Friends

SUBJECT: is anyone else as lowbrow as me?--- "Santastic! Santa's Fantastic Musical Experience!": Rudolph, Frosty, and the Grinch rub elbows in this holiday extravaganza.

FROM: T
TO: p-huong, bex, A, Ell
Nov 22, 2009 at 1:32 AM

theres a live christmas themed show called 'SANTASTIC' in sj and its playing every fri/sat/sun until christmas. tickets are $18 for a limited time ($30 otherwise for students).
anyone interested?

if not something as classy as santastic, anyone wanna see the nutcracker or some other wintry show?

FROM: p-huong
Nov 23, 2009 at 11:00 PM

Sorry, but no go for me. Gotta save up money and focus on MCATs. ::sigh:: Hope everyone is doing great.

-p

FROM: Ell
Nov 23, 2009 at 11:08 PM

no go for me either.

FROM: A
Nov 23, 2009 at 11:17 PM

no, no T. sorry

FROM: T
Nov 24, 2009 at 6:50 PM

did yall wait 3 days to crush the christmas spirit in 18 minutes together?

FROM: bex
Nov 24, 2009 at 8:45 PM

Aside from playing multiple versions of "Last Christmas" on repeat, I didn't realize you had any Christmas spirit.

FROM: T
Nov 25, 2009 at 2:07 AM

wham's masterpiece is the very epitome of marvelous christmas pop songs.
i may not know a lot about baby jesus, but i am sure santa would approve of hilary duff, 1/2 of savage garden, and, of course, jimmy eat world and their take on a classic christmas song.

FROM: A
Nov 25, 2009 at 8:08 AM

I don't think santa, jesus, or anyone approves of savage garden, no matter how small the fraction. and hilary duff, T? her hash on any song automatically disqualifies the piece from the "masterpiece" category.

Happy Thanksgiving guys! Let's hang out soon.

FROM: T
Nov 25, 2009 at 3:10 PM

DO YOU NOT REMEMBER 'truly, madly, deeply'?!?!

Truth

I'm sitting at Chicago's O'Hare airport waiting for my connecting flight to NY.

It was 42 degrees when I stepped outside in San Jose this morning, but I didn't complain about how my nipples were going to freeze off, like I normally would have. (Okay, I was wearing a padded bra and a vest, but that's besides the point.) I felt strong. And invincible. Today I am leaving for my medical school interviews. And I felt like I was going to kick ass.

Two years ago I was sort of seeing this guy and we were talking about our plans post-graduation.

"Med school?" he asked me.

"Um well I thought about it and I'm going to take the MCATs, but I don't really know if I want to go to med school. I don't know if it's the right step for me. I've been looking in to genetic counseling and it seems really interesting, so I might apply to a grad program."

And I'll never forget what he said. "I don't believe that. You want to go to med school, you're just scared." In that moment, I loved him. I loved him because he figured me out and he barely knew me, because he said so easily what I couldn't even admit to myself. And I felt even more naked than I already was.

The truth is, when you really want something, you have to act like you don't. Oh, no big deal. You have to protect yourself from possible disappointment. You tell as few people as possible that you're applying to medical school because making it a real thing that's out there, that everyone knows-- it feels like you're jinxing it. It's like telling people what you wished for when you blew out the birthday candles.

But the REAL truth? The 100% too-legit-to-quit truth is that I DO want this, more than anything else. If I don't get accepted anywhere, it WILL be a big deal. I'll go into hibernation, cry for days and days, lose ten pounds, wear sweats in public (chyeah right, I would never sink THAT low...), and cry some more until my tear ducts become non-functioning.

Then my family and friends will come and tell me that they love me and that I'm wonderful no matter what I do, because that's the kind of people they are. After a certain period of time, I'll finally believe them. I'll muster the strength to crawl out of bed. And life will go on.

I want this. And I know I deserve it.

Now I just have to convince the admissions committee.

Wish me luck.

Dudes dig a chick'stache

My Halloween festivities commenced Thursday night. My roommate Lauren (aka Cleopatra) and I partied with my friend Diana (aka Miley Cyrus) and her law school classmates. Nothing like watching your future lawyers, politicians, and Supreme Court justices swigging Jack Daniels straight from the bottle. The law school rented out an entire club that was built in 1926. It used to be a bank and has these beautiful private rooms, one of which Lauren and I snuck into:

I was a hipster lumberjack. I left my wood-chopping hat in the car because it made me sweat too much when I danced.

