucks coffee with non-dairy creamer from coffee bar in room.

Sunday, 6:30 am. Take shuttle back to airport. Wait in security checkpoint behind a woman with five young children. Appreciate their efficiency, amuse myself with imagining them doing dry runs, rehearsing the removal of coats, backpacks and shoes on their kitchen table. Watch TSA employees inspect a scented candle my mother had lodged in the bottom of my bag. Thank them when they deem it harmless and return it.

Sunday, 11:00 am. Land in Buffalo.

Sunday, 11:45 am. Revelation: None of my Buffalo friends are answering their phones. As there are only two of them, this is not good. Bank balance is too low to afford a taxi. Clothes are too thin to brave waiting for public transportation. Solution: Sit in baggage claim area, cuddled in fleece blanket received from grandma as Christmas present.

Sunday, 1:10 pm. Write a short story while waiting.

Sunday, 2:10 pm. Taxi pulls up at home.

Because this is a new year.

2011-01-13T10:02:00.001-08:00

On New Year's resolutions:

Some people make resolutions based on specific, concrete goals that they want to accomplish before the year is out. Lose weight, go to the gym, quit smoking ... these are all the resolutions we hear from people who have no actual intention of completing them. These resolutions generally fall to the wayside by January 14.

Other people decide to adopt "themes," something between an attitude and a campaign slogan. My roommate's concise "Yes! 2010" comes to mind. These are supposed to set a tone for the year, to shape and guide all interactions with graduate-school admissions officers and potential boyfriends alike.

In case you were dying to know, I've opted for something in the middle. Not really goals and not really themes, but ... guidelines.

My 2011 New Year's Resolutions are:

1. Be kind(er).
2. Sit up straight.
3. Publish.

Anyone who has heard me talk about the great state of Nebraska and its inhabitants is aware that I could use a little more kindness in my life. My sister can attest to my need for better posture. And, while on a strictly legal plane, this blog counts as "publishing," it doesn't really have the same oomph as an article in a national magazine, right?

So there we are. You asked for 'em, you got 'em. (Confession: Nobody actually "asked for 'em," but "Tell the Truth" was my resolution for 2010, so I don't consider myself particularly obligated to avoid lies anymore.)

from Returning: Famous Writers Affect Nostalgia About Where They Consider Home

2010-12-30T12:27:00.002-08:00

I'm a Western gal.

I may live elsewhere for the rest of my life, but I'm a Westerner at heart.

In my West, the weather makes sense.

It doesn't rain in the summer. That's just silly. Everyone knows that there is something deeply disturbing about rain in the summer.

The snow stays safely in the high altitudes, where you can go appreciate it when desired, but it doesn't impede everyday activities. It's like ... Jack Nicholson. When you want to experience Jack Nicholson, you put "As Good as it Gets" or "The Shining" in the DVD player. But you never have to deal with Jack Nicholson plastered on your car or surprising you when you leave work at night. Jack Nicholson doesn't complicate your morning commute. If you want to be subjected to Jack Nicholson for three days in a row without pause, this is your decision and all collateral damage is your fault alone.

Summer or winter, it is cool in the morning, warmer in the afternoon, and cold at night. The weather doesn't start out warm then get cool around midday, and it most definitely does not get warmer overnight. This "temperature rising overnight" business is witchcraft.

Also, it just makes sense that different neighborhoods should have different weather patterns. It's perhaps the least logical of my "weather rules," but it really makes for a pleasant summer. On a hot day, you ought to know to steer clear of Mission Valley and the El Cajon valley, or any valley for that matter. Hillcrest, Golden Hill, Banker's Hill, Mission Hills, and anything else with "hill" in it should be cooler. "Beach" locations are a safe spot in hot weather: Mission Beach, Ocean Beach, Pacific Beach. Ocean Beach will most definitely be cool if not cold by the time the sun goes down.

These are all of the meteorological principles that are like grammar to me. They just ... feel right. No matter where I move, rain in July will seem as odd as the sight of a groundhog. It's just the way I am, I guess.

from If Crises Were Coins, Mine Would Have George Washington's Head On it: A Memoir

2010-12-18T20:02:00.000-08:00

Chapter 7: Computer shortcuts and their Relevance to My Quarter-Life Crisis

CTRL+X: Cut, or Excise the paragraph about Harriet Beecher Stowe's use of the Cult of True Womanhood as a persuasive device in Uncle Tom's Cabin, as the idea, while true, is neither original nor relevant to my crushing guilt about not saving inner-city children from the crippling effects of illiteracy.

CTRL+Z: Undo, or Maybe I should have gone into PR.

CTRL+V: Paste, or It's half an hour before the paper is due and I have four pages out of the required 16, but is subsituting paragraphs from an undergraduate paper resourceful, or is it the first slide on a slippery-slope toward a soulless cerebral-abyss of academia?

CTRL+SHIFT+S: Save As, or Obesiance to the gods of hard-drive crashes. Also, the will to resist the cult-like draw of organizations like Greenpeace, Teach for America, AmeriCorps, et al. Also, the will to resist selling out to The Man. Also, the will to resist using the word "liminal." Also, the will to resist Chicago Manual of Style. Also, the will to resist developing a Canadian accent.

CTRL+S: Save, or When I return from that lecture on transatlantic food studies and discover that my computer has succumbed to a breakdown taking with it my just-finished term paper, I will commit ritualized suicide with pages of Das Kapital fashioned prison-style into a paper-maiche shank.

CTRL+C:Copy, or How can I feel like I'm a different person in different geographical spaces, or Where will I be when I'm 64?

CTRL+A: Select All, or I want to live in London and San Diego and New York City and DC simultaneously but how will I get there, or Where will I be when I'm 34?

CTRL+D: Place, or I'd thought by this point I would have at least some things figured out but I still can't even do my own hair most days, or Where will I be when I'm 24?

from The Post-Apocalyptic Diary of an Erudite Sasquatch

2010-12-12T10:33:00.000-08:00

September (day unknown), 20??

The days pass in unmitigated grimness.

My corporeal capaciousness has heretofore dissuaded the anthropophaginian brigands from striking me down as I collect my day's sustenance. But I fear they will soon grow wise, and stage an ambush, from which there can be no absconding.

Acquiring my daily larder is reasonably facile to achieve. Being a solitary herbivore in a wasted land of frenzied, bellicose carnivores, I have so far managed to gormandize almost as I was accustomed to in the pre-apocalyptic years.

O, how I long for those bygone days! For the halcyon quadrangle of the university, where from my lofty berth I could observe my pupils -- blithe with jubilant youth and intoxicated by the clear rays of the sun -- gambol on the verdant lawn with their plastic discs, or consort in the passageways discussing fervently their daily lessons. How I long for the tranquil melodies of the choirs in the chapel!

Now, the ever-present buzzing music of these misshapen desperadoes ... Jazz, I've heard some call it. Hmph.

Today I am reminded that the wind loses its mildness, and the days draw ever shorter. The detested bandits have taken to clothing themselves in the skins of their human meals -- how I weep for the poor souls, their victims! Through they themselves would have ate ere be eaten.

I abhor the envious looks of the cutthroats, as they watch me bear frigid mornings with ease. My grand frame is of course protected with the natural hirsute covering those in the past days have so deploringly called a "pelt." How I am vindicated! Those who derided my hispid mien are even now shivering in their nakedness. Ha!

I must be on my watch -- already the pathetic ruffians have entered my cave while I was absent and skulked away with armloads of precious books to burn as fuel. I found half-immolated pages of The Tempest laying among the ashen remnants of a campfire, along with the remainder of their macabre feast.

The faded sun sinks, and I lose my illumination for writing. I must slumber, for on the morrow I will begin seeking out an alternate domicile. The rascals have grown altogether too desperate for my present comfort.

I survive only with the expectation that one day I will discover other benign survivors of this cataclysm, and speak once more the words of our poet: "How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, that has such people in't!"

from A New Grad Student's Cookbook!

2010-12-07T05:37:00.000-08:00

Tip #398: Cooking Thriftily Around Your Schedule

Unlike the Freshman +15, the weight put on by excessive pizza outings with newfound soulmates and poor-quality dining-hall food consumed over prolonged discussions of the poetic imagery of The O.C., the Graduate -15 is the weight one loses when attempting to juggle four three-hour-long classes, 600 ppw (pages per week) of reading, an outside job, and sanity. (Social life notably omitted from this list.)

These are some tips for rescheduling your meals to suit your busy day:

8 a.m. Coffee (three cups, with cream and sugar). This will give you a good start to your morning homework, propel you out of your dark nest of a bed, and even provide some much-needed calcium when you splash that almost-spoiled half-and-half in your cup!

12 p.m. Breakfast. This can be any hodgepodge involving eggs and leftover ingredients from previous dinners. My favorites include: French Toast! (using leftover french bread from Italian night three days ago); Southwest Omelette! (using leftover canned corn, beans, and salsa from Mexican night a week ago); Fried Egg with Cheese and Pita Bread! (using the contents of the refrigerator). Scarf this meal while sneakily watching half an episode of 30 Rock, while abjectly staring out of the window at the snow, or while shoving items into bookbag and putting coat on.

