Murder by REST STOP

My man. SO BACK OFF. Just kidding. But, seriously. 

Well hello everybody! I’m sorry it’s been so long — I’ve just been supes busy (“supes” that’s cool people talk for super, in case any of you aren’t cool … which of course is not possible). Anyways, so I’m 23 now. Yeah, how ‘bout them apples.

I went to the land of Disney for the big two three and it was just fantastic. I was accompanied by my old roommates Ashley, Lexie, Rachel (who is an old roommate too except I was roommates with her in Africa last summer … which I should tell you about sometime), and Ryan — but we all call him Waddles. He doesn’t actually waddle, his last name just rhymes with waddles. Sometimes he waddles.

Disneyland was just beautiful — all Nightmare Before Chirstmas-ed out. And just so everyone knows, that happens to be my favorite movie of all time. Like, I’m serious. I’ve been in love with Jack Skellington since I was eight. Way before it became some weird gothic phenomena. Is it weird that I’m attracted to a skeleton? Not if he has the Danny Elfman’s vocal chords.  Then it’s not weird at all. So shut up.

The whole weekend in LA was pretty great. Lexie bought me my favorite cookies — which just happened to be breast cancer themed because apparently October is breast cancer month. So I ate breast cancer cookies — on my birthday. Thanks a lot breast cancer.

Anyways, since Ashley and I are both from the northern (and better) half of California, we carpooled back and the adventures were absolutely endless. Anyone who has ever driven through central California (Fresno, Bakersfield, Kettlemen City, Hell … etc.) will tell you the same thing — natural wonder as far as the eye can see. I know you can’t see my face right now but it has the dull expression on it that often accompanies sarcasm. In case you wanted to know what my face looked like — which you most definitely did.

Actually we did have one adventure at a rest stop … a rest stop that turned out to be NOT SO RESTFUL. It was actually not that exciting. But wouldn’t that be a great tagline for a scary movie about rest stops? I think so.

So anyways, we were at this rest stop and everything was going great until we walked to the bathroom and noticed something fishy. There was both a male and female door to two separate bathrooms except the men’s room had the usual white-stencil man while the women’s sign was nowhere to be seen. Instead, in its place was a small piece of torn-off, binder paper that looked like a convicted felon had written “Women’s Restroom” on it with the closest available pen. Just kidding, I actually have no way of knowing whether it was a convicted felon — but I mean, let’s be real. It was a rest stop. WHERE THE ONLY THING THAT STOPS IS YOUR LIFE.

Ok I’m done with the tag lines.

After reading this small parchment that seemed to be foreshadowing the danger that lie beyond the portal to the potty if I may— we both looked at each other as if understanding that we may be entering a room that will lead us down the road of therapy and relationship issues for the next 30 years.

And then she said it — the exact phrase that would have emerged forth from my mouth two seconds later if she had not said it.

“So is that like, covering up something that says ‘rape room?’”

As we both chuckled over the ridiculousness of that statement we pushed the doors open and I tried to act brave as I secretly scanned the room for any sign of the mass murderer who had written that note.

There was no mass murderer — only a hand drier that didn’t work. Which is just as bad as murder. Just kidding. A broken hand dryer is totally worse. 

In the Land of GIANTS

The exact amount of people that apply for every journalism job I have applied for since I graduated ... it's either that or I have a giant "DO NOT CALL ME BACK" watermark on my resume ... moving on.

SO MUCH HAS HAPPENED. It’s actually going to blow your mind right out of your socks … so hold onto those.

First, it’s over the hill and through the woods to San Francisco we go. Ya, I went to the bay area again — what of it. Anyways, I met up with some Pepperdine friends who included one of my college roommates from last year (whose name also happens to be Ashley … so she’s obviously great) and Zach who had just returned from his temporary position as a bartender in Chicken, Alaska.

As we embraced at the mass transit station somewhere between the bowels of Oakland and the epic Giants game we had gotten the cheapest possible tickets for — I realized how great it was to be in the arms of people who understood the 43 different quarter-life crises I go through on a day-to-day basis. They too looked tired, they too looked confused, and they too looked like they had also been wondering why they spent so much on a college education that only added debt to their youthful lives. I’m just kidding. College is totally important.

Anyways, after using our higher-educated minds to figure out the ticket machine, we plopped down on the bus and began the necessary catching up questions that always seem to severely put your life into a focus so sharp that it’s painful.  Zach is planning his trip to India, Ashley is getting weird job-offer phone calls from a company that doesn’t actually exist, and then there’s me. Applying for grad schools and looking into being a snow reporter for Sierra at Tahoe — a ski resort that’s not too far from my house.

