How about a magic trick?

It was a few days before Christmas and I was about to finish the last of my holiday shopping and buy my dad his gift. It had been a particulalrly grueling day, and I was kicking myself for doing all of it in one day instead of a little bit at a time. So at that point, when people come up to me to ask me for things, I'll just give in. My phone number, some money, my social security number, I would have given it all away just to make it through. As I approached the final store, I was cornered by an amteur magician who said he could tear up my fifty and put it back together again. So he tore it in half, did some flourishing of his hands, and showed me my two halves again. He tried again, and in order for it to work, he had to cut it up again. Then he showed me four pieces of my fifty. Five minutes later my fifty was ironically in about fifty pieces, and he ended up resorting to paying me back in the quarters and half dollars he had saved to pull out of people's ears.  I then had to explain all this to the saleslady so she wouldn't look at me like I was the plague while I had to pay her in coins, which was all I had. As I walked out, I could see her looking at me and talking to one of her coworkers as they shook their head at me. It wasn't my fault, but I rushed out of the store with my head hung low, while half a block away I saw the magician enthrall a small crowd by pulling flowers from his sleeve.

The Morning Shift

I was scheduled to be at work from three in the morning until ten, so with plenty of time to spare I arrived at fifteen minutes until three. I thought that maybe I could warm up a little, grab a snack, and generally prepare myself. I was feeling pretty good about myself when I rang the bell. 

A few seconds passed before I rang the bell again. A few seconds isn't such a long time to wait, but I have to say that Converse are not the most appropriate choice for all-weather footwear. I pulled out my phone and began to call every number known to me from inside the office. As my buzzes and phone calls were being greeting by an increasingly intense silence, I decided to circle the building to see if they were using a different entrance due to the hour. On my way back to my original spot, I was spotted by the security guards. At this point, I was completely soaked in a brown hooded jacket wearing jeans and torn sneakers. I began to debate my outfit choices as I ran from the guards who assumed I was a vagrant trying to get in. When I turned the last corner someone from inside finally decided to pick up the phone, and by the time I reached the door I was let in. As I stood there dripping, the man who let me in asked me if I was supposed to be working. My mind immediatley froze and within the span of a second I did a lot of thinking, "Oh my god was I supposed to be where? Could I have slept in early? Should I stay because I already drove all the way out here? Did I just commit a misdemeanor?" All this was done in the millisecond before he said, "Just kidding! Come on in." 

It turns out that I spent half an hour in the rain simply because they were eating breakfast in the break room with the music on loud and they simply couldn't hear me. 

A good thing came out of this though, because now I know that if I decide to shoplift in the mall or anything I'd probably be able to outrun the security. Earlier I felt that I wouldn't be able to buy everyone Christmas gifts in time. Now though, I'm feeling much better about that. 

Taking the trash out

I have over the years become a true San Diegan. Despite having spent years on the Eastern Seaboard experiencing things like seasons and icy roads, as soon as it drops below 70 degrees, I put on boots, sweaters, and a parka, while I seriously contemplate moving to Valencia in Spain. Today while I planned my sojourn in the Starbucks downtown, a piercing sound crackled like a lightning bolt in my daydream and jolted me back to California. I peeked up from the top of my scarf to see what was going on, and I noticed that some woman was yelling at the poor bastard behind the counter. How dare he, the apparent lone worker at the establishment, serve the twenty other customers in front of him while she had to leave before her free parking expired. I kind of admired her passion, like she was a prosecutor at the Nuremberg Trials, railing against the atrocities committed against her, and everyone else in the world who had to wait over a minute for their non-fat lattes. She topped it off perfectly with her close, "FYI, your trash is full." Oh, snap. As she walked out, I thought of all the ways I could use that passion, to finally get back at people who cut me off in the freeway, who spilled their drinks on my shoe and got mad at ME, who just treated me as if whatever little mishap that just occurred was my fault. I gained confidence as I sat on the stool drinking my hot chocolate, until finally someone pushed by me and made me spill. As they turned in my direction, I automatically said to them, "sorry."

The Namesake

It's been almost a month since my latest oh so clever contribution to the literary world wide web, and I feel I have to explain: my neighbors in the apartment next door are getting a divorce, and since the walls of this particular complex have apparently been salvaged from a military bunker, I've spent the better part of the last few weeks with my ear firmly pressed against the tile wall of the bathroom, which by now has what appears to be an ice glaze on it since I left the window wide open for maximum listening ability. It's only been recently that one's moved out, so the fighting is over and I've gotten down to business. While I was massaging out what I initially assumed was a permanent honeycomb imprint on the right side of my face, I worked on putting a dent in my 400 message inbox and found that several people are interested in where the title comes from. Simply, it's something that I say to my sister all the time. The situation is never the same but the feeling is, and I'll elaborate with an example.