4 p.m. Lunch. If you're having a sane week, a homemade granola bar or piece of homemade cornbread (leftover from Chili night two nights ago). If you're having an insane week, vending-machine wheat thins are great, too! If you are really on top of things, you'll have remembered your tupperware-d leftovers, to be eaten in the break room at work.

12 a.m. Dinner. Ideas include: Leftover carryout (Chipotle is preferable, in lieu of any real taco shops); Third-world-style entree, involving some type of legume and rice (red beans and rice, black beans and rice, black-eyed peas and rice, lentils and rice ...); or, Toast with nutella, eaten curled on the couch while watching Sixteen Candles while the homework and the snow pile up. (alternatively, see Tip #4998: A Procrastination Feast)

Observations made about snow, firsthand.

2010-12-01T20:12:00.001-08:00

1. It's not so very cold, at least not today. Using Loretta the Car's general overestimations, Henry the Digital Window Thermometer's general underestimations, and Weather.com's outright lies, I can usually triangulate an approximate idea of the outside air temperature. Today: a low of 30*(ish).

2. It's wet. Like rain. Only not.

3. Some people still wear only long-sleeved shirts and jeans when out and about it in.

4. Conversely, some people wear fully suspendered snow pants.

5. It is quite pretty, as it falls gently in clumps or clusters or ... flakes.

Revelation 10: The Danger of a Single Story

2010-11-30T08:19:00.000-08:00

If you haven't already read it, I recommended The Thing Around Your Neck, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie ... This post counts as a "revelation" because what Adichie says in the video below is really, really good. And revealing. Or relevatory. Whatever. It's also relatively relevant. (wink.)

Revelation 9: Only The Rootless ...

2010-11-22T13:48:00.001-08:00

For a while now, I've been trying to put my finger on just what is so different about Buffalo, compared to San Diego (Beside, of course, La Jolla and all-night taco shops).

And a theory dawned on me: People here are connected.

San Diego's not a big-big city, and if you've been there a few years you start to run into people all the time, but this is different.

Recently I was hanging out with a group of people who had all gone to high school concurrently in the same district, if not in the same school. It was pointed out to me that Girl A had dated Boy A, who had gone to high school with Girl B, and who had gone to college with Girl C. Girl B's boyfriend had gone to high school with Girl A, and Girls A and B were co-workers.

If this seems complicated with AB and C, try sorting it out with just faces.

In San Diego, we were all from different-ish places. I mean, a good percentage were from Nor Cal and the OC, but we were sort of the rootless branches of the family tree.

(Then there were people like me and Gio and Chelsea, who are kind of the "wandering twigs of the rootless branches of the family tree ... ")

It's strange to be around people who have years and years of history with each other.

I find it kind of creepy.

(... In a good way.)

Then again, wandering twig of the rootless branch that I am, I'm probably the creepy one.

This is not a Revelation, per se

2010-11-20T20:48:00.000-08:00

I just wanted to say Happy Birthday to my niece Sadye, who is 8 (yesterday).

In celebration, here is the link to her blog, which was started in April of 2009 and lasted for approximately one blogpost.

Which I think is a little more than unusually ambitious for a six-year-old blogger.

Click, read, and "awwww." It's a warm and fuzzy birthday gift to us all.

(This is Sadye. Yes. She is quite precocious.)

Revelation 8: It's Moderately Embarrasing to admit, but ...

2010-11-16T16:16:00.000-08:00

... I really rock out to Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Freebird."

I don't have the song personally, but whenever it comes on the radio I turn up the volume. Really high.

I don't know anything about Lynyrd Skynyrd ... you could tell me they are a bunch of apartheid-loving mysoginists who snort cocaine off babies and support the eradication of the humpback whale, and I'd probably believe you. I'm not generally into the whole Southern Rock thing. I don't even think I could name another "Southern Rock" band (AC/DC? Are they Southern?). But, for some reason, "Freebird" really does it for me.

If you've never heard the song, here's the breakdown: There's a few minutes of [lalala] about free birds, set to kind of a slower tempo. (Forgive the utter lack of real musical terminology here, if you know the real words, fill in the blanks.) There's more stuff about free birds, and whatnot. Whether the "free bird" is the transcendent soul of the enlightened rock n' roller or maybe an invocation of the spirit of Jefferson Davis, who really cares, I don't.

Then, [lead singer dude] says " ... Freebird ... yeah! [lalala].

And then the tempo suddenly changes, and there's, like, five minutes of music, with no words. (I'm sure there's a word for that, music without words. Instrumental? That sounds very musak.) And, for some reason, I like that five minutes. It feels like a party. I'm always disappointed when the radio DJ inevitably cuts it off somewhere near the middle.

Maybe I'm unconsciously associating it with Cameron Crowe (of Almost Famous fame), who used the song in Elizabethtown. Orlando Bloom and Orlando Bloom's Awkward American accent were co-stars in this film; perhaps I'm unconsciously associating "Freebird" with remnants of an adolescent passion for Tolkienian elves.

Then again, Billy Crudup played a 70s guitarist in Almost Famous, which was written by Cameron Crowe who wrote Elizabethtown, in which 70s rock anthem "Freebird" is used ...

... And I really dig Billy Crudup.

So maybe that's the connection.

(Note: I just looked Lynyrd Skynyrd up on Wikipedia. Apparently most of the band died in a plane crash in the 70s. I retract my previous statement about them possibly being apartheid-loving mysoginists who snort cocaine off babies. But not the part about the humpback whales.)

Revelation 7: Coquetry

2010-11-15T18:35:00.000-08:00

I'm not such a very good flirt.

Revelation 6: An electron cloud of acquaintances

2010-11-11T18:41:00.000-08:00

When I moved to the godforsaken North [enter mitigation of harsh statement here, with descriptions of lovely trees and the lake etc], I had expected to miss a few things. For example: Trader Joe's, sensible freeway systems, the ocean, warmth.

And I had fully expected to miss my best friends. Jenna, Evie, Juliana, Laura, Greg, Michael, Gio -- every Sunday I think of you guys (minus Juliana) sitting down to dinner and a little part of me dies.

I had anticipated missing my work-buddies. Christine, Kevin, Jane, Marlyn, Jonathan, Cesar, Wes (and Remy!).

But what I hadn't counted on missing was the electron cloud of people whom I was so accustomed to seeing in Golden Hill, Point Loma, South Park, North Park, and all the other cool neighborhoods (notably, not PB).

So. This Revelation is for you, Blonde Barista at Krakatoa who knew my name but whose name I never remembered. And for the Counterpoint guys -- Ben, Cam, Alex. And Ben .... And Ben.

And I really miss you, Colin-The-Mission-Restaurant-Regular. I'd give anything to place an order for chicken apple sausage and eggs and a mango and green tea smoothie for you again.

Nice lady at the Humberto's counter -- you are missed.

Strange old woman who jogged past me every morning at 6:25 while I waited for Fernando to open the restaurant door -- you are missed.

So are you, Fernando.

Skeezy crepe-stand guy at the farmer's market who once hit on me -- you are missed.

Cute teenaged grocery bagger at Henry's named Shea -- you are missed.

Old Mexican ladies who would say "Buenos Dias" to me when I would see you early in the morning on our street -- you are missed.

Guy with the D&D t-shirt and the ponytail who frequents Krakatoa and Rebecca's and who's a doorman at Turf Club and whom I once saw in OB -- you are missed.

Edmundo -- you are missed.

Everyone else ... you too.

Revelation 5: I am a good worker

2010-11-09T18:55:00.000-08:00

In my job selling over-priced clothing, all I ask is to fly under the radar.

I'm good, I'm reliable, I'm pleasantly chatty, but I'm not extraordinary.

In other words, I strive for competence but lack ambition. In fact, I avoid ambition, with its attendant responsibilities. I don't really want goals or a career -- I just want a paycheck and a good discount.

This said, it has come to my attention recently that my managers believe I am:

a) a really good folder (as good at board-folding anyone else in the store, maybe better).
b) a good salesperson, especially with those annoying customers no one else has patience for.

These revelations are both flattering to my ego and unwelcome to my situation. Being known as "the sweet salesgirl who is really good with difficult customers" is bad news bears. Although it doesn't actually take patience -- just an ability to be completely, utterly neutral to people's craziness -- I don't want to test how far this "patience" of mine will stretch before I'm found in the dressing room beating a housewife over the head with a mannequin's molded-plastic arm.

The folding part has less of an impact -- if anything, I might be brought in on shifts right after roll-out or during a crazy shift just to fold sweaters. Which, surprisingly, I don't mind. (Refer again to the 'completely, utterly neutral' comment just above. It applies equally well with stacks of sweaters.)

Revelation 4: Found scribbled half-legibly on a scrap of paper at the bottom of my purse

2010-11-08T14:41:00.000-08:00

There's a phenom[enom] where sustained high stress makes you lose brain cells in the hippocampus [sic].

I think I am exp[eriencing] this.

Last night I left my car lights on and the battery died.

This morning I got to class 40 minutes late, thinking I was 20 minutes early.

I left my phone at home, when I needed to call into work after class.

I forgot my carefully prepared lunch.

I just with I could remember what the phenomenon was called ...

Revelation 3: 38 Degrees is Not That Cold

2010-11-06T09:00:00.000-07:00

... Despite my car's insistence on making a BOING noise and then flashing the temperature and a snowflake icon everytime it gets below 40* F.