Yeah, you read right — a SNOW reporter. What duties does that entail you ask? Well … a lot.  I would be responsible for reporting conditions on the mountain and finding leads for possible stories I could write. So it’s awesome basically. PLUS, I get to snowboard for free and I get free lessons and stuff. Not that I need free lessons. I’m just not really like … Olympic material. Example: the last time I went snowboarding I fell off the ski lift at the top of the mountain and when I went to get up, the next chair hit me in the back of the head. Thank god the ski lift operator took a break from hitting his bong long enough to look up and notice that there was a strange woman face down in the snow, appendages fully spread. By the way, it’s only alleged that he was high. But he was allegedly REALLY high. Oh and that was in Denver, Colorado when it was 7 degrees outside — and that is not alleged.

After Zach, Ashley, and I made it to AT&T Park in all of it’s drunken mob glory, we began our ascent to the seats made for the poorest of the poor — the viewing deck of left field.

This game however, was no ordinary game — it was against the DODGERS … of Los Angeles. And I’ve gotta say, there was something therapeutic about screaming “BEAT LA” in harmony with 2938752086528 other people from my home region (ß- that’s an exact count).  It really felt like we were all sticking to the man … or in this case the land we all three had called home only 4 months ago. A land that turns women into wafers and men into people that are attracted to wafers.

And we crushed them — we seriously beat them 10 to 2. And we even got to see a Dodgers’ fan get thrown out of the game for trying to ignite fury among an entire section of wasted Giants’ fanatics. Like, there’s being a badass and then there’s just being stupid.

After the game we made the mile-long walk back to the BART station and listened to Zach’s stories from the land of Sarah Palin while trying to block out the drunken, triumphant screams from the San Francisco fans that had flooded the streets.

After we made it back to Ashley’s house, which was only a short drive from the station, we did probably the best thing to do for anyone who is trying to remain fit and trim — we ate an entire pizza at 1 am and stayed up talking until 5. We got it all out at least — frustrations with the job market, frustrations with life, and which on-screen roles really helped Leonardo DiCaprio become a household name. Was it Gilbert Grape or Titanic? … All important things.

And now I’m back in black. And my 23^rd birthday is coming up. Which can only mean one thing … 2 more years until I can rent a car! Wow … nine years after I get my drivers license and I finally feel like I’m really capable of driving a car that’s not my own. But don’t worry Enterprise — I know that with great power comes great responsibility.

But seriously, they really should think about lowering that age — like, now. Because I’m thinking about going down to Disneyland for my birthday and just WHAT am I going to do if my car craps out? Not a darn thing that’s what.

I mean, I’m going with friends so I could probably just … borrow one of theirs. Whatever. 

Nineteen and Eighty-Four

Just like, moving Mt. Shasta/mountains in general. Not a big deal.

So sorry I haven’t posted in a bit. It’s not that I don’t love all 18 of you it’s just that I have recently discovered the majestic majesty that is the book, 1984. Like, HOLY CRAP. I haven’t been this obsessed with a book since … um … the first Twilight novel. I KNOW OK. I liked it. I mean, it was terrible but I liked it. I didn’t like the other three though — so don’t un-follow me. Ok great.

Anyways, it’s amazing. But I’m super political so that might explain my obsession.

So this is what I’ve been up to. A couple weeks ago I went with my mama up to the ol’ end of the trail itself, Oregon, to visit the ol’ 80 somethin matriarch herself — my grandma (there were a lot of ol’s in that sentence) — and she’s doing just great up there in her new assisted living home. Of course the first thing I asked her upon our arrival was if she had met any potential soul mates since she had made her debut to which she just smiled and said, “Well there’s this one man … but he’s been married three times.”

I suppose I had an I-don’t-see-the-problem look on my face because she continued with, “so he’s real petty.”

And while to the layman that may sound like he is a shallow and materialistic person, according to my grandma that directly translates to “he likes to pet people.” Which I guess means he’s touchy feely … gasp. But it’s like, he’s 85. What’s he going to do? … Don’t answer that.

Some other highlights from the weekend included, but are not limited to: driving back from Wal-Mart and thinking I was making a brilliant observation by breaking the silence with: “Do you guys understand that there are currently three generations of awesome in this car right now? Well four. I guess this would be a good time to tell you I’m pregnant.” And driving through Weed, CA on our way back home and hearing my mom say: “I’ll get a shirt that says 'I Love Weed' if you will.”