The event was your average shit show, but HOLY CRAP was the place packed. I mean like 600 sloppy law students and their friends with barely enough room to slop around. Apparently people still waiting to get in were pissed when the bouncers let a bunch of dudes dressed as firemen straight inside. Only, they were real firemen making sure the club wasn't over capacity.

This weekend I was in Huntington Beach for great-gram's funeral. I always talk about how big my family is, but even I was surprised to see them all in one place. It was a really fun funeral. I mean yeah it was kinda sad I guess, but the woman was 97 years old fercryinoutloud.

Saturday night I took the kiddies out trick or treating. Initially, only five kids plus me were going, but since I am the cool, fun older cousin, they all wanted to go. We did pretty good for the last-minute costuming.

Two witches, a bat, a newspaper boy, a sign-twirler, Darth Vader, a judge, a ninja, and of course a lumberjack

Man, it's too bad I didn't a picture of the loot they reeled in. When we got home to grandma's house, the kids dumped everything on the floor to trade candy and throw away the gross stuff... it looked like a piñata the size of a fucking Mini Cooper burst open in the living room.

All weekend I was playing the role of a soccer mom-- hauling a flock of children around everywhere, driving a big ass van, going to pick up four large pizzas for dinner-- and it was fun, but it's nice to be back to my normal, single 22 year old life.

I don't have to:

-feel bad for ordering a cocktail with dinner

-brush hair

-answer questions like "How do clams make pearls?"

-hide the condoms in my purse

-make sure everyone washes their hands after peeing.

My life is great.

She works hard for the money, so hard for it honey

Boy oh boy. If we're friends on fbook, you might know that Stella was hit on Monday. Nothing big, I'm fine, some dude just wasn't paying attention and backed into her in the parking lot. Yesterday the appraiser came to give Stella a look-over. She (the appraiser) was bizarrely hot. If I was that hot I certainly wouldn't be rolling around on the ground examining underbellies for a living. (Or WOULD I?)

Anyway, when she finished taking pictures and punching things into her computer she gave me the estimated cost of repairs. And I nearly shat my pants. $994! I mean, I love Stella and any damage to her is a freaking tragedy, but NINE HUNDRED AND NINETY FOUR DOLLARS? If it weren't for insurance, I'd be out there with some nail polish and a fucking hot glue gun.

Today I received something of a similar amount that left me severely underwhelmed--my retirement savings. In the two months I was employed with the University of California, I saved... waiiiiit for it... $919.62.

A few years ago I bought a finance book called Smart Women Finish Rich. I read about half of it before it started to collect dust. I didn't plan ahead. I didn't invest my money. I just went on pretending I didn't know what 401(k) or IRA meant. In my defense, it's kind of hard to save up money when you're unemployed and paying for college (thank the blue and gold-wearing Jesús I didn't go to U$C).

In response to my last post, a friend suggested I write a book to leave my mark on society. I have decided to take him up on that and write a how-to book in response to Smart Women Finish Rich. I shall call it Dumb Chicks Marry Rich. You get to reap the benefits of boisterous wealth and financial security without having to wait for your savings to become fully vested!

Step 1: Shoes to snag a jillionaire

Sorry men, you're on your own.

October 16-23

I had a lovely three-part birthday during which I felt very loved, though I have likely developed diabetes from all the sugar (one cake, two ice cream cakes, a dozen Sprinkles cupcakes, a bag of M&Ms, and another bag of assorted candies). It was perfect. I'm not really big on receiving gifts and getting to see my friends and family was honestly the best thing EV-VUR.

My great-grandmother died. Maybe I'm supposed to feel bad for not visiting her in the short time between her stroke and her death, but I'm not. I saw her a few weeks ago and she was livelier than any 90-something year old, giving me fruit and candy and laughing her cackley old-lady laugh while she showed me how many sweaters she had on (FIVE!). That's the last memory I want of her, not the way she was at the end. I guess that makes me pretty selfish.

Today Nicole wrote a post entitled, "turkey sandwiches, over-sharing, and the impact of social media on our ability to just shut the fuck up" and I thought it was brilliant. We (me, you, anyone with a blog/twitter/facebook) are always putting ourselves out there in the hopes that someone will actually care and will welcome knowing that I ran into an over-cologned man at Starbucks, or that my strapless bra is too tight.

