November 30, 2008 11:47pm – Cars: Hazardous Contraptions

Last week a car hit me.
In the past thirteen months I have essentially ceased all physical activity. Last week I regrettably discerned my swelling sides and bulging stomach. I had a vision of a portly, obese self and thought, one day. Not yet! The Vision instigated unrivaled inspiration and within minutes I dashed down the street. When I say dashed, I mean prodded. Or scuttled. It was uphill. I drove my arms back and forth, back and forth. My self-narration comprised the following:
“I will not die. I will not die. Maybe moving my arms faster will automatically force my legs to go faster… Nope. That didn’t do anything. Except my arms are more tired and my legs hate me. I will not die.”
I peaked the hill and with wild abandon flung myself downhill. My body soared, my feet lightly ricocheted off the concrete. A streetlight revolved from yellow to red and I fluttered across the street. Delight that through the previous thirteen months I preserved the ability to run downhill overwhelmed me. A smile erupted across my face. And then a punch exploded into my side. With no effort at preserving my upright position, I tumbled to the concrete. A car had reversed into me as I gloriously paraded past. The driver either failed to notice me, the flying sprinter, due to my intense speed, or just didn't care enough to stop. The car leapt away from me and rocketed down the street. I shrugged, stood, and resumed running. Or scuttling.

November 29th 8:15pm - You Know You're Drunk When...

You Know You're Drunk When (Incidents Over Thanksgiving Break)...

* You awake the next morning with a very large, very colorful, very unexplainable bruise on your right buttcheek.
* You stand on the sidewalk in front of a downtown bar with your pants at your ankles and flip off a cop driving by. You have no reason.
* The following day you have a bruised ear from falling over while pantless flipping off cop. You plummeted into a brick wall. Your ear caught you.
* You continually steal beer from your female friend. She informs you that she will slap you every time you attempt to abduct her beer. You plunder her alcohol twenty-five times. She strikes you twenty-seven times. You have a headache the following day.
* Upon returning from the bars you force your friends to ballroom dance with you in the kitchen.

From a Previous Thanksgiving:
* Your friend arrives with a beer bong named Dick. You tell your mom to suck Dick.

November 24th 6:18pm – Welcome Home

My parents’ initial dream of producing five children came to a screaming stop after three. They were fairly unfortunate (I felt privileged with siblings so close in age) to give birth to three children in three years. I was a raucous sixteen-month-old when my tow-headed brother was born. My dad took my mom home from the hospital and charged through the house, installing my mom in their bed, baby in arms. Confirmed comfort from my mom denoted Dad’s departure to work. Mom sunk into the pillows and euphoria as she adjusted herself to breastfeed the blush newborn. She scarcely discerned me wobbling on my stunted legs down the hallway towards her. She closed her eyes, exhaling, as I stumbled to her holding my stomach.
“I don’t feel good,” I enlightened her, as I leaned over the edge of the bed and regurgitated my stomach’s contents onto new mom and suckling baby.

November 21st 7:34pm – The Castro on Halloween… Enough Said

College athletes inevitably amalgamate. At USF, the Women’s Volleyball team primarily dated the Men’s Soccer Team, the Women’s Soccer Team: Men’s Baseball. Some on the Women’s Soccer and Volleyball teams cultivated friendships. The day after Halloween my sophomore year I inquired how the night before was. The following is the story I received from Volleyball:
A few of the Volleyball girls, in unruly, big-haired, flamboyant-colored wigs, valiantly schlepped scantily clad to the Castro (for the record: that year two of my teammates braved the Castro naked, bodies concealed only by a skinny layer of paint). Amid two hundred revelers and raucous dipsomaniacs, the Volleyball girls appealed to a man costumed in bum attire to take their picture. He willingly consented and paced backward to allow all in the camera’s frame. The girls posed, colossal smiles, vibrant arms around multihued bodies. Bum retreated several steps, camera elevated. One of the girls chuckled as a drunken man on stilts staggered past. Bum twirled and hurtled into the hordes, camera in hand, picture untaken. Most girls would screech and snivel. Volleyball girls bellowed in exasperation and tore after him. Dodging through a man dressed as a kissing booth, the cast of Napoleon Dynamite, and Britney Spears (pregnant belly in one hand, baby in another), they perceived him some steps away. One of the girls sprinted and launched herself football-tackle at him. Her arms enveloped Bum’s chest and her bulk crushed into his, bodily forcing him onto the concrete. Within three minutes of Bum’s attempted flight, one girl ensconced his derriere, while another sat on his back, stocking-adorned legs on either side of his head. Her hands enveloped in his shaggy hair, she repeatedly struck his head against the street, reiterating, “Don’t steal from girls!”