By the way, I’m totally not pregnant. And my mom made the cannabis comment completely unprovoked.

And so we returned to our little gold-mining town tucked away in a landscape that is both beautiful and yet seems to proclaim, “I have completely given up on my life goals.” A contradiction of sorts.

But alas, 1984 has inspired me not to succumb to the life/time vacuum that is Placerville. As I was driving around yesterday looking for “just for now” jobs I drove past a store that advertised a need for campaign volunteers for a particular political party I associate myself with and I quickly wrote down the number. I will call them tomorrow — Monday, the first day of the business week, and make it known that I wish to be of service. AND I WILL BLOW EL DORADO COUNTY/CALIFORNIA/WASHINGTON/AMERICA/THE WORLD AWAY WITH MY POLITICAL PROWESS. But they’ll probably just have me hand out some pamphlets. BUT THOSE PAMPHLETS WILL CHANGE THE COURSE OF HISTORY. Hopefully.

And my sister turns 19 tomorrow.

Crap.

I try to give her a little advice on her birthday every year seeing as she’s young and retarded and I’m like, so much older and wiser. But I have no idea what to say. I guess I’ll just go with the usual “don’t do drugs and other things of that nature,” card. I mean its worked so far. Kind of. No it totally has.

A Video of Sorts ... well not of sorts. It's a video.

So this is me and my sister. We don't like Justin Bieber — and let's face facts ... M. Night Shyamalan's new movie "Devil," has been begging someone to make fun of it since it's preview graced movie theaters everywhere ... so here it is.

What Didn't Stay in Vegas ...

A picture is worth a thousand words ... but read anyways.

This is the tale of a little trip I took to Vegas on Thursday … or as I like to call it: The Series of Unfortunate Events. But, unlike the popular children’s books, this is a story of lost luggage, 3-mile walks home, and lots and lots of … fun.

We will begin on the morning of the 26^th, the much-anticipated date of departure to the city of sin. The plane ride from Sacramento to Phoenix went off without a hitch and soon after landing I began my 3-hour wait until the seemingly innocent flight to Vegas. And let me just say, THANK GOD the Phoenix airport is breathtaking or else those three hours would have been excruciating — oh wait.

After boarding the flight I assumed would take me, in a timely manner, to my destination, I quickly realized that this was indeed not what an airline that won’t be named but starts with “U.S.” and ends with “Airways,” had in mind. I mean, I’m not like a computer genius or anything (don’t be fooled by the immaculate layout of my blog) but isn’t the computer supposed to work on an airplane before the pilots make the executive decision to board everyone on the plane, taxi away from the gate, and then shut the engines off therefore cutting off the air-conditioning supply to a metal tube that has now become home to 200 people sitting so close together that it would make that person who always breaks all personal boundaries in line at the grocery store feel uncomfortable … ?

After explaining the technical difficulties to everyone, the pilot reassured us that the problem should be a quick fix and we would be up and at ‘em in about 30 minutes.

Three hours later, we were on our way. If it weren’t for the couple from Birmingham, Alabama plopped right next to me, things would have gotten violent approximately 2 ½ hours before that. Explanation: Thirty minutes in, the stewardess walked up to me with the type of sass you can smell from 30 feet away and, while holding a tray of water, said, “do you want some or not.”

As I contemplated the best angle my fist should come at when it met her throat, the woman sitting next to me said, with a twang that gave me a whole new appreciation for Southern charm, “What crawled up you and died?” I personally was going to go with, “You better check yourself before you wreck yourself,” but I mean, whatever.

After finally landing in Vegas (I’ll spare you the details but suffice it to say that finding my luggage in baggage claim turned into a quest that would have made Sherlock Holmes proud), I decided it was time to forget what exact circle of hell the day I had just experienced had dwelt in and just let loose — in fact, it was time to forget things all together if you catch what I am drifting towards you.

The night went as follows (at least I think): hotel check in, discover hotel room has view of brick wall, get bracelet for all-you-can-eat 24-hour buffet, go to the buffet, free drinks at the Rockhouse, walk to a different club as alcohol metabolizes, accidentally rip buffet bracelet, ask around for tape, get tape, tape bracelet, make a convincing argument to barter free passage into a club that cost 40 big ones a person, get in, meet a guy who is simultaneously in the porn and snowmobile racing industry, become intrigued, then get creeped out, turn away and talk to friends instead, bounce out, and then … um … we walked home?

The next morning was great to say the least. Like REALLY great. And by great I mean it sucked.

