I still have deciding to do and photos to post and things to tell you, but I have a final tomorrow, so I am going to go ahead and study a little bit and get back to you tomorrow. Wish me luck!
{Photos from Jean Jullien via Swiss Miss}
P.S. Quick! Tell me what you know about Property Law!
Dear April Ann,
Today you turn 18, that magical age when you can stop off at the 7-11 to buy cigarettes, lottery tickets, and porn or, if you prefer, you can drive over to an Indian casino and play video poker. I chose the latter on my 18th birthday, but honestly? Gambling is kind of dull unless it involves large amounts of free alcohol (clearly, I'm not our mother's daughter).
It's been fun watching you grow up and, since I was 10 when you were born, I can more or less remember the whole shebang. You were so tiny and cute and, more importantly, I got to stay home from school all day waiting for your arrival. You didn't get home until well after school would have been let out anyway, so I might as well have gone to class, but I got to sleep in and then spend the day on the couch watching reruns of the Brady Bunch. Your birth will always be firmly implanted in my memory right alongside the time Marcia got Davey Jones to sing at the prom.
At age five, you were constantly in my stuff--in my room, in my clothes, in my drawers--and I'll never forget the time you stuck all my stickers all over every envelope in my stationery box. Seems so trivial now, but then? Hoo-weeeeee, was I ever mad.
You collected rocks--lots of them straight from the yard, all lined up on your dresser--and you also collected roly-poly bugs (also known as Woodlouse). You kept them in a box in your nightstand and fed them leaves. When mom discovered the little habitat, you had a whole family of them. And, by family, I mean a great big Texas compound-sized family.
Alas, the years have passed and now you're all grown up. And I sure do like you. I've loved you with all my heart since the day you were born, of course, but now that you stay out of my stuff and let me borrow your shirts and no longer keep bugs in your nightstand, my love is just bursting at the seams. Yep, you turned out alright.
You brought this poem home from elementary school one day for me. It is written in pencil and each line is numbered in the margin, presumably to remind you which lines to rhyme. I've kept it all these year in a file folder and your 18th birthday seems like the perfect time to publish it right here on the Internet.
Poem FridayWishing you tons of non-tarty pinke panthers and much, much more. Happy birthday, baby sister!I made a party just for you
I bought a cow that says I love you
and it is true
I hope you love me tobirthdays are very fun
we will have a party
we will invite pinke panthers they will bring a ton
hope they won't be tartyI really want them to go to your party
I planned it out so well
Ya they aren't tarty
I promised mom I would not tellI have letters to send
so that is the end
Those blurry things? Those are dachshunds down at the Doxie Derby. I didn't take a single good photo at the Doxie Derby because
1) the derby was almost as popular as Bill Clinton so I was way up in the nosebleed section
2) I didn't bring a proper lens for my camera
3) I was laughing so hard that I couldn't hold the camera still
So, what happens is: they put the doxies in little colored capes and load them into the stalls, six at a time.
Then, they ring the bell, open the gates, and the dogs race to the finish line. Except that some of them don't really feel like racing over to the finish line. See purple, over there on the left of the photo below?
Yellow and Green are racing to the finish. Purple? Lookin' for a treat. Hey! Anybody got a treat over here?
Hey, where did everybody go?
More blurry doxies after the jump.
There are dozens of baby ducks down at the arboretum and I want to bring them all home and let them live in my bathtub, but I am settling for taking a million photographs of them and then forcing Will to look at each and every photo.
This little one aspires to be a model. Look at her pose for the camera.
Work it, work it.
Get my good side.
So, there was this oversized postcard in our mailbox today. It was a coupon for a free Habit burger. I really like The Habit, maybe because it reminds me of getting a thick vanilla shake and a grilled cheese with extra pickles at the Habit in Santa Barbara, sitting in the warm sunshine with my husband or my cousins, sharing a good laugh on State Street. Or maybe it is because they really load on the mayonnaise. Either way, I like The Habit.
We set aside the coupon for the burger and we went to throw away the remainder of the advertisements--for smog checks, groceries, and pizza--when it occurred to Will that there were probably more of these burger coupons in the trash. Will spends a lot of