It's kind of startling, to be driving around and then suddenly,

Car: BOING!

Me: (BLURG! Am I out of coolant again? What's going on!!! What's WRONG?)

Car: 39* SNOWFLAKE

39* SNOWFLAKE

39* SNOWFLAKE

39* SNOWFLAKE

You'd think they'd figure out another way to communicate this information rather than in THE EXACT SAME WAY THEY TELL YOU SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH THE CAR.

Anyway, walking around in a light coat with my hands in my pockets, I discovered that 38* is actually quite pleasant. Refreshing. Brisk. I can do 38*.

If 38* is to 80* what 0* is to 38* ...

Okay. Let's not think about that.

Revelation 2: I am a C.S. Lewis tomboy character, a mountain range in the French Alps, a really lame pop band, and ...

2010-11-03T16:31:00.000-07:00

... An armored vehicle.

Behold.

The ARAVIS® by Nexter.
"Whatever the mission, [I] keep your soldiers safe."

There is the possibility I could become the next status symbol SLASH epithet in American popular culture.

I could be the next Hummer.

Somehow, I have mixed feelings about this.

Thoughts?

Revelation 1: Casper

2010-11-01T05:53:00.000-07:00

It took the better part of a week to realize what is so odd about my complexion.

I'm not breaking out; I don't have eczema; I haven't sprouted whiskers ...

I'm just paler than I have been in about five years. I've gone from golden-brown to yellow-brown more rapidly than I'd ever think possible.

Images come to mind: non-Black friends rolling up the legs of their jeans to compare mid-winter whiteness. I try to suppress these thoughts, with no success.

By the end of the winter, I'll be transparent.

... Probably.

Bekah: Bring on the Casper jokes. Your revenge is long past due.

I've heard some rumors about "Love" ...

2010-10-29T17:04:00.000-07:00

"If music be the food of love, play on": This is what I've heard from my iTunes song list:

Love is:

Able to break your heart
A many splendid thing
A letter to Japan
A battlefield
A medley of elephants
A losing game
On the way
In the Lies
Here to stay
Like you
For sale
For a child
Hard
Foolish
Malodorous
Simple
Homicidal
Hazardous
Polygamous
The third part of an ultimatum, the other constituents being "friends," and "nothing"
The life I live

I've heard some rumors about "The Frozen Californian!"

2010-10-19T10:51:00.000-07:00

This is what I've heard (interpreted from the Orwellian survelliance information provided under "stats"):

It has readers from (among other myriad and strange places): South Korea (what up, Le'Momo!), Netherlands (QDB, is that you?), Brazil (Hey Momma ... ), Bulgaria (?), and Russia ( ... ).

37 people viewed blog posts on The Frozen Californian! yesterday (or alternatively, one dedicated person with a very bad browser re-loaded the same page 37 times yesterday).

The most-viewed blog post continues to be "The Rules, according to the Moores," posted Nov. 2009.

No one cares what lies I tell.

Conversely, when I claim to tell the truth, it's quite popular.

The readership are of the "read, but don't comment, and definitely don't answer the poll question at the bottom of the page" variety.

Most readers are driven to the page from Facebook, but some come through Jen Alderette's blog. So, to thank her, I require that you now go to Jen's blog. (I'm putting the hyperlink at the bottom of the page to make sure you finish reading this first.)

A small, but noteworthy, fraction of readers have been led to The Frozen Californian! after googling the following phrases: "frozen californian," "frozen concoctions," "bored because i've seen it all," and "i just got fired from a coffee shop."

Followership has increased exponentially over the past 12 months, the numbers leaping from zero in Oct. 2009 to 15 in Oct. 2010. (Whether you read this last line as sarcasm depends on your notion of exponential, and your familiarity with my rhetorical style.)

So, thanks for reading, all you shadowy souls who dare not leave their comments. I hope I have entertained you in the past year (although I'll never know for sure, since you won't show yourselves), and I'll likely keep writing into the dark vacuum that is the interweb for many years to come. Or until I get disheartened by the lack of feedback and stick my head in an oven. (Wow. JUST KIDDING. I'm not going to pull a Plath, I promise. Geez, that was bad taste. Bad form, Aravis. Bad form!)

You like? Follow. Or at least do the creepster thing and post an anonymous comment. It'll keep me writing, and keep you amused.

(NOW. Go read Jen's blog.)

(Happy One-Year Blogging Anniversary, me.

Thanks, me.)

SIDENOTE: One a half months in Buffalo

2010-10-12T07:11:00.000-07:00

I would trade my right pinkie toe, half of my hair, AND all future jokes about Chacos for any one of the following:

Santana's
Cotija's
Adalberto's
Humberto's
Mizcho's
That taco shop on Broadway and 25 across from Humberto's
That taco shop on C and 30
That taco shop on Fern and Juniper
That taco shop across from the church on 30th near Upas
Etc.

At this point, I would be willing to enter negotiations for anything other than a Chipotle.

I've heard some rumors about "Living Alone" ...

2010-10-10T19:58:00.000-07:00

This is what I've heard:

A warm toilet seat is the surest sign of an intruder.

No matter how sternly the bedspread is interrogated, it will never reveal its opinion on your outfit.

The smell in the back of the fridge will never go away by itself.

Only you can replace the toilet paper roll.

No one will kick you awake to tell you you're snoring.

Whatever that mess is, it's definitely your fault.

UPSIDE: No one will ever, ever judge you for watching 13 episodes of 30 Rock in a row.

DOWNSIDE: No one will ever, ever judge you for watching 13 episodes of 30 Rock in a row.

UPSIDE: No one will eat those leftovers you've been eyeballing all day.

DOWNSIDE: No one will eat those last four chocolate chip cookies you've been eyeballing all day.

The source of that unwashed body smell is remarkably easy to locate.

I've heard some rumors about "Snow" ...

2010-10-01T17:51:00.000-07:00

This is what I've heard:

It begins falling on Halloween.

The slippery (?) effects of it are sometimes combated by salt (?).

It's not always a nickname for a highly addictive narcotic.

It is actually just frozen water (?).

"Snow" mandates the purchase of good boots. Really good boots. Good waterproof boots. With thinsulate. And fur. And the kind of rubbery stuff that makes them impervious to frozen (?) water (??). Apparently, these Really Good Boots enable the wearer to walk in the "Snow" comfortably.

Sometimes it gets into the apartment building's front hallway and never melts.

Sometimes the company mandates it be placed inside the store display windows, for decorative purposes, where it gets everywhere and makes people sneeze.

The volume of its fall is generally measured in accordnance with the standard inches/feet method. More "Snow"-fall than n (here "n" stands for a substantial number of inches/feet of "Snow"-fall) results in "Snow"-plows being necessitated, and "Snow"-shovels employed (?).

(Note: Other common "Snow"- compounds heard by the writer include "Snow"-tires, "Snow"-bound, "Snow"-day, "Snow"-angel, and (perhaps the most worrying, considering the current state of our financial institutions and the alleged highly unstable nature of the medium in question) "Snow"-bank. )

Children make humanoid shapes out of it, if they have access to sticks, a carrot, a hat and scarf, and enough of the requisite "Snow." If they have mostly mud, they content themselves with " 'Snow' negros," a la David Sedaris' North Carolina boyhood.

"Snow" is very cold, but what's even colder is when the lake freezes over and it gets to cold for "Snow" to fall. Then it really sucks.

"Snow"-fall is pretty. (?)

A common childhood experience in "Snow"-producing climates is the "Snow"-ball fight, wherein the poorly-dressed protagonists battle against the rich neighborhood children (the elevated class status indicated by the coordinating hats, scarves, and mittens). "Snow"-ball fights generally conclude with a deus ex machina, involving the grown-up brother, a dead father reincarnated as a "Snow"-man, or an alien invasion of some kind.

(?) indicates the dubious nature of the information related to me through numerous, albeit sometimes unreliable, sources.

If you have contrary information to dispell some or all of these rumors, please do not hestitate to comment.

Lies I Tell ...

2010-09-29T18:47:00.000-07:00

... To Myself

"I'll just get up super early tomorrow and do it."

"I just don't think it's healthy for me to run."

"Oh ... I wasn't into him anyway."

"Just one more episode of Veronica Mars and then I'll get ready for work."

"Aww ... I won't be late ..."

... But this is true.

2010-09-26T17:37:00.000-07:00

I just got misty-eyed with nostalgia at the sight of a strip club.

Context.

Not just any strip club, but the strip club on Moore Street and Rosecrans, just off the 8.

More context.

It's a garishly familiar sight -- the hot-pink neon proclaiming "BODY SHOP" with a matching hot-pink neon arrow the size of a school bus. It's a garishly familiar sight for San Diegans, that is. And it's one of the filming locations in the TV show Veronica Mars. And I'm no longer a San Diegan. So.

So. Strip club inspires nostalgia. There's the story.

Lies I Tell ...

2010-09-24T16:15:00.000-07:00

... To Men I'm Interested In

"I love Quentin Tarantino!"

Lies I Tell ...