November 20th 11:48pm - The Female Species. For Men -

The Female Species
For Men: A Guide into the Female’s Mind and Heart

One of my friends once told me her criteria for a man.
He cannot:
• Weigh less
• Be shorter
• Have longer hair
• Have smaller feet
• Eat less
• Lift a lighter weight in the weight room
• Shave more areas

November 19th 7:50pm – Halt, Drink, Drive, Wine

I am from wine country (I blame my childhood location for my wine obsession). Months ago, some friends and I determined a wine country trip was a necessity: wine tasting, with my parent’s house as final destination and sleeping quarters.
First, I need to address something. The concept of wine tasting enthralls me. Typically wine tasting groups (unaffiliated with a company) encompass anywhere from two to seven people. Unless tasters have money to hire an escort or limo, or desire to partake in bus services, someone has to drive. The notion amuses me. Halt at a winery, drink, get in car and drive to next winery. Halt, drink, drive, winery. The roads are frequently narrow and curl, twirl, and weave between vineyards and surrounding trees. As my friends and I much prefer spending our meager money on essential things, like our social lives – aka booze – instead of transportation, we always drive. This occasion we fortunately had a runner in our midst. He wasn’t drinking heavily until later, thus becoming the flawless driving candidate.

Six wineries and countless bottles later, the five of us (minus the semi-sober runner) staggered from yet another tasting room, the sun accosting our eyes and striking our faces. Winery owners embellish the ambience with plentiful gardens, serene walkways, exquisite flowers, and majestic watercourses. We flounced in the smoldering glow of the day toward an oversized boar statue stationed in the walkway’s heart. One of my friends reported she desired to jump on the boar’s back and requested we take a picture. We, inebriated, confirmed and stationed ourselves accordingly. We observed as she raced toward the sculpture. We watched as she launched her long body, limbs sailing in air, legs stretched to straddle beast, left hand grasping at boar's left ear. We inhaled as tender inner thigh united with blistering metal marinating in sun for four hours. Our concern liquefied into laughter as she rocketed off the boar's rear, her shriek puncturing the still air. She grabbed at her thin green dress and groped, embracing cool hands to charred skin. She vowed to never again spread her legs for a metal boar blistering in the sun.

November 18th 11:53pm - Joke Time! As always, inappropriate

* What do you call two Mexicans playing basketball?
- Juan on Juan

* One night a policewoman pulls over a drunk driver.
She politely asks him to step out of his car. He willingly does so.
She says, "Anything you say can and will be held against you."
He replies, "breasts"

* Why can't mexicans be firemen?
- They can't tell the difference between jose and hose b

* Why do black people always have sex on their minds?
- Because they have pubes on their heads

* What do you call a blonde with more than one brain cell?
- Pregnant

*What do you call 300 white men chasing a black man?
- The PGA tour

* What's white and fourteen inches long?
- Absolutely nothing!

* I was in the food court at the mall the other day and noticed an old man watching a teenager sitting next to him. The teenager had spiked hair: green, red, orange, and blue. The old man kept staring. The teenager would look back at him. Finally the teenager said, "What's the matter old man, never done anything wild in your life?" Old man's response: "Got drunk once and had sex with a peacock. I was just wondering if you were my son."

November 17th 7:36pm - Drunk Logic

As my friends and I have now been in the wondrous five-day workweek a few months, we concluded a Vegas excursion was essential to our sanity and continued existence. This past weekend embraced the vitality and debauchery that is Vegas. Our first night in Sin City: Friday. 14 girls: LAX Nightclub. The night’s inebriated depravity concluded with four girls misplaced, one of whom texted another friend notifying us she was in the pool at the Luxor. Casinos, aka labyrinths, exist to confuse poor souls (sober or drunk) such as myself. After drifting aimlessly for ten minutes, the friend who had received the text as well as myself approached a security guard.
Me: “Hi Sir. Hypothetically, if I were to go in the pool, which direction would that be?”
Guard: “The pool’s been closed since 1am.”
Me: “Hmm. Well, hypothetically, if I were to go in the pool tomorrow, which direction would it be in?”
Guard: “Are you staying here?”
Me: “No.”
Guard: “Who’s in the pool?”
Me: “One of my friends.”