One particular childhood friend of mine was so sick, she spent the whole day in the room with the curtains drawn and had the dubious task of explaining to the maid why there was a copious amount of towels that all mysteriously smelled like the inside of someone’s stomach. And yes, I did just use copious and dubious in the same sentence. It’s always been a particular dream of mine. So shut up about it.

As my poor friend made the wise decision of staying inside, I thought it would be just super if I showed the rest of the group (there was only one other person) the sights and sounds of the strip. In all my infinite wisdom, I made the suggestion that we all go to New York, New York because “it’s like, really cool.”

An hour and five near heat strokes later, I realized that maybe I should, in the future, work towards being a better judge of the distance between two points — especially when said points are in the middle of a desert and when said walk between these points is done in the middle of August … from 1 to 4 p.m.

Upon return to the hotel room/recovery ward, we found my friend in a much better position than when we left her. And by better position I mean she had turned over since I saw her last. After the 45 minutes it took my body to return to normal human being temperatures, we decided to go to In-n-Out and eat until we couldn’t feel feelings anymore (I’ll give you 9 bucks if you can tell me what TV show that’s from…). We were obviously successful.

Later, we came back to the room, watched Robo-Cop and passed the eff out. Not that Robo-Cop wasn’t exciting or anything. It’s just that it wasn’t.

The next morning it was back to the homeland. But little did I know U.S. Airways wasn’t quite done putting me through their series of mental, physical, and emotional tests. Long story short, I checked in 2 minutes after the time I was allowed and they made me take a later flight, which in turn made me miss my original connecting flight to Sacramento, which ended up scheduling a second, three-hour date with the Phoenix International Airport that afternoon. Just when I thought the first time wasn’t enough — touché Arizona.

Moral of this story: Don’t mess with Alabama, I should have paid attention in geometry, and U.S. Airways can suck it hard.

Weddings, World Wars, and Who?

I don't understand this sign, but I respect it ... much like San Francisco ...

Hello all … three of you. I MEAN MILLION OF YOU. I come bearing stories of the week and a half since we last spoke. And there’s a lot of exciting stuff, trust me. You may want to sit down — although, why would you be standing up. Unless you like to stand up and read things in which case whatever. Live and let live.

Anyways, we’ll start in the majestic land often referred to as the Bay Area, a land of ever changing gay rights, pot, and lots of fog. Even though those three descriptors have absolutely nothing to do with why I went there, they seem to sum it up in a way I accept as truth — so shut up about it. Off topic.

Anyhow, my mom, my sister, and I travelled to this geographical region to visit some friends of the family and live it up. Mission accomplished I’d say — our days consisted of getting up whenever we damn well pleased, leaving the house at some point, and coming back to play badminton until the sun crept over the beautiful landscape that is Redwood City, CA. And yes, that is where Scott Peterson was convicted. Remember that whole thing? This story just got a whole lot more interesting right? Wrong. This has nothing to do with that. But please, read on.

On the three-hour drive home I somehow started talking about World War I and didn’t shut my trap until we were pulling into our driveway. Three hours of me talking — about WWI. That has to be a record. Hence, it probably shouldn’t have surprised me that my sister was slumped over and enjoying a nice REM cycle while my mom was nodding her head to show her interest in the effect the Treaty of Guaranty had on British-German relations while it was completely obvious that she had been tuning me out since minute two. But moving on …

The next day, it was off to Walnut Creek to go to my cousin’s wedding and see a side of the family I hadn’t seen in years — my mom’s. She has six brothers and sisters so there are a freaking lot of people. As per usual, we were late and walked in the side door as soon as people began to walk down the isle. Nothing like sitting down too hard on the wooden bench and having your mom whisper but more like yell at you from the other end of the isle to scoot down more to make the entire church despise your respective branch on the family tree.

I’m blaming my mom for that one. At least I tried to be quiet. She really couldn’t have given a crap that intertwined with the “Here Comes the Bride” melody flowing from the organ, was her harmonious voice making up a whole new set of lyrics that went a little something like: “Hey Ash, you have like three more feet down there right? Do you think you could move over a little bit because I have my big purse today and I’m not putting it on the floor because it’s new and I don’t want people to step on it or anything. Oh and did you bring your camera because if you did can you take some pictures of the family while we’re here because I don’t really have any new ones of all 3784658 of us …”

What every little girl dreams of on her wedding day. I know that’s what I dream of — a guest you want to kick in the pants.