2010-09-17T10:02:00.000-07:00

... In Class

"I read this work -- "

"I really understood this piece -- "

"This author's view struck me as incredibly poignant ... "

"I was deeply moved by the author's use of kunstlerroman to explore the myriad ways an amaunensis undermines the versimilitude of his or her own subject to open up a discourse on the legitimacy of archetypal fiction and, also, to exploit the tacit double-veil of consciousnes ostensibly present in all (quote-unquote) nonfiction written in the mid-to-late Romantic era."

Lies I Tell ...

2010-09-13T07:32:00.000-07:00

... To Men I'm Not Interested In

"My name is Rachel."

"Yeah, I live sort of around here. Uh, you know. Around."

"Yup. I am 5'11. Very tall. How tall are you? 5'9, maybe? Oh. 5'10 and three-quarters? Wow. I could have ... well yes. I am very tall. Incredibly tall."

"I'm 16."

Lies I Tell ...

2010-09-09T18:44:00.000-07:00

At work ...

Banana Republic
"Yes, it's an incredibly good deal!"
"Nope. I've checked, and I'm certain we don't carry that in other colors."
"Oh no, don't rush! Yes, we technically close in five minutes, but you take all the time you need!"
"Of course I don't mind refolding the stack you just demolished!"
"(Insert customer's country or city of origin here)? I've heard that's beautiful this time of year!"
"That looks terrific on you!"

The Mission
(Before hanging up the phone) "No problem!"
"You forgot to tell your server you wanted no whipped cream on the mocha? No problem!"
"Ice water/coffee refills/more napkins/a side of salsa/butter/any of the other innumerable items that you are unaware are not my duty to fetch for you? No problem!"
"I'm absolutely certain that's nonfat."

An Open Letter to Buffalo, New York

2010-08-28T16:11:00.000-07:00

Dear Buffalo, New York:

So far you're not all that bad.

I'm assuming that the 80-degree weather and the friendly people are all carefully calculated to make me like you.

So far, it's kind of working.

The sunshine is nice, after a disappointingly overcast San Diego summer. There's no beach to bask at, but there's lots of green grass and lovely mottled sunbeams streaming through thick green leaves -- which is refreshing. I've felt keenly the dearth of greenery in San Diego, although I've grown to love that earthy, fragrant herb-and-cactus springtime of Southern California.

Here's something else nice about you, Buffalo: your garage sales. So far I've managed to furnish 2/3 of my apartment with adorable pieces from your yard sales, none of the items setting me back more than $10. That's nice, Buffalo. Really nice.

You know what's nicer? That we had three different people offer to drive a piece of furniture to my house after it wouldn't fit in the car. They were all from garage sales in the neighborhood, but how many people in less-nice cities would offer to do that?

Now, I'm thinking that all these things (the nice people, the nice weather, the nice farmer's markets and craft fairs and kittens and green lawns) are intended for one purpose: to make me like you so that you can crush me when the snow comes.

Is that it, Buffalo? You are quietly, insidiously making me comfortable, so that in a few months the notoriously bad weather will seep into my bones and crush my very soul.

In December I'll be shivering. In January I'll be whimpering. In February I'll be huddled in a corner of my apartment, stunned by your betrayal.

I'm onto you, Buffalo.

So forgive me if my response to "what nice weather!" is "it is now, but just wait until the snow is piled up around your ears in two weeks." And excuse me if my reply to "how nice that everyone walks here!" is "that's only because in a few days they'll be snowed in with only their inanimate volleyball friends to talk to and their cats as emergency food supplies."

It's not that I don't like you, Buffalo.

It's just that I don't trust you.

Yours warily,

Aravis Moore
The Frozen Californian.

An Open Letter to my Sympathetic Nervous System

2010-08-17T12:50:00.000-07:00

Dear Sympathetic Nervous System,

You and I go way back. Heck ... you and the human race go back even further. When those first hairy humans were faced with an enormous stampeding wooly mammoth, you were right there, next to Al the Caveman, helping him to choose fight or flight.

You've really come in handy in the past few millennia, Sympathetic Nervous System. We've bested the wild animals and built a civilization. You've helped us learn to fight or to run -- usually run, in my experience. Particularly from dark alleys and suspiciously unmarked vans. It's kept us alive.

Wikipedia informs me that you have the power to "accelerate heart rate; widen bronchial passages; decrease motility (movement) of the large intestine; constrict blood vessels; increase peristalsis in the esophagus; cause pupillary dilation, piloerection (goose bumps) and perspiration (sweating); and raise blood pressure."

These reactions are all very well and normal when confronted with a saber-toothed tiger or a wounded grizzly. But, Sympathetic Nervous System, must I really experience these reactions when I'm taping up my first boxes to move?

Sure, moving is a stressful activity; moving cross-country to a new land full of snow and people who say "alls ya gotta do" is even more anxiety-inducing. But must my heart start racing and my bowels constrict when alls I'm doing is putting books in a box?

I'm not saying the visceral reaction to stress isn't helpful, Sympathetic Nervous System. I'm sure there's a positive outcome to the constant pupillary dilation and blood-pressure increases every time I look at a cardboard box. But do you think maybe the reaction is a little ... well, outdated? These physical impulses were all very well and fine when facing a raging hippopotamus, but what are they going to do against corrugated cardboard?

Suppressing you is futile -- the self-hug or fetal position works for a few moments, but boxes can't pack themselves when my arms are locked, straightjacket-style around my own torso.

I guess I can only ask that the fight response involves vigorous packing, or determined sorting of accumulated newspaper clippings, or something productive like that.

Because if you're just going to tell me to attack the cardboard box with a spear made out of tree branches and sharpened stones, (or tuck my loincloth between my legs and run) then I think it's time I evolved.

That's the deal, Sympathetic Nervous System. Take it or leave it. And I could really use your help.

Your friend since conception,

Aravis

SIDENOTE: 7 Days Until Departure

2010-08-16T00:18:00.000-07:00

It's at this point in the Veronica Mars/Teenage-to-Young-Adult Detective B-List TV Series that I suddenly discover compelling new reasons to stay in the same city and apartment (the productions costs of moving filming cross-country and rebuilding charming bedroom and quaint coffee-shop sets nothwithstanding). Something unfair and/or unconstitutional happens to yank my funding in my graduate program, and by the time I use my super-slueth skills to track down the perp, it's too late to fly out (but I've been suddenly offered a free ride at the nearest fancy insitution). Or my wealthy and brooding beau is arrested again in connection with the murder of that innocent brown-skinned kid, and I'm torn between my desire to jet off to school and the impulse to stay and help my vulgar-but-good-hearted boyfriend get acquitted ... oh, the life of the teenage-to-young-adult detective hero(ine).

An Open Letter to the Potential Customers Who Call The Mission Restaurant Every Day

2010-08-13T14:40:00.000-07:00

Dear Potential Customers Who Call The Mission Restaurant Every Day:

Sometimes you make me feel like I'm crazy. Not just a little loony or a touch out-of-sorts. Really, legitimately off my rocker. Clinically insane. Bedlam-bound.

Would you like to know why, Potential Customers?

Every day I try to remind myself that each person who calls is a different person. And yet. 99 out of 103 customers hold the exact same conversation with me. In the exact same order.

Me: ThanksforcallingTheMissionMissionBeach-ThisisAravis-HowmayIHELPyou?
You: Hi, um. What's the wait like?
Me: Ummmmm ... looks like it's about 30 minutes.
You: Okay ... Do you take reservations?
Me: Nope, unfortunately it's first-come, first-served.
You: Oh. Well, could I put my name in?
Me: Uh, no. It's first-come, first-served.
You: Oh, okay. We'll be there in a minute. Thanks!
Me: Okay, bye!

As you probably know, this conversation has a few slight variations (usually involving when we stop serving breakfast), but other than that, the content is disturbingly consistent.

I thought for a while that perhaps there is a Potential Customer Handbook somewhere that details the script you are to follow in calling The Mission Restaurant.

But it seems unlikely that every Potential Customer would receive and dutifully adhere to such stringent instructions, especially considering many of you seem unable to follow any instruction whatsoever. (To support this theory, I would like to cite these two common scenarios: Potential Customers standing arms-akimbo next to the sign reading "Please Seat Yourself" and the equal numbers walking right past the sign "Please Wait to be Seated" and grabbing the nearsest vacant and dirty table.)

So, what choice does this leave me? I've considered and pondered for quite a while, and the only possible explanation seems to be that there is only one Potential Customer. Since I never see the face of the "many" Potential Customers, there is little to no evidence that there are multiple people calling.

This explanation also justfies my heretofore unjustifiable anger whenever the Potential Customer (singular, now) asks me "what's the wait like?"

So, Potential Customer Who Calls The Mission Restaurant Multiple Times a Day,

Please.

Go to Denny's.

With all my regard,

Aravis Moore
Barista

An Open Letter to My Cup of Coffee

2010-08-09T23:15:00.001-07:00

Hello, Coffee.

You sit in front of me, so innocently delicious. This morning you're two shots of Indonesian espresso, a splash of hot water, and two raw sugars steamed in breve. Most days you are just standard Trader Joe's Diner's Blend brew, but I was feeling fancy today.

Do you remember this, Coffee? I was about 9, maybe 8. Cousin Kenny's wedding at the country club. You were steaming temptingly in that caterer's urn. I can't really say it was love at first taste, but a little cream and a lot of sugar made you a bit more ... palatable.