Security Guard marched off, another guard, me, and friend in tow. We careened through eternal vibrant slot machines, people, and betting tables. Upon piercing the pool area, we glimpsed vomit by one of the pools and a pair of heels and purse by one of the hot tubs. We loomed over the water. Boozy was fully clothed, fully immersed against the hot tub’s side. This was an effort at concealing herself from us. Seconds later her face emerged, water surging down her expression. She informed us the water felt so good. We informed her she needed to depart from the heat. Boozy slothfully materialized from the water. Security Guard presented her the warmth of two towels. Boozy lurched into the casino, saturated short black dress clinging, heels in hand, body trickling water. Friend escorted Boozy through the Luxor back to New York New York.

Boozy later vindicated her reasoning: Drunk Logic advised her to remove heels and slither in the hot tub entirely dressed. Drunk Logic reasoned if Boozy submerged herself fully in the clear water of the hot tub, those approaching wouldn’t glimpse her. The culprit: Drunk Logic. Clearly!

November 16th 10:10pm - The Male Species - Appearance

The Appearance
Clothes do not concern men. The solitary instance they might notice a new outfit of yours is to contemplate with a cringe whether they paid for it or not. A woman might require an hour to prepare, a man: fifteen minutes. All shirts resembling the same color appear identical to men. The color, cut, style a woman might notice, a man won’t. A woman could wear a black tank one day and a long sleeved black blouse the next and a man would consider her adorned in the same shirt. That is, if the man noticed at all.
You could cut eight inches off your hair and your significant other would behold you, speculating why in the name of God you look different. It’s not that they don’t care about you, it’s that they just don’t really notice.
They have other more imperative material on their minds, like sports and work, and what they’re going to do to you later no matter what you look like. They notice when you’re not wearing make-up, or when you look slightly less attractive, but they don’t know why. And they will not squander time speculating.
With a woman’s hair and make-up flawless complete with new dress and matching shoes, a man would recognize you look good. He won’t care where you got the clothes or what brands they are, he’ll just care that you are his and you look hot.

November 13th 5:58pm – Glooby, Globbey Gak

For those of you within my age range, some of you may recall Gak; that marvelously gooey, gummy substance available in a variety of colors throughout our childhood. The elite Gak altered colors in the sun. My younger sister’s ambition subsisted in acquiring color-changing Gak. Our dad asserted his opposition to the goo procurement. His argument pivoted on the certainty that should she purchase Gak, it would inevitably terminate in the carpet or a pocket or a shoe or someone’s hair. In fairness, that was a reasonable theory. However, as our dad was daily occupied with work on the opposite side of town, it was a small feat to obtain the sought-after sun-transformed Gak. One night, the solitary income provider’s homecoming was devastated when he glimpsed the colorful container. Our dad repeated his frustration with the purchase to no avail. The Gak had already been initiated into the family.
Two days passed and the male champion of the family returned home, exhausted, to his three wild young children. Our dad snatched a beer and retired to the back porch in a feeble effort at relaxation. He colonized one of the plush deck chairs and leaned back, feet propped on surrounding wooden seating. He fastened his eyes shut and then released them to contentedly scan his yard. Within moments he soared to his feet, emitting fury, beer set down and forgotten. Fuming, he stalked onto the grass and stooped, scooping white substance into his hand. He furiously marched into the house, spewing anger and white matter. He screamed at my sister for misplaced Gak, quavering his goop-enveloped hand as he yelled. She wailed, tears crushing eyes, exclaiming her Gak was in the container. This was irrefutable when she produced said container, complete with glob. Dad, still bellowing, demanded to know what he was holding, if it wasn’t Gak.
Mom quietly explained that our dog had been taken to the vet earlier that day. She had an issue and had to be put on dog medication. The vet warned one of the side effects would be discolored excrement. Dad clutched dog poop in his hand.