Today my sister and I decided on a trip to Guitar Center, and the traffic was absolutely monstrous. Understandably it's Christmas, and we are just passing a busy mall, but the freeway had been reduced to a stadium parking lot at maximum capacity. As we made our way inch by inch to the nearest exit, we proceeded to vent our frustrations on the only possible causes of traffic, at least in our minds. We decided on tourists from the Southwestern United States and drivers from Mexico, but mainly the former. Mexicans at least have been here often enough to go with the flow of traffic, but more often than not my poor car ends up plodding along the road as I watch both my fuel economy and gas levels fall nearly as far as my spirits, while Johnny Utah is holding up the traffic pointing at the sites and reciting everything he read about the University of San Diego while he was stuck in the airport security line. An hour and ten feet later, after my sister and I have sufficiently rallied our anger towards him, we finally see the cause of the hold-up: several severely mangled and twisted steel carcasses are lying on the side of the road, while emergency crews try to clean up the remains of the cars and clearing the road. We fell into an uncomfortable silence and as we exit off the road I turn to my sister and ask, "do you feel bad about yourself?"

21

I've decided that as I am steadily approaching the six-month mark past my 22nd birthday, it's about time I come to terms with having been 21. 

That blissful feeling you're supposed to get, that fawn-like excitement, all of it was lost on me. For most people it seems to take forever to get to 21. A month until and they're pretty sure that they should have turned 28 three years ago. Instead of celebrating with friends in a bar, I huddled in a corner in my room, lamenting the fact that if I'm lucky, a fifth of my life is gone forever. It's how I usually spend my birthday, in my Peter Pan fetal position. Luckily, Comic-Con generally absorbs the anxiety I have concerning these fateful days, and I realize that I'm far more comfortable watching the already small sum in my checking accounts swiftly whittled away over five days than think about my birthday. While the current economy has hampered my fiscal security, it does wonders for my overall anxiety, and I'm sleeping better than I have in months.

Twilight

I probably would go see the movie Twilight the day it comes out, but I've been tired of this movie for months now. As a diehard Gilmore Girls fan, I watch or Tivo the show every day on ABC Family, and within the last month there has not been one episode that I have seen that didn't show a Twilight trailer about five times. 

I feel like Twilight is everywhere this season, and while I have no problem with people being excited, I just saw a news report that focused on the rabid pre-teen army surrounding my local IMAX theater, all gnashing their teeth in excitement and insanity. There on my television screen was a minion talking to the camera about the story: "I think it's like exciting because, like, Bella and Edward get together? And he could, like, eat her cause he's like a vampire? And it's, like, so romantic because they end up married?" All of this she said with a straight face into the news camera. 

Because it's, like, epic?

Cute Overload Indeed

I'll admit it, and readily in fact, I really don't like kids. I don't get a warm and fuzzy feeling inside when I see them to silly kid things. In fact, I think it's stupid. And I hate the fact that I have to stop behind a bus with it's lights flashing, just in case a child stupidly runs across the road. I was never that dumb, and anyway isn't that how they learn?

But the thing is while I hate when kids are kids, I can spend hours watching my dog burrow her way under a blanket. When she accidentally rolls over a sincere "awwwwww" immediately escapes from my lips before I can stop myself. The hours I spend "working" is in reality spent looking at cuteoverload.com. I fail to comprehend how children are any cuter than ferrets, especially the baby ones.

Career Advice

"He became a writer because he failed at a career as an English teacher." I still remember my dad saying this to me one morning in ninth grade while driving me to school. This statement is, in itself, relatively innocuous. Except for the fact that my dad happened to be talking about William Shakespeare.

The thing about my dad is that he's career military, and groomed his children to pursue careers in medicine and business. My sister and I had no problem in following, and except for a period where we wanted be ninja turtles, it was the general rule of our home. Unfortunately for my dad, I learned how to read, and not long after I decided that I wanted to be a writer. When I expressed my interest, my dad immediately began to lecture. 

I fully expected it, and subsequently prepared myself. Somehow my parents have this magical ability to segue into anything during a lecture. During a recent argument with my mom she likened being in the car when I'm driving to being in a car during a hurricane, and five minutes later she had somehow managed to end up on my organizational skills.* 

So while my dad started to harp on how I should focus on swimming, I prepared myself for wherever he would swing the sonversation. I remember vaguely how being a professional athlete would be more rewarding, and all of a sudden I heard, "You know, Shakespeare is no success story." Like a newborn fawn just entering the world, I was completely bewildered as he talked about how professional writers were simply failures at another, clearly more respectable job. For the rest of the day I just kind of hazed my way through my classes, particularly in English. To this day I imagined that I looked like a cartoon, with my hair sticking up and an exclamation mark above my head, and my eyes the size of dinner plates.