Our relationship was chilly for a few years, I must admit -- literally. I liked to take you cold from Dad's morning pot of coffee and pour it on my ice cream.

The discovery years came a little later. Weeks spent in Brazil rekindled my interest. A fresh cup every morning -- what a charming habit! Stateside, I dabbled in Starbucks creations. Creamy sweet concoctions for the winter, icy confections for the hot summers.

Recall what comes next? My first college job -- at the cafe -- set it off. The infatuation phase. Five years of barista work at five jobs later, and the aroma of that caramel-y crema on an espresso shot still makes my mouth water.

We have had rough patches, though, Coffee. The college years -- those early classes and that empty checkbook had me going through three, four cups of that Campus Express Store bilgewater. Oh, Coffee! Those were dark times! The mornings on end when all I wanted was a good sweet Colombian Supremo and all the Express Store offered was a burnt CookieDoodle Blend! What is a CookieDoodle, Coffee??? And why do they make coffee flavored like it? It still makes my heart hurt to think of my perky yellow travel mug filled with the coffee-flavored water that I'd eventually throw, heavy-hearted, into the over-watered and over-caffeinated bushes outside the commons.

I think we've come to a good place, Coffee. I still need you to prevent those pesky coffee-junkie headaches, but at least I can usually sip you tranquilly, instead of tossing a lukewarm mug of half-water, half-CookieDoodle brew down my throat on my way to chapel.

I start school again in three weeks. Graduate school, Coffee. Can you believe it? I'm guessing August 30 marks re-entry into the Reliance and Abuse phase of our relationship I had hoped we had left behind in undergrad. But humans will have their vices, and you're mine. Plus, I've heard your side effects are considerably less risky than crack cocaine. And that was my second bet.

I remain with all of my heart yours,

Aravis M.

SIDENOTE: 18 days until departure.

2010-08-04T22:25:00.000-07:00

In the romantic comedy version of my life, it is precisely at this point that I meet my Leading Man. I Fall in Love in the San Diego summer sunshine, frolicking on sandy beaches to the music of Norah Jones and poppy covers of the Beatles.

This is a tale of Y.

2010-07-30T22:36:00.000-07:00

It is not the only tale, nor the first. But it's a tale that tells of her homecoming.

Yasmin stepped off the train, dragging her suitcase behind her. The morning air was hazy with late-summer mist. The train's other occupants sleepily disembarked, rubbing eyes and scanning the small station for signs of a Starbucks.

On the far side of the small crowd of passengers, Yasmin could make out the small anxious figure of her mother, standing on tiptoes. Yasmin hadn't needed to take the train -- an airplane ticket would have only cost a few dollars more. But Yasmin had wanted the extra hours on the train to readjust. Plane travel often seemed so unnatural, abrupt. You leave the ground, leave the safe sweet connection of feet on the earth, and take an exaggerated leap into space to arrive at your next destination. Yasmin prefers the tentative, reverent approach of the train. It sneaks across the earth, passing through woods and over streams, never losing contact. Trains approach a destination in stages -- the front cars first, and the caboose last. She prefers this to the sudden plopping-down of a plane.

She was also nervous about seeing X and Z again. Xavier and Zion. She assumes they've reverted to their full names again. In her circle of colleagues and friends, she is Yasmin. To a few brave friends and lovers she's been Minnie, though that never lasts long. Among her family, she is still Y.

She hasn't seen X and Z in five years. For four years she was in school on the west coast, meeting her family in Port-au-Prince directly from LAX rather than coming home to Graceton. Then for the past year she's been traveling, collecting data for her master's thesis. Her research has taken her to Egypt, Malawi, Uruguay. She's spent time in Paris, London, Dubai. She's returned with an air of the exotic -- a certain way of draping her thin scarf perhaps, or a delicate manner of placing her feet. It's hard to tell how she's changed, even to Y, even in a mirror. She's picked up habits that she won't know are foreign until she's caught eating pizza with a fork during a TV-side dinner with her family. Until she pauses mid-way through some banal task to realize, this isn't how it's done here. She'll never understand where or from whom she learned otherwise.

But these are things Y won't know until later. Now, she is just aware of some nebulous difference from the last time she stood on the tidy train platform at Graceton. She's still tall, still too slim to be stocky, too firmly-built to be slender. But something -- something's changed.

Yasmin makes her way through the thin crowd toward her mother, who hasn't seen her leave the train and is still on tiptoes. She watches her mother watch for her. Finally, Yasmin gets close enough to take her mother's wrist. Her mother at first swats away her hand, mistaking it for that of one of Yasmin's siblings, who must be around the station somewhere. It's another moment before Yasmin's mother glances irritably at the child beside her. Her annoyance melts to a sudden flicker of confusion, and then surprise and delight.

"Oh, my Yasmin!" she shrieks, causing several travelers near them to start and stare at the small colorful woman and her tall daughter.

...

BLOG PREVIEW: November 22, 2010

2010-07-16T16:38:00.000-07:00

from "The Frozen Californian," a special companion blog to "Come All Ye Bored, and Find Blah Blah Blah," from the author of the yet-to-be-published novella How to Get Berry Stains Out of Khaki and Other Advice and the yet-to-be-produced play Pearl, the Story of a Funeral-Crasher:

November 22, 2010

Everything is frozen. EVERYTHING.

The snow is everywhere. The snow is on top of my car. I don't want to leave the house, because when I do, I get snow on me.

I'm running out of food.

My cat Dorothy has begun to get restless, clawing at the door. I won't let her go outside. She might freeze to death.

She is so fat. So ... juicy.

She senses my intentions and claws at the door.

It is allsnow allsnowt the trees are frozenwiththeiceand thesnow thes now

Goodbye*

*(12/15/2010 NOTE: I really should stop quoting e.e.cummings in blog postings. When I did so -- without explanation -- last month during the cold snap that nearly killed Dorothy, I had several concerned phone calls from readers of my blog. I had to explain that, no, I am not going insane from snow-madness; no, I did not intend on killing and eating my cat; and no, Spalding and I do not need the interventions of a Western New York-based psychiatrist or social worker. But thank you just the same.)

This is a tale of my left eyelid twitch.

2010-07-16T15:57:00.000-07:00

It is definitely the only story, and as for interesting ...

My left eyelid twitch is my faithful companion in times of stress. It is a foul-weather friend, without fail appearing at the end of the semester or preceding a big decision.

It is slight, dainty. A mere conspiratorial flicker briefly obscuring my vision.

Some people's stress manifests itself in cold sores or knots in the shoulder, over-eating or promiscuity. My left eyelid twitch is the barely-palpable sign that, beneath the serene, smiling, and deep-sleeping me, I am really freaking out.

Sometimes my dear friend catches me off-guard, interrupting the creation of a perfect latte or forcing me to re-fold a cashmere cardigan. In moments like this, I am forced to pause, re-consider the assumption that my stress levels are at their usual low.

Oh, hello, I think.

Whatever could be stressing me out now?

My left eyelid twitch says to choose any combination of the following: Balancing three jobs, planning an upcoming move, sorting out graduate school, babying a potentially malfunctioning car, finding my Place in the World, dealing with late-onset teen angst, experiencing paradigm shifts, worrying over the Gulf oil spill, blindly groping toward adulthood.

At worst, my left eyelid twitch is a minor annoyance.

At best, my left eyelid twitch is a reminder that, should my human friends fail me and my family forget my birthday, or my school reject me and the earth rise up to slap me in the face, I will still have my loyal companion the eyelid twitch to remind me that all is not well.

This is a tale of Aravis on Sunday.

2010-07-11T17:39:00.001-07:00

This is not the only tale, nor the most interesting. But it is the tale that has happened to her today, and so it begs sharing.

Aravis slept fitfully. She woke up fully once to think to herself,

"I'm going to sleep deeply for the last ... fifteen minutes before my alarm goes off."

She slept lightly for fifteen minutes, then deeply for the nine-minute snooze period, then stared at her sleeping roommate for the three groggy minutes following.

Aravis finally rolled out of bed and went through her normal morning routine with her eyes half-closed.

There were several signs that her day would not go as well as planned: Sunday mornings in Mission Beach (which is her neighborhood of employment, though not of residency) exude a sort of trashy decadence reminiscent of a sun-burned tramp-stamp. One can almost see the ghosts of tequila shots and bad decisions still haunting the now-closed bars.

Driving down Mission Boulevard, Aravis noted the steady parade of yellow cabs cruising the street, on the lookout for rumpled partiers escaping from last night's hook-up. Also flagging down a cab: a small sortie of men, the most prominent man dressed in jean cut-offs, half a tuxedo shirt, flip-flops, and a wig.

By seven-thirty, she knew her day was going to go badly.

When she arrived at the restaurant at six-thirty, there was already a family waiting outside.* The head cook (who kept the keys) was ten minutes late, leaving Aravis only twenty minutes to complete thirty minutes of opening tasks. Her first take-out customer paid for two coffees ($4) with a fifty-dollar bill, depleting her change reserves. Her nitpicky boss arrived fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, forcing Aravis to stash her half-eaten piece of banana bread behind the microwave. Her favorite co-worker threatened to quit. And to top it off, Aravis has not finished her first cup of coffee.

Things are going badly.