The rest of the wedding went off pretty great. I got to sit next to my favorite gay uncle at the reception. Well, he’s my only gay uncle but he’s my favorite — so he’s my favorite uncle who happens to be gay. Let me know if that’s not comin’ together for anybody. I hadn’t seen him since I was 18 so we had a lot to catch up on — life, graduation, boys, and why there was a giant vase in the middle of our table that had both candles floating in it AND fish. We weren’t sure if PETA would be tickled about that one. Indeed, by the end of the night all but one were stone cold dead. Well, I wouldn’t say “stone cold” because I think the reason they passed to the great beyond was because the candles made the water reach near boiling temperatures. But alas, they are in a better place now … and by that I mean they were most likely flushed down the toilet at the end of the night. Better? Maybe …

After the wedding we made the long drive back home and in the days following I continued applying for every job you can imagine unless what you are imagining is selling my body for recreational use. In which case you would be mistaken. Except I might have to look into that pretty soon. Student loans are on the horizon — which means stripping is not far behind it. I kid … kind of.

Yesterday however, my mother and I made the executive decision to get In-n-Out (where I used to work … a lot) after I got fingerprinted for the Peace Corps. Yeah, I signed up for the Peace Corps. It doesn’t pay as much as stripping but I’ll be like helping people and stuff … AND/OR SINGLE HANDEDLY CHANGING THE LIVES OF THOUSANDS OF THE LESS FORTUNATE … but, probably just helping out here and there.

Anyways, as we pulled up to the pay window, I noticed something familiar about the person reading back our order. Five seconds later after he asked me if my cheeseburger was animal style or regular, I realized that it was Matt. A guy I had worked with at the Placerville In-n-Out six years ago when I was still so young AKA retarded. He really put the sugar in my cookie in those days, the miracle in my whip, the wind beneath my wings. And now here he was. Here I was. And here my mom was. Smack dab in between the two of us handing him money. As he handed her back the change I leaned over and said, “Hey, we used to work together up in Placerville remember? It’s Ashley … ?”

As the words left my mouth I studied his face for any hint of recognition and then I realized … he had absolutely no flipping idea who I was. He apologized for subconsciously not deeming me important enough to remember and my mom drove forward and graciously did not laugh in my face. I did though. I mean, it’s funny. And don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I look different than I did when I was sixteen but c’mon! How could you not remember THIS! … that was a joke. I’m trying to get my body image up for when I start prostituting in a week.

Maybe I should just work at In-n-Out again. That way Matt can put the cherry on my sundae and completely block it out 6 years later … the possibilities are endless.

The Miracle (Starbucks) on 34th Street (Main St. Placerville)

Pour some sugar water on me ... in the name of staying up

for another 3 hours applying for jobs.

Greetings loved ones. I am sorry to report that this entry will not be as travel-filled as the past couple have been. Indeed, the only real travelling I’ve been doing is from the couch to the refrigerator — and occasionally to the shower. And by occasionally I mean OCCASIONALLY. Just kidding I shower. It’s just that I think that life should be about more than just looks you know? That may or may not be my excuse for not showering.

Anyways, if this accidentally starts to sound like a cover letter, I apologize as I’ve written and applied to about 39825783946598 jobs in the past couple weeks. And no, that was not just me running my fingers across the number keys. That number is an accurate reflection of the amount of times I have released my resume into cyber space with a blind faith that I will eventually hear back from someone — a thought that I am beginning to think I have pulled out of my backside region. Every day on Facebook it’s the same ol’ thing. Everyone posting statuses about how they just landed the best job ever and life is just sooo great. Well shove it.

Ok, that sounded really bitter. But when you’ve just spent 200,000 big ones on an education that has so far only made you more dependent on others than when you were 3, you tend to become a little bitter. Bitter like a lemon. Or those cumquat things that, I’m going to be completely honest with you, I thought were baby oranges for a good portion of my late teens/early twenties. So like up until a month ago. Maybe that’s why I’m unemployed. Well geez if I knew that was going to be a test maybe I would have asked sooner why those stupid orange bushes outside my friend’s house never grew oranges that were bigger than an inch. I just figured they had vertically challenged trees. How was I supposed to know? Crap.

So this has been my life — waking up, showering (….), going to Starbucks, applying for jobs, and repeat. Throw in a couple episodes of The Office and really stupid scary movies about three or four times a week and you have a day in the life of Ashley. Come on in, the waters’ fine. Only if you want to though. Because the water is warm, but boring. Didn’t know water could be boring did you? It takes talent.

Speaking of me, I went to Starbucks today. Shocking. But this was no ordinary Starbucks. No. This was THE FIRST STARBUCKS I EVER WENT TO EVER IN MY LIFE. Of course I was about 14 then. I remember it as if it t’was yesterday. My dad opened the smudged-glass door unto the bustling café of wonders and legal-stimulant addiction. As a reminder, this was in Placerville, so by bustling I mean there were five people in there.