November 11th 6:23pm – Winery, Bee, Mouth

I grew up in Sonoma County. Its proud heritage: wine. Whenever my parents’ friends would visit, the habitual, chosen destination comprised wineries. The Children (myself included) frequently trailed behind the adults at said wineries. Some of my earliest memories encompass us kids scampering through vineyards and tasting rooms, wreaking havoc at wineries. One particularly sun-drenched weekend afternoon my siblings, some children of family friends, and I conducted races on a winery lawn. The inebriated adults sprawled in the shade applauding the contestants … a.k.a. offspring. I galloped over and sprung repeatedly in the air until those older and wiser instigators (ages six and seven to my five) granted my participation.
Within minutes seven kids assembled and aligned. Our destination: the big tree on the opposite side of the grass. A girl screeched, “Go!” and then shrieked in mirth as her dad hoisted her in the air and looped her around. My body pulsating, I threw my leg forward at “Go.” I wanted to win. My competition fluctuated from three to eight year-olds. I scurried, my arms charging and my brain fleeting. I thirsted for victory. I darted a step ahead of the six and seven-years-olds. I would touch the tree. I would win. My eyes radiating, my mouth agape in a preemptive celebration, my fingertips extended… and my mouth ruptured with agony. I disintegrated on the grass a foot and a half from the tree. The ensuing minutes dispensed with me, tears ornamenting my face, trying unsuccessfully to persuade my dad that something was wrong with my mouth. He was convinced I was upset because I lost the race. I was convinced something had happened. As he informed me nothing was amiss, my cheek erupted, swelling viciously. I had been so elated by the idea I might win, I had released my lips into a joyous smile, and a bee had soared in and stung me on the inside of my cheek!

November 10th 10:17pm - LeBron James and a Box of Heart Candies

The University of San Francisco’s weight room, locker rooms, training rooms, and offices reside below the basketball gym. Accordingly, those marching up from the locker room, etc., to life outdoors oftentimes inevitably journey by the basketball court. Striding up the stairs, one of my friends (and former teammates) perused the players below. She swiftly deduced that those rippling-muscled tattooed older men were not USF men’s basketball team, but rather a professional basketball team. Her dreams and desires confirmed by the appearance of LeBron James, she dashed out of the gym and tore through the dorms to her room. She seized her roommate, snatched her camera, and snagged a small box of heart candies originally intended for one of the trainers as a thank-you gift. She dragged Perplexed Roommate to the gym, babbling something about the Cavaliers and LeBron James. She eventually regained coherency and announced their existence in our gym to her roommate, gesturing majestically toward the door she had exited from a few minutes prior. The door was locked. She elongated her neck and coiled in abnormal positions that normal humans should not be permitted to attempt in efforts to glimpse LeBron James again. Her roommate adhered to the unnatural-body-position plan until they admitted defeat as locks and guards obstructed all doors. They resolved that this one-time opportunity was not prone to present itself again. So they waited. And waited. They lingered until the team exited. LeBron ambled by, accompanied by backpack and team.
“Mr. James, Mr. James!” my friend roared.
He didn’t acknowledge the fanatical voice reverberating his name.
“I have a present for you!” she persisted.
He ceased walking and rotated.
“You have a present for me?” he inquired.
“I do!” she exuded exhilaration.
She bestowed upon him the heart candies (sheathed with her name and phone number) and then requested a picture with him. He conceded. Roommate (no longer perplexed) captured a priceless, hilarious photo.
My friend, grin-consuming face, positioned her arm around his back. Mr. James stood, easy smile, candy box in hand.

November 9th 10:02pm - Mommy: Presidential Candidate

My cousin has two young children, ages three and five. Today he narrated the following story:

With Election Day nearing, the children were exposed to the incumbent vote. The five-year-old’s kindergarten class orchestrated a mock ballot and vote. My cousin voted, children in tow. As the five-year old voted in class, and both parents had cast their political verdicts, the three-year-old remained the solitary entity in the family to not have participated in the election. My cousin constructed a polling booth in their house and the son, eyes shimmering, inscribed his presidential preference. When asked, he rejoined he voted for “Mommy.” The subsequent morning, upon proclamation of Obama’s triumph, the three-year-old immediately dissolved into tears. At his parents’ inquiry, he affirmed he was crying because Mommy didn’t win.

November 6th 9:24pm - Texts (Mainly from Teach for America)

I do believe TFA, as the program is not-so-affectionately referred to, constitutes the majority of the hilarity (slash discouragement) currently in my inbox:

* "One of the kids somehow ran into the chain link fence at a dead sprint. It was the best moment of my teaching career."
* "So far today Yancy chocked Charles, Charles peed on Yancy, and Roc'queeal ate two blocks. Oh ya and Devin stripped down ass naked."
* "Every day I hate the existence of children more and more."
* "One of my students threw tacks at me today."
A Depressing One:
* "Do you think it means I'm desensitized if I'm not that fazed by a 13-year-old boy saying he wanted to shoot me until he ran out of bullets and have everyone watch all my blood pour out of my fat ass?"
"Oh ya, and a second grader brought a crack pipe to school today."

From a different friend:
* "Oh my god I got a ticket for blocking a driveway and the tow truck had just pulled up! Oh, and his dad came home and knocked on the door when we were naked."