*I don't have any

Would you like to try a different card?

It’s a particularly important election, but the question weighing on my mind is whether or not muggers accept Diner’s Club International. Not that I don’t care. I fully intend to vote, but I’m probably just going to hide in my room under a blanket until the results are announced.

 My friend was telling me a story about how he was mugged in a dark alley, and while I was listening I couldn’t help but wonder: do muggers still accept Diner’s Club cards?

To me, they still seem a figment of the past, where Ozzy and Harriet, after a disastrous Christmas dinner (oh, what a blast!) take their two sons to the local Mom and Pop for a quiet dinner, because, “Sons, it’s not the food that’s important, it’s that we’re all together.”  And while Harriet cuts Ozzy’s steak to fork it gently into mouth, he tenderly hands the cute-as-a-button waitress his Diner’s Club card. Ironically, my imagination places the card at a diner.

I do believe that the cards now have the MasterCard stamp on them, but if I were a mugger I might shank someone if that was the only card they produced. In my mind, the local news would come on, and after talking about the voting lines and Facebook profiles, they’d turn to the local news. “Sadly enough, not everyone can be as lucky as these young first time voters…” as they segued into the unfortunate homicide of the 110 year old man found in an alley behind the Mission Valley Denny’s.

In this tough economy, I find it hard to believe that anyone born after 1976 would take a diner's club card to steal. I myself might see it was one of those Barbie toy cards, those cards that teach girls from a young age that debt is super cool and fabulous. And a lesson I learned quite well, if I may boast. 

Personally, I think that it is one card that it's about time to get rid of. As you can see, it only leads to confrontations with supercentenarians, which no one wants to hear about. So let's save our old people: stop getting Diner's Club cards.

Little Person, Big World

Riding in the car with my sister and mom to Chino, I noticed a blue sign on a silver Mercedes that read "LITTLE PEOPLE ON BOARD." I was immediately excited at the prospect, because I rarely see midgets, particularly driving! I'm always curious. I mean, do they have some sort of lever and pulley system to work the pedals? Can they handle a manual shift? Do they have special seats? I always see this sign on my cars that says no one under 4'10 or under 90 pounds should be in the front. My mind worked faster than it ever had trying to figure all this out. At last, I was finally getting the answer to my question, and I could taste it as I peered over the door to see the answer to this mystery of life.

There, in the backseat, sat what appeared to be a twelve year old little blond girl, being driven by her very full-grown father. All of a sudden my curiosity turned to anger. I don't see the right that this little girl has to earn that sign. She looks way past five feet, certainly not little. At 22 years old, I am an inch under that height. If there's going to be any kind of accident, shouldn't she be the one to get hit? She's in a Mercedes so she's already got the safety advantage. Plus, she looks as if she's on her way to soccer practice, and the muscle mass I've got is equivalent to that muscle mass on our Chihuahua. There is no reason why I would choose to save her over me, besides that fact that I love me, and I would hate for me to die.

Stewing away in the backseat, I look around at our car, full of other very short people, and within seconds I'm completely convinced that the sign is on the wrong car.

My first time...

When I sat to write my first blog entry, I decided against writing about just that. But, in the course of events, I changed my mind, and I credit my laptop for aiding me in making that decision.

About an hour before I go to sleep, the laptop inevitably gets to that point before I do, and everything I try - shutting it and reopening it, plugging it in, holding down the power button - doesn't seem to work. After about half an hour of alternately pleading with, yelling at, and reasoning with it, it still just sits there like a tupperware dish full of spokes and nails and whatever they make laptops out of. I don't know what goes in a computer, but if soemone was building one and put a bike chain in there, I wouldn't think anything of it. I would feel enlightened at that point. Then I could tell other people about where the bike chain goes in the laptop, and subsequently mistranslate their looks of bewilderment as admiration of my ever expanding genius. 

The laptop, sans bike chain (maybe), sits idling on my desk. The next half hour is spent staring at the power light. It seems as if the light lets out an intermittent soft glow here, but it's late at night, and I'm thinking that my eyes are just telling me that it's glowing to let me know that there is some sign of life in my computer.  Either way, I end up writing my first blog not on my computer, but on the back of my grocery list which is the only piece of scrap paper I have nearby. 

It's at that point that the Apple ad comes on TV to mock me in its colorful splendor, and I'm just staring at my my computer waiting for it to die.