Anyways, as my innocently eager eyes scrolled down the menu (a menu that by the time I went to Pepperdine I would be able to recite backwards while intoxicated and solving a Rubik’s cube) I found my poison — a mocha malt. Now, because I was young and uncultured, I had not the foggiest idea that a “venti” meant the biggest freaking cup in the whole world. I mean, shoot me but I thought “tall” was supposed to be the large one — forgive me, I knew not what I was doing.

So there I stood waiting at the counter with my father, so proud of my choice yet so blindly unaware of the error in judgment I had made. As the barista called out my dad’s grande black coffee and my larger-than-my-head blended drink, my heart was filled with both joy and confusion as to why anyone could ever possibly want a coffee that big. Of course now I just have no idea why anyone would order a tall. I mean c’mon, it’s not even worth it.

So I grabbed my 10,500-calorie drink jubilantly and skipped out the door and into the car — sipping all the way. Five minutes later on the hairpin-turn drive home, I felt like my stomach wanted to be anywhere but in my body. I didn’t go back to Starbucks for like a year. Actually, the day I went back was the day I got my drivers license. I was again, with my dad — and it was the same Starbucks. And so began my addiction.

And now here I am — then just a naïve 14-year-old girl, now a mature, sophisticated, and unemployed 22 year-old woman. Just livin’ the dream — one day/venti iced coffee with room for cream at a time.

Damn you Dad, damn you.

Belle of the Bar

The Haunted Mansion ... the only thing I know about the South ... and it's in Anaheim. Sad?

As I pen this, I listen to the gentle hum emitting from an ex-roommate of mine as she sleeps soundly and with lady-like elegance beside me — and by that of course I mean her arm sporadically flails towards my face unannounced and she sounds like a grizzly bear with a sinus infection. I’ll get her back tonight though when I slowly cocoon myself in her blanket and act like I’m in stage 10 REM when she tries to take it back. Moral of the story … don’t freakin mess with me ... when I'm asleep.

So anyways, this is my last night in Southern California, at least for a while and it marks the end of a super weeklong adventure. The first day of this friend-visiting journey began in Malibu when I saw “Inception” and remained comatose for the remaining portion of the day trying to figure out what exactly happened. And trust me, its awkward being comatose for that long. Like, you probably shouldn’t operate heavy machinery. Or try to talk to people.

That night I slept at a friends house where it is apparently okay with everybody that the air conditioning be seen but not heard and/or turned on. Henceforth, I lost about 15 pounds in five minutes just sitting on the couch. You don’t even want to know how much I lost when I walked to the fridge. If only it were that easy … that’s what she said.

Bright and early the next morning it was off to meet with my aunt and uncle at the happiest place on earth — or a place that is kind of nice and reminds me of childhood but kind of bugs me now that I’m an adult because it just doesn’t make any economical sense to charge five big ones for a bottle of water — but is still pretty great. I would just like to go on record and say that I don’t hate Disneyland. In case there were any confusion. But c’mon, it’s flipping water.

The next day it was off to San Diego — or, that one city that is now consistently referred to as female genitalia 10 years after Anchorman came out. It was funny for the first year, but lets be serious. Germans don’t know anything about whale sexual organs anyways. Unless they’re Arian whales. Then they might know something. But I doubt it.

Anyways, I met up with Kasie, mah best friend of about 10 years (so around the time Anchorman came out?), and we freakin lit the town up! Kind of. We went to this bar called In Cahoots where there was a lot of line dancing. So, of course, I did the only thing a normal girl with no knowledge of Southern culture would do in a bar that required a cowboy boots and a lot of kick-ball-changes — about 10 tequila shots. Just kidding. Or am I? Ya I’m kidding. Maybe …

And now we come to how I arrived next to Lexie, the girl I am proud to say shared a room with me for the entirety of my last year in college — and by room I mean a 10-foot by 10-foot carpeted area that makes me think I can understand all too well what my ancestors were going through when they were living in a broom closet with 20 other people.

I drove 30 minutes north to see this ex-roommate of mine three days ago and it’s been fun-filled ever since. The first day she woke me up at 7 am (yes, the world DOES exist at that time … I know, I was surprised too). Let me make clear though that the only way she pried me out of her bed sheets was by gently shaking me and whispering “Starbucks … *shake, shake* … Starbucks …” I promptly whispered back, “I hate you … so much.”