But she grins and bears it.** She tries to stand with her weight balanced on both feet like she should, instead of popping her hip out. She drinks lots of water and smiles at babies. She reminds herself that the man at table 77 is probably not Satan.***

And she gets through her day.

* Presumably, so that they could have a full half-hour to peer into the shuttered windows, watching Aravis take down chairs. Or perhaps they wanted to ensure they got the very best of the 35 empty tables available.
** This is actually false. Aravis did very little grinning, but she did a lot of bearing.
*** But there is a chance he might have been.

This is a tale of X, Y and Z.

2010-07-03T15:59:00.000-07:00

This is by no means the only tale, nor perhaps even the most interesting. But it is the tale that X, Y and Z themselves think the most important to understanding who they are.

The entity known in the neighborhood by X, Y and Z -- or more simply and when harrassed, XYZ -- were born in the same rainy May. Y, the first-born, spent two weeks as an individual before the next-door neighbor gave birth to X. Z's mother went into labor before X's, but Z was not born until a full day after X -- a pattern of catch-up that Z was fated to repeat for the rest of his life.

In the beginning, they all had full names. X was officially and Episcopally christened "Xavier;" Y's mother overruled her husband's favored "Martha" for "Yasmin;" and Z's parents chanted "Zion" in their prenatal yoga sessions leading up to his birth.

By the time they were crawling, they were X, Y and Z. They were inseperable. Their mothers -- and X's nanny -- brought them together every afternoon to play. Within a month, the afternoon absence of one of the babies would send the other two into an afternoon-long tantrum. Soon the mothers -- and X's nanny -- were forced to schedule doctor's visits in tandem, the mothers carpooling to the town pediatrician with three car seats in the back of X's family's car. Afternoon grocery trips had either to include all three children or none at all.

The mothers were all relieved that, at least, the fussiness did not extend to the morning or evening hours. From waking up to lunch, X or Y or Z would play happily by his or herself under the table or in the nursery or on the front steps. But as soon as noon passed, the children would begin eagerly to look about for their playmates. Without their friends, all three children would be inconsable until bed-time, and the street would echo with toddlers' wailing.

When they were old enough to know not to run into the street and not to pet strange dogs, X, Y and Z were allowed to walk themselves over in the afternoon. By this time the daily rotation had become familiar to all three families. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays would find the three at the Anderson's house, playing in the nursery with the nanny. Tuesdays and Saturdays, at the Alleyneses', teasing Y's younger twin brothers or getting underfoot while Mrs. Alleyne cooked Saturday soup. Thursdays and Sundays they looked through the encyclopedias in the library at the L'Engle bungalow, or fiddled with the stereo while Z's mother was out.

In kindergarten, Ms. Finkel had to call a special meeting with the parents of her three inseperable students. The five parents arrived at the school in Andersons' town car -- X's father himself was out of town on business. Ms. Finkel, a young woman just out of college, had a moment to wonder at the incongruity of the group before getting down to the task at hand.

The problem, she explained, was not that they refused to be parted in the afternoon -- this suited her just fine, as they quietly took naps on adjacent cots. What troubled her was that Xavier, Yasmin and Zion -- she persisted in using their whole first names until the second month of school, when she too slipped into calling them XYZ -- shared a similar difficulty understanding the days of the week. She taught the seven days of the week, but XYZ could not grasp the names.

Changing tack, as her college education textbooks suggested, yielded little. She asked Yasmin what day was yesterday. Yasmin answered, next day. She asked Xavier what day is today. Xavier answered, Wednesday. She asked Zion what day he is going on the special fishing trip with his father. Zion answered, Wednesday. It was a Tuesday, and Ms. Finkel was sure Mr. L'Engle had told her they would be going fishing on the upcoming Saturday. She tried the same questions with each of the XYZ, finally sending them to their nap after going around and around the same question and answer for 20 minutes.

Later during craft time Ms. Finkel realized something. As nonsensical as the three children's answers were, they were also remarkably consistent. Before they left for the day, she sat the XYZ down together again.

"What day is today?" She asked.
Yasmin rolled her eyes in a display of five-year-old exasperation, and Xavier put his chin in his hands.
" I's We'sday," said Xavier.
"Zion?" asked Ms. Finkel.
"We'sday," said Z.
"Yasmin?" asked Ms. Finkel.
"s'my day," said Y.
Ms. Finkel blinked.
"Your day?"
"Yeah," said Xavier. "It's We'sday."

Ooooh, thought Ms. Finkel.

"Ooooh," said Ms. Finkel. "It's Y's day."
"Yesssss," said Y. "I's my day."
"And what day is X's day?"
"Yeste'day," said Xavier.
"And t'morrow," added Zion.
"And what day is Z's day?" asked Ms. Finkel.
"The day after t'morrow," said Yasmin.
"Ooooh," said Ms. Finkel.

In five minutes and with the help of a piece of construction paper and a crayon, Ms. Finkel had sketched out the play-date schedule that had formed their concept of time. They were very clear about whose day was whose, and the process would have taken two minutes had Z not interrupted with a catalog of occasions when X was on 'cation with his mom or when Z went to see his grannma, leaving just the two others. Also, the fact that X appeared to have three days while X and Z had just two caused her a moment of confusion, until she realized that, naturally, seven days couldn't be equally shared between three children.

At the meeting, Ms. Finkel lauded the parents for encouraging the growth of important peer relationships -- Mrs. Alleyne snorted and said "How was we going to dem apart?" under her breath -- and suggested that the families post a special calendar for the three children. She had hastily sketched up a sample, a two-by-seven grid showing the days of the week on top, and XYZ's version on bottom.

The calendars were posted on X's family's pantry bulletin board, on Y's refrigerator, and on the back of Z's bedroom door. Years later, X's mother took the calendar down in a sentimental moment and tucked it into the scrapbook labeled "Xavier Jonathan Anderson, Age 5." The other two calendars had long been lost under the refrigerator or torn up to make a grocery list.

Just When I Think I've Seen It All ...

2010-06-25T21:08:00.000-07:00

... I see platform flip-flops for toddlers.

Just When I Think My Non-Stop, Double- and Triple-Job Week is as Hectic as it can Get ...

2010-06-21T14:22:00.000-07:00

I am interrupted mid post-work pastrami-and-avocado sandwich by the realization that I am supposed to have picked up my young nanny-ee ... Seven minutes ago ... On the other side of town.

Compound this problem with another one: my Banana Republic boss called 30 minutes before this realization to ask me to come into work five hours early -- directly conflicting with my nannying, naturally -- and I thought the worst had happened.

Then the nanny-ee and I locked ourselves out of her house.

Hopfully no more to follow ...

Just When I Thought Working Through Tourist Season in Gaslamp Plaza was Bad ...

2010-06-20T09:05:00.000-07:00

... I begin to experience working during Summer in Mission Beach.

There is a circle of hell reserved for the drivers in both these locations.

Another one, reserved for the Hawaii-logo-ed mumus that ladies of a certain age and vacation-persuasion like to wear.

One more, reserved for fanny packs.

Just When I Thought I Had Acquired an Adequate Modern-Art Vocabulary ...

2010-06-13T12:03:00.001-07:00

... I attend a gallery opening at a darling contemporary art gallery in downtown La Jolla.

First piece: "Wow, that's pretty amazing. The process is really key in this piece; duplicating what we all assume can't be duplicated."

Second piece: "Hm, that's interesting. The unexpected textures rendering each piece startling through the repetition/variation of similar elements."

Third piece: "Um."

(At this point I'm looking at a carmine-red shelf. On the carmine-red shelf there are: Two purple toilet plungers; One lemon on a polished wooden block; A plastic owl.)

Two plungers, one lemon, plastic owl.

An acquaintance proposes that it's one of the word games where you have to figure out what syllable/word each element stands for.

"To plunge lemon owl"?

"Too plunging lemonal"?

"To plungemanol"?

"Twopurpleplungelemonowl"?

Either way, it seems my vocabularly for the esoteric is not as exhaustive as I believed.

Just When I Thought We Had Conditioned My Nana to Gift Cards and Chaperoned Shopping Trips...

2010-06-08T16:05:00.001-07:00

... I get a late birthday present.

For the past few years we had successfully convinced my Nana that gift cards to popular stores or chaperoned gift-shopping trips were the best way to go. But this year, some cog in our efficient little family system went awry, and Nana went rogue.

From a heavily-taped box addressed in her familiar spidery, half-legible script, I unpack:

* A sequined beret.

* A scarf, patterned metallic silver-and-blue faux-snakeskin.

* A purse, patterned metallic silver-and-blue faux-snakeskin. With a faux-leather handle embellished with plastic gems.

* A polka-dot umbrella (Which would be the most useful item in the box, if I didn't already have a sturdy khaki umbrella).

* A pair of black-and-floral flip flops (Actually the only useful item in the box, as I am both in need of beach sandals and adamantly opposed to spending money for them).

My nana really loves shopping (as any and every family member who has ever been coerced into shopping at Kohl's with her can attest), and she really loves shopping for us. It's just that, when she goes it alone, she seems to forget the context she's shopping in.

Notable gifts from previous years, before we convinced her of the gift card's timeless appeal:

* A hot-pink string bikini, meant for a D-cup (for my skinny, notoriously swimsuit-shy sister, on the occasion of her 15th birthday).