And conversation:
* Me: "I'm driving on the 80 and just passed a billboard that said, 'Never shake your baby' with pictures of babies on it. Ummm..."
* TFA Friend: "They have those here! I saw one that said, 'Never EVER shake your baby.'"

November 5th 9:50pm - Ballot

Yesterday I half-awoke as dawn fractured the sky. Heavy-eyed, I lethargically dressed and dragged my sleepy self around my apartment in an attempt to organize my life enough to vote and work. I heaved my legs down the stairs one by one, purse in tow, and managed to get in the car in between yawns and deliriousness. As I drove I looked at the voting address. I drove one block before distinguishing my destination. It was in a garage: just a normal garage. It could have been my garage.

For those of you who don’t live or vote in San Francisco , I have two features to divulge:
1. We (San Franciscans) vote in garages.
2. Prop R: Re-naming a sewage plant from the Oceanside Water Pollution Control Plant to the George W. Bush Sewage Plant. Advocates of the prop: Bush is liable for the economy and the Iraq war and identifying a sewage treatment plant with our current president is suitable. Adversaries of Prop R: the plant is superior and reliable, thus the alteration is unfair to the sewage plant.

Oh how I love living in San Francisco!

November 4th 11:39pm - Accompaniment to BART

Last year I accompanied (and by accompanied I mean chauffeured) a friend of mine and his cousin to the BART station. Cousin’s voyage: BART to airport, then airline home. I ceased my transportation responsibility in close proximity of the underground and the boys exited laden with luggage. I reclined the seat and settled back to await my friend’s return. I fiddled with my phone and fumbled with the radio. I glanced in the rearview mirror and observed a gawky man rapidly walking along the sidewalk towards my car. I remained in the driver’s seat while he loomed on the opposite side. Normally I am tremendously deficient in the whole detect-suspicious-character game (I blame my appalling eyesight), but this man justly depicted the crazy destitute. He slouched, elevating only his glittering eyes, ogling in my car. His stride dawdled as he neared. I stared into the rearview mirror, body facing forward, eyes back. Upon reaching my car’s trunk, he exploded, as if at a track meet when the gunshot signals the race’s launch. Arms propelling body, he rocketed to the passenger side door next to me. I screamed, effectively deafening myself, and hurled my body to the opposite door, hand clamping down on the lock as he simultaneously grasped the door handle. The lock clicked as he heaved at the handle. I jerked back to my seat and screamed again, some bizarre collection of unintelligible sounds; I’m sure further impairing my ear capability. The Man glowered in the window. I glared. One last effort at the (thank God) secured door, and he thrust himself away, streaking down the sidewalk, limbs flailing. My friend returned to my car to find me wild-eyed and garbled. His first words: “What the hell happened to you? I was only gone five minutes.”

November 3rd 10:51pm - Kara's Flawless Formula

Years ago I roguishly instigated a particularly original, innovative procedure: one shot=one tally on arm=faultless birthday shot calculation throughout day/night. A few months ago a friend I had coerced into following Kara’s Flawless Formula on his 18th birthday did so again on his 22nd. The drinking commenced with four of us at a restaurant accompanied by drinks and eats. The gaiety persisted to a friend’s house complete with pool. By three-thirty in the afternoon the other female and I observed as the two boys tackled two handles of Captain Morgan, affectionately identified as C Mo. The inaugural shot launched the Shot Tally. Seven tallies in, the boys claimed sobriety. Ten shots defeated, the boys claimed sobriety. Fifteen deep Birthday Boy flipped into pool, phone in pocket (View photo. If you observe closely you can see black tallies on left forearm). The boys claimed sobriety. Eighteen down words stumbled jumbled and staggered. Birthday Boy flipped into pool, phone still in pocket. At twenty tallies the boys divulged they might be slightly intoxicated. “Slightly” stated with closed eyes, asinine smiles, and dripping words. Twenty-one: Birthday Boy slurped and then lurched to the bathroom. He continued the bathroom trek seven times before vowing to take shot number twenty-two. Twenty-two: Birthday Boy swigged, staggered to bathroom, and concluded his shot-inhalation with a crumple on the couch. It was 7:30pm. I drove him home at 10:30pm. The following day he awoke in his bed feeling fine and recalling little. His mom enlightened him as to the remainder of the evening. Once home, he inadvertently locked himself in the bathroom. After an hour, she rapped the door. Response: incoherent blather. After an hour and a half and much trepidation she jimmied the lock to find her twenty-two year old son sitting in the bathtub, shower curtain on head, twirling the bathtub knobs in what can only be assumed was an attempt to open the bathroom doorknob.