The next day she woke me up at 9 am (she is seriously pushing this whole friendship thing) and we headed down to the beach to play volleyball with some friends. I may, or may not get an Olympic nod for my performance by the way. But that’s only a side note. That night we saw Oklahoma where I was told to move my Oklahoma to a different location during intermission because apparently I was being a fire hazard and blocking the aisle. Mind you, I was sitting in a lawn chair smack dab in the middle of the stairs but I was just trying to get in the mood. They sit in lawn chairs while watching musicals in Oklahoma right? That was my argument anyways.

So now here I am. Getting ready to venture back into the wild/Placerville to live with the family that made me the Olympic volleyball, tequila shot taking, Southern culture embodying person I am today. And hey, if this is National Geographic … please, for the love of all that is holy hire me. Placerville sucks.

The (Uni)cycle of Life

Life is not unlike this nuclear power-plant that is uncomfortably close to my house ... ya it sucks big ones but you wouldn't want it to melt down would you? No. No you wouldn't.

Well hello there lady and gentleman (I’m only assuming of course that I have about 2 readers … give or take). I am writing to you from the majestic wonderland that is Santa Barbara, California … from a five foot by 4 ½ foot room in someone’s backyard — I get around. See now, since my iPhone (the first one … which I guess makes it a great grandma now) is not necessarily ringing off its’ proverbial “hook” with job offers in the journalism industry, I’ve resorted to stripping. Or babysitting … but mostly stripping.

Anyways, the family I work for has most recently moved to Santa Barbara from Calabasas. For my most avid reader (you know who you are) you will recall the entry where I describe watching The Bachelorette with the dad. We call him Esteban, even though that’s not his real name. I actually don’t even know why we started calling him that. It would be much more convenient to call him by his regular one syllable name. But we don’t. So get over it.

So here I am, moving up the ranks to being the next non-gay woman form of Anderson Cooper with only this computer, a claustrophobic white-walled room with no air conditioning, and a dream. It’s no CNN, but whatever. CNN can suck it.

As you can see, I try to mask the all-time low my unemployment has brought me to with sprinklings of humor … and for the most part that’s been working for me. So that’s good. But last night I received a text message from a friend from college who had moved to Chicken, Alaska to work in a bar after graduation. I’m actually not kidding. Like, that’s not me trying to be funny. It happened.

So anyways, the text message read “Is it too late to call you? I have an urge for an Ashley update and I’m not sure if I’ll last till the morn without it.” After the initial shock that someone is curious about what’s been going on in my life (just kidding, I know there are a crap ton of people who are super curious … ) I went into a panic.

“Oh my god, what am I going to say? I should probably make something up, but then he’ll start asking questions about the celebrity that I said I made out with and then what? Crap, why do people have to be so curious about what I say anyways? It’s not like I would say that it was an A-list celebrity, so why should he care? I should probably make something else up … something non-profity …” So when he called I told him I had been working for Amnesty International these last 2 months.

Just kidding. I told him the truth about my woes of unemployment. And then he told me he was going to India soon. And then I wished I had stuck with my NGO story. Next time.

As the conversation came to a close, he fell silent for a few moments and I knew it was because he was contemplating what we had discussed about our individual futures. But then he spoke all of a sudden and apologized for being quiet, but these three children just ran at him and were pointing and he panicked. He quickly realized that they were after the unicycle he was standing in front of and resumed our conversation. That’s got to be a metaphor for something. Like life comes at you fast but it’s not always what it seems … or behind every great man there is a unicycle.

You decide.

The Wandering Jew

I am not even joking, this plant is called a Wandering Jew ... I'm thinking Hitler was involved.

So I’m back in the city that never sleeps — but has to be up and ready to go for a morning jog at about 6 am because it just gets to be too hot and we all know that sweat glands clog our pores and that would just be really gross because what is that hot barista at Starbucks going to think if he sees me ordering my nonfat latte with like a blackhead or something?? … So I’m in LA.

Oh and I went on that date with Mr. Write (we’ll call him that because he’s a writer and such) — and it was surprisingly not bad/awkward/get me out of here immediately. We met at Starbucks (thank GOD I didn’t have any blackheads) and there he was. Wearing aviators and a green striped shirt that made me think of high school. We started out talking about things people talk about and short walks on the beach … such a fairytale.

As it was approximately a million and two degrees outside, I suggested that instead of discussing life’s greatest mysterious on what felt like the surface of the sun, we go inside Borders. He then proceeded to show me his favorite sections that included fiction and mystery … nice. When he asked me to show me mine — favorite sections that is — I slowly pointed a quivering finger towards Twilight. Just kidding … it’s still too soon to pull the Twilight card.

