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 …