A string of 140-character quickies isn't what I want out there to represent me. I feel the same way about underwear. I ALWAYS ALWAYS have good underwear. I'm afraid that one day I'll die suddenly and when someone is clearing out my room, they'll find a collection of old, gross underwear, and that's how I'll be remembered. As a girl with hot pink cotton undies that say SUMMER LOVIN' on the butt. Similarly I'm afraid that one day I'll die and all I'll have left behind is a string of tweets about Flamin' Hot poo, lactose intolerance, and inebriation.

I'm not saying that blogs/twitters/facebooks don't have any value, I'm saying there's such a thing as too much. And the point isn't that no one cares about the minutia of my daily life, it's that I think someone should. Some sort of filter needs to be put up, for what I put out there and for what I take in.

For example:

OK: Posting pictures from my birthday. Sorry you couldn't make it, friends, here's what you missed out on. Friends who were there but wasted, here's what you missed out on.

NOT OK: Sharing a story about road rage. Road rage is about as rare as Ed Hardy on a douchebag. (i.e., NOT).

OK: Sharing a lesson learned, something others might find humor or value in.

NOT OK: Anything about food or poo. I feel like people know my digestive system better than they know me.

Hopefully these guidelines for harmonious interwebbly social networking will help me filter the good, the bad, and the useless.

When he thinks it's a date, but you really just wanted to see Zombieland

I only have two rules in life:

ONE, I don't give second chances.

TWO, If you touch my head anywhere above the ears, so help me I will chop your fucking hand off and slap you with it. This is one of my lesser-known pet peeves. I have a machete in my garage.

I was visiting my friend Will at the pizzeria where he works, drinking my glass of wine while they closed up. A commercial for Zombieland came on and we both said, "I want to see that."

As soon as we got to the theaters, I started noticing weird things. Why is Will opening the door for me even though it's far more convenient for me to do it myself? Why is he insisting on paying for the tickets and why did he buy me candy even though I explicitly stated I didn't want any? Why the fuck are we linking arms as we walk?

The weird things finally came together. OH CRAP, IS THIS A DATE?! While Will is a perfectly nice-funny-cute guy, I see him strictly as a friend... because many many many months ago I got drunk at a party and threw myself at him (but the very subtle and lady-like type of throwing myself, of course) AND HE DECLINED. THE NERVE!

Once you move from the Potentials bin into the You Blew It, Asshole bin, there's no going back. My brain just automatically places guys into the latter bin. It's like a switch is flipped and I no longer have any romantic interest in them whatsoever.

Fortunately, I don't have to worry about letting him down because I know he won't ever ask me out directly because he is a genuinely nice guy and nice guys take forever to really ask you out and instead try to sneak a date by inviting you to group events.

It's just their way. No wonder nice guys finish last.

In the end, it balances out

I LOVE Guitar Hero.

I HATE that I'm going to get carpal tunnel as a result.

I LOVE Jenny Lewis and have a raging girl-crush.

I HATE when Pandora tries to slip a little Jack Johnson into my playlist. DO NOT WANT.

I LOVE tall Danish men. And jello shots. Together.

I HATE Beaners hollering at me from their pickup.

I LOVE when Britney Spears succeeds in life.

I HATE any piece of news related to Twilight, Part 2 of Dear-God-How-Long-Is-The-Series-Going-To-Drag-On-Please-Shoot-Me-Now.

I LOVE Stella.

I HATE the 4400+ miles I've put on her in the past 3 months.

I LOVE the Dodgers.

I HATE that they're having so much trouble clinching the division.

I LOVE engineers (Minh, I know you're with me on this).

I HATE when the McDonalds drive-thru Mensa candidate doesn't understand me. ME-DI-UM. ICED. HA-ZEL-NUT. LA-TTE.

I LOVE How I Met Your Mother.

I HATE when people say HIMYM is "like Friends." IT'S NOT!

I LOVE dairy.

I HATE that my digestive system hates dairy.

I LOVE L.A.

I HATE the Bay Area. I want to go home. Real home.

I LOVE writing these easy list-y things.

I HATE that my life is so uninteresting I have nothing real to blog about.