We then ventured over to the movie theaters to watch Toy Story 3 when I bet him (money obviously) that he would be the first one to cry when Andy went off to college. And by the way, damnit Andy … why did you have to grow up!? You were supposed to be freakin 9 forever! …

Anyways, he quickly assured me that as a person raised Jewish, he was trained not to cry. I am still confused. I always thought that was a Mormon thing.

Finally, as the date came to a close and we sat and talked … “talked” … out in the parking lot, we watched the sun go down over the massive power plant across the street and I listened to him as he told me about some of the craziest things I’ve ever heard happen to a person. And my mama always told me to date someone crazier than yourself so you can only imagine my excitement. Anyways, he’s interesting.

But alas, I am now back down in the city by the bay — I mean, the ocean — and who knows when I will again venture up into the nothingness that is Placerville. Soon I gather due to the wonderousness that is unemployment. And maybe the next date we go on won’t feel like high noon in the great Sahara desert … a girl can dream.

Illegally Blind ...

Be cautious ... with both sparklers and "sparks"

So how do I plan on spending this, the weekend of our nation’s birth of independence from the British canal of tyranny? Why, I plan on spending it doing blind and illegal things ... in Placerville. I just made the epic 7-hour journey from the land of gold diggers to the original land of actual gold diggers only 2 days ago. *sigh* it feels like it was only yesterday ... wait.

First, we’ll start with illegal. I plan on lighting a lot of sparklers. Badass right? Well, in the majestic majesty that is the thriving metropolis of Placerville, CA it is. So shut up. Something having to do with the human to tree ratio and fire.

The blind part is slightly more interesting. I’m going on a blind date on Monday with a boy from Auburn. I’m hoping he’s actually blind though because let me tell you, these roots need a TRIM. But maybe he could un-blind himself for a minute because I plan on wearing a freakin foxy outfit — maybe. But if he were blind there wouldn’t be much point. But he’s not — so that’s good.

But I’ll definitely pop on back and tell you how that goes. I’m nervous … about the sparklers not the date …

Bachelorette

Screw you romance ... pun intended.

Sweet home California. This state has been home to my 5’10” bod since I was born in its northern region 22 years ago — so I’d like to think I’m a little bit of an expert on the people that live within its tan lines … I mean borders. Except for men. Those ones are tricky.

At age five I had my first crush on a boy named Chad whose coke-bottle glasses made him look like a mad scientist with anxiety issues. It was pretty serious. Oh, the story followed the same boy meets girl pattern — except this boy and girl had just been potty trained two years prior and thought that adulthood meant getting to eat as much cookie dough as you wanted (which is a part growing up I have taken very seriously … and with a crap ton of chocolate chips). He brought me flowers to class and we spoke tenderly of what it would be like to be married while lying beneath the monkey bars and getting sand kicked in our faces by the others running past us in the heat of a game of tag. How immature of them.

And then it ended. After kindergarten graduation we both realized we were simply headed in different directions. I was enrolled in Ms. Ordonez’s first grade class and he was in Mr. Johnson’s — it was for the best that we both moved on.

And that was about it. The rest is just one sad tale of things-coming-to-a-grinding-halt after the next. In middle school I was too shy to talk to the male species. In high school I was too aggressive. Literally, when I was fifteen, I had someone straight up run away from me. The part that sucked about that whole situation was that when he ran away, he ran right into the classroom where my next class was … because we had that class together. Most awkward ninety minutes of my life.

And then college happened. Or should I say college in L.A. … And actually college wasn’t THAT different. Do you see what I did there? I made you think that I was having all kinds of affairs behind bookshelves and in my entirely too small dorm room while my roommate was away at home when in actuality none of that happened — the library was far too small … plus, I’m a lady, I don’t do that stuff … what?

But here I find myself. A college graduate of two months — unemployed, single, and loving it! … Except not loving it quite enough to resist the temptation to sign up for Match.com. Don’t judge. So I succumbed to all the commercials featuring two attractive people staring hungrily at each other over their plates of chicken parmesan and salad … wanna fight about it?

I suppose this blog will serve as a diary of things to come. As I move back and forth between the city of angels with breast implants and one of northern California’s smallest mountain-towns (my home), I will take you on this journey of love with me.

As a side note, I am currently writing this from the comfort of the living room of the LA family I babysit for … while watching the Bachelorette … with the dad … who also watches The Hills … but is not gay.

Oh life.