* A pair of tapered-leg, over-the-belly-button "Mom Jeans," bought at least a decade previously (for my mother's 40th birthday).

* A lime-green tank-top/shorts bodysuit combination, of the high-school wrestling persuasion (for me, the Christmas I was 13).

Feedback, please. I'd like to see someone beat THAT.

This is How to Travel

2010-05-21T16:59:00.000-07:00

1. Pick dates of travel. Make numerous, varied, increasingly confused/confusing phone calls ensuring dates are felicitous for all parties concerned.

2. Book flight. Do not double-check flight to confirm you have booked the right flight instead of one for, say, the evening BEFORE your intended departure.

3. Pack painstakingly. Be sure to include only your least comfortable shoes.

4. Book hotel. Do not double-check to ensure you have booked it for the right date, instead of, oohhhhh, that same night, perhaps.

5. Volunteer to get bumped from overbooked flight to make room for overlooked (miscounted?) infant. Happily receive $300 travel voucher.

6. Arrive at Baltimore. Shuttle to train station. Find out train only runs weekdays. Shuttle back to airport. Bus to metro. Metro to DC. Car to Buffalo. Car to DC.

7. Persuade hotel manager to return $80 no-show fee from mistakenly reserved room.

8. Get on train to airport, realize have sister's only set of house keys. Jump off train in last-minute rom-com movie moment. (Where the where is my leading man in all this? Patrick Dempsey really ought to be standing forlorn and lovelorn on the train platform, his eyes lighting up when I swing ... Okay stumble from the train right as it begins to move ...) Metro to station, (furious) walk to apartment, car to somewhere in Maryland.

9. Use $241 of travel voucher to buy new ticket.

10. Wake up at 5:30 am (eastern time) to walk to bus, bus to metro, metro to train, train to shuttle, shuttle to airport. On 23rd birthday. Consider remaining $59 balance on travel voucher acceptable in lieu of birthday breakfast. Or lunch.

This is How To Do Your Hair

2010-05-08T14:59:00.000-07:00

1. Roll out of bed.

2. Take scarf off hair. Study with bemusement the fantastical, gravity-defying shapes it has taken during the night.

3. Greet hair.

4. Greet specific curls. (Good morning, Todd.)

5. Spritz hair with water from tiny spray bottle. Fill spray bottle, spritz again. Shake head vigorously in manner of large dog.

6. Pause to evaluate spring-back-ed-ness of hair. Depending on various factors -- air temperature, humidity, air pressure, incoming storm fronts, number of days since last hair-washing, the will of God, your hair's sense of humor, and the current DOW index -- spritz and shake again.

7. Ask hair what it wants to do today.

8. Wait for answer.

9a. If hair's answer is one of the following:
"Sixties Wild Child," "Ethiopian Supermodel," "Adorable Ringlets," "Hipsterish Semi-Neglect,"

Then: Thank hair, shake hair at roots to eliminate that awkwardness at the top, tease some wayward strands into place (Come on, Todd. Really? Straight up?), and progress with the morning routine.

9b. If hair's anwswer is one of the following:
"Sideshow Bob," "Freakazoid," "Drunken Toddler," "Diana Ross in a Thunderstorm," "Little Black Girl with a White Mom," or "Drowning Poodle,"

Then: Tsk mildly (try to avoid startling hair), and gently-but-firmly pull hair back from face and use all available bobby pins to fasten hair in semi-submissive position. Then progress with the morning routine.

9c. If hair's answer is:
Unintelligible; A wordless shriek; Garbled ancient West African incantations and voodoo curses,

Then: If mild, cover hair with a voluminous scarf in chic/ethnic 90s Lauryn Hill manner. If severe, consider exorcism and/or head-shaving. Then progress with normal morning routine.

10. Leave the house.

This is What To Do When You Approach Your Car From the Passenger Side

2010-05-05T23:20:00.000-07:00

1. Notice -- and rue -- the caked-on bird droppings that have been accumulating every time you park in the shady spot behind your house.

2. Notice -- with chagrin -- the film of dirt, crisscrossed with Martian patterns where the dew, light rain, sprinklers, and bird droppings have run in rivulets down the side of the car.

3. Notice -- with bemusement -- that you seem to have lost another hub cab in the past three days to six months since you last thought to count your hubcaps.

4. Notice a flyer stuck under your windshield.

5. Angrily snatch it off and throw it on the ground.

6. Get curious and pick it up.

7. Read it.

8. Blush. Throw it down in the street again.

9. Feel guilty about environment and pick it up again. Look around for nerarest trash can. Decide ten feet is too far; put flyer on passenger seat with all the rest.

10. Start car and drive away.

This is What to Do When Your Debit Card and License are Stolen.

2010-05-01T22:16:00.000-07:00

1. Get a pepperoni and ricotta pizza from Luigi's.

2. Try to rent Layer Cake, or similar violent British gangster flick.

3. Rent instead Billy Elliot, or similar fluffy British tearjerker.

4. a. Try to get in contact with absentee roommates.
b. Try to get someone (anyone!) to come watch film with you.

5. Fail.

6. Try to eat whole pizza.

7. Fail.

8. Eat two slices of pizza. Watch movie. Tear up. Talk to yourself. Intermittently spout epithets at debit card- and license-thieves. Bring yourself down from occasional panic attacks by repeating e. e. cumming's "65."

9. (I thank you God for most this amazing day for leaping greenly spirits of trees and true blue dream of sky and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes, i who died am alive again today and this is the sun's birthday the birth day of life and love and wings and of the gay great happening illimitably earth. how should any tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any lifted from the no of all nothing human merely being doubt unimaginable you? now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened.)

10. Sleep.

Buffalo: Stages of Acceptance

2010-04-22T16:28:00.001-07:00

The Estrangement

Dear Henry's, dear Trader Joe's ... no upstate grocery stores can come close to your euphorically low prices on produce.

(Trader Joe's, darling, I will come see you in Pittsburgh if I can.)

Buffalo: Stages of Acceptance

2010-04-19T16:39:00.000-07:00

The Incomprehension

Where does one even find thigh-high galoshes?

Buffalo: Stages of Acceptance

2010-04-15T13:58:00.000-07:00

The Misgivings

The closest IKEA is in ... Pittsburgh? 3 hours, 34 minutes away.

Oh, wait ... there's Canada.

IKEA Burlington (1 hour, 9 minutes away), I am your new best friend.

Buffalo: Stages of Acceptance

2010-04-14T17:32:00.000-07:00

The Comfort

A yelp! search reveals that independent coffee shops exist in Buffalo.

A sigh of relief.

Buffalo: Stages of Acceptance

2010-04-13T12:38:00.000-07:00

The Mantra

It will be an amazing experience.

I will meet awesome people.

I will not die.

(Repeat, ad infinitium)

In Which I Discover Manifestations of an Indecisive State of Being

2010-03-30T20:37:00.000-07:00

On the 94 West...

"What do you think, Car? Do you want to move to D.C.? 'Four days of non-stop driving, no way,' you say? How about Boston? 'No way you'll get dug out of snow every day for nine months straight,' you say? So I guess that means no to Buffalo, too.

"How about Fullerton, Car?

"Fullerton sounds nice? Its temperature weather and relative proximity appeal to you?"

On the 5 North...

Like an OPERA SINGER: "Que seraaaaaa, seraaaaaaa ... whatever will be, will beeeeeeee ... the future's not miiiiine to seeeee ... que sera seraaaaaa"

Like BILLIE HOLIDAY: "Que seraaaaaa, seraaaaaaa ... whatever will be, will beeeeeeee ... the future's not miiiiine to seeeee ... que sera seraaaaaa"

Like ZOOEY DESCHANEL: "Que seraaaaaa, seraaaaaaa ... whatever will be, will beeeeeeee ... the future's not miiiiine to seeeee ... que sera seraaaaaa"

Like MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR: "Que sera. Sera ... whatever will be, will be ... the future's not mine to see ... que sera sera"

In Which I Am Puzzled by a Super Extra Friendly Idahoan.

2010-03-22T22:35:00.000-07:00

Her: "I'd like a large latte and a small white mocha, please."

Me: "Absolutely! Whipped cream on the white mocha?"

Her: "Yes, please. You know, your hair is just darling!"

Me: "Thank you!"

Her: "I bet that takes forever!"

Me: Puzzled. "Um, not really. I just, um, wash it and it dries this way. But sure, I guess it, um, takes a while to comb through sometimes ... ?"

We chat for a while about how lovely San Diego is, how cold Idaho must be, how cold I will be when I move to the East Coast this fall, etc. But while my tongue is extolling the wonders the San Diego springtime, my mind is occupied by two conflicting trains of thought.

The first goes something like: "Turn on espresso grinder, tap out used grounds from portafilter, pull shot ... pull shot ... two shots for the latte and one shot for the white mocha ... milk's poured ... steam milk for white mocha first, or milk for latte? ..." and so on.

The second is along the lines of: " 'I bet that takes forever!'? Does she think that my hair doesn't do this naturally? Does she think ... does she imagine that I wake up every morning at four and go at my hair with a quarter-inch-barrelled curling iron?"

This isn't an isolated incident. I've been asked similar questions before, questions like "Does your hair do that naturally?," though this is usually from Asian girls with hair as flat as mine is voluminous.

But Idaho or no Idaho, this woman must surely have seen curly hair before.

Considering her frank amazement at the hair spiraling from my scalp (defying both gravity and the logic of mainstream American hair), I somehow doubt it.

In Which I Am Accosted in the Street Outside Trader Joe's

2010-03-16T22:50:00.000-07:00

"What culture are you?"

This question is as abrupt as it is unprovoked. I ponder answering, but for only a moment, since:

A) I am in the middle of a road,
B) The middle-aged white man posing this question has just crossed the road toward me and is now backpedaling, waiting for my answer,
C) I really don't know how to answer this, besides with the obvious.

I see no legitimate route besides the obvious.

"American," I say.

"No, really, come on," he says, trying to keep pace with me as I reach the middle of the street.

"No, really," I say.

"I'm serious," he says.

"So am I," I say.

In Which I Try To Be Cool With The Disreputably Famous

2010-03-12T13:53:00.000-08:00

Exposition: That actor who plays the dad in the sitcom "Grounded For Life" is a semi-regular at our restaurant. Off the small screen, he is bearded, flip-flop-clad, and surly in a passive way.

Rising Action: Mr. Slightly Famous Actor and his companion, a young man who is disreputable-looking in an undercover-celebrity sort of way, come into the restaurant. Mr. SFA and Young Companion sit to eat. The servers and baristas buzz quietly, finding excuses to walk by their table. On one of my superfluous trips to refill coffees at table 52, I notice the fat, dog-eared scripts on the table in front of them. I hurry back to the barista station to share the reconnoitered information.

Conflict: Finishing their meal, Mr. SFA and Young C come to the coffee bar to refill their cups of Moto Brew before leaving. I happen to be on the customer side of the counter, wiping up a spill. I explain the regular vs. decaf placement to Young C. I want to say something really, really cool.

Climax: I gesture toward the fat sheaf of paper under his arm.

"Working on a script, huh?" I say, with such a herculean attempt at uber-cool wordliness that my voice trembles.

"What?" says Young C.

"Uh, WORKING ON A SCRIPT, HUH?" I repeat over the din of the restaurant.

"Yeah." says Young C.

I want to ask what it's about (but I don't care). I want to ask if he's an actor, too (but that would suggest a desperate, creepy sort of eagerness). I want to say something stunningly witty, something unforgettable, something that contradicts the ubiquity of my uniform and makes him instantly realize that I need to be his new best friend (or platonic date to the next major red carpet event, at least).

What I say is: "Cool."

Falling Action: Mr. SFA refills his coffee unmolested. I am too ashamed of the preteen awe in my voice as I said "Cool" to repeat my attempts at conversation with the disreputably famous.

"Cool." As if he'd just said something amazing.

"Cool." I'm pretty sure I nodded my head in a jerky little motion as I said it.

Denouement: Mr. SFA and Young C leave the restaurant. I feel distinctly un-cool for a minute and a half, until I tell the story to my co-worker.

"You talked to him?!" she asks, the italics and multiple punctuation marks nearly visible on her face.

And, suddenly, I'm cool again.

(Yes, I stole this photo from Google ... please don't prosecute me.)

Moments in the Life of the Marginally Employed

2010-02-19T20:51:00.000-08:00

Part IV: The Mission

As any of my roommates can (and will, with undeniable enthusiasm) attest, I am territorial in the kitchen. I can't watch someone cut an onion without hovering, suggesting alternate methods and finally attempting to gently shove them out to the kitchen (or at least into the safety of the breakfast nook).

This idiosyncracy of mine exists in the workplace, as well. At least when it comes to a coffee bar.

The first twenty minutes after I get to work, I rearrange things the way I like them. This is true whether or not I'm the only barista working. I assume that everyone else is indifferent to things like the precise placement of the soy and chai cartons in the fridge (open carton turned perpendicular to its unopened fellows, with the spout facing into the fridge).

The fridge must be stocked. The handles of the milk cartons must be on the right, so I can grab them quickly with my right hand. (The continual rearrangement of the cartons to the left tipped me off that my co-worker was a lefty.) Out of the six stainless-steel milk pitchers we have at the Mission, I only like the two smallest. Once in a while I'll use a big one, but only for multiple orders of hot chocolate. The other four get put on top of the coffee maker, along with the milk thermometer (thermomether, ha! I can tell 140* from 165* with the palm of my hand!).

There must be only one whipped-cream canister open. It must be on the bottom shelf.

Once I finally locate the knock-box somewhere in the bowels of the dish room, I put it carefully in its spot. (I am the only one to use this handy device, a stainless-steel square bowl with a bar across the top to "knock" used espresso into.)

And I'm ready to work. Sure, I might be pursued by a lynch-mob of annoyed co-workers within the month, but, really. Is it my fault I always know the best way to do things?

Moments in the Life of the Marginally Employed

2010-02-09T12:29:00.001-08:00

Part II: The Eggerses

6:05 p.m.

I'm sitting at the kitchen table in an upper-middle-class Ocean Beach home. I'm wearing boots, knee socks, tights, denim skirt, t-shirt, cardigan, scarf, and thin military-style "trench" coat. I'm also wearing one of the family's throw blankets over my knees. I'm also drinking a cup of scalding tea. I'm also shivering.

Beside me at the table is the girl who I watch two days a week. She's wearing her Warren-Walker gym shorts and a Warren-Walker t-shirt.

Technically, I suppose I'm a nanny. Mostly I say that I'm "watching" her. Mostly what I do is sit. I'm a sitter. Literally.

Due to the 12-year-old's disposition to distraction, it usually takes my pre-teen charge an average 3 hours to finish what could be easily 45 minutes of homework.

I generally show up to the house equipped with multiple clothing layers and a store of books, crocheting, doodling paper, and my iPod touch. The house -- at the crest of a windy hill in Ocean Beach, with tiled floors throughout for maximum cold-retention -- is often an icebox.

Tuesday and Thursday afternoons from about 4, when I get her home from school, to around 7, when the parents relieve me of my duties, the situation goes something like this:

(Silence. Scratching of a pencil. Then, I realize there hasn't been any pencil-scratching for a while. I look up from my book/iPod/crocheting. My nanny-ee is staring into space/ staring at one of the family's three exotic birds do something cute/ writing with glue on her own hand/ writing with glue on her binder/ picking at her nail polish/ etc.)

Me: "How's the homework going?"
She: Huh? Fine. I'm almost done. (Stares into space.)
Me: How many problems do you have left?
She: Huh? Oh, I don't know ... (counts) ... 27. (Picks up her pencil, then puts it down.) I'm going to get a snack.
Me: Right now? How 'bout after your math homework is done?
She: Brain food!

(To be repeated, ad infinitum.)

Moments in the Life of the Marginally Employed

2010-02-04T20:35:00.000-08:00

PART I: Banana Republic

Business is slow. I am folding shirts. I am folding shirts. I am folding shirts.

At this particular moment, I am folding Banana Republic's Pima Crew T-shirts for men.

There is an entire wall of them. Five shelves, four stacks per shelf. Approximately 12 shirts per stack. There are three colors, but it doesn't matter. I hate them all. Every single one of them.

Yesterday I worked a total of 12 hours at two jobs, both of which required me to stand for the duration of the shift. I wasn't supposed to work today, but a co-worker called in sick and the thought of 4 hours at $9 an hour was too much to resist. Which is pathetic.

I take a clean, soft, impeccably-folded white T-shirt and shake it flat. Then I lay it on the wide counter behind the register and smooth it out, my hands gliding over the sleek cotton with as much loathing as I can muster. My legs ache. I place the brown folding-board just so. I fold in the sides just so. I place the sleeves just so. I fold the bottom up just so. Then I whisk the board out of the folds of T-shirt. Just so, with a flick of the wrist. Then I place it on top of its fellows, with such exquisite tenderness that comes only through hatred. I rip the narrow size sticker off and align it with the one on the shirt below.

Then I grab the next shirt.

If I Were Courageous...

2010-02-01T22:18:00.000-08:00

I'd be able to do the singing part in Rock Band.

I would admit to myself and the world that I really don't like raw vegetables.

I would make croissants from scratch, instead of just talking about that one time I made them in high school.

I'd go to more movies by myself.

If I were courageous, I'd come to terms with the thought of leaving San Diego, my home for 5 years and the only home I've known as an adult, for somewhere new and not as cool. I'd be okay with the fact that I wouldn't run into friends in the grocery store, in the coffee shop, at the beach, at work, for a long time. Because I wouldn't know anyone, and no one would know me. And I wouldn't know the best place to get cheap breakfast, or the best place to ogle good-looking waiters, or the best place to just go and sit and work in peace because I won't run into anyone I know. Because that would be everywhere.

I'd be ... maybe not okay exactly, but beginning to accept the fact that wherever I move, I won't have roommates like the ones I have now. Unless lightning strikes twice. Which, as the proverb continues, it never does.

Tonight, I'm wading through grad-school panic, financial tremors, and general quarter-life hysteria. Tomorrow, I will still be wading knee-high. Maybe if I keep going, I'll find the courage along the way.

Because it needs to be shared.

2010-01-27T18:15:00.000-08:00

And also because I am too tired to think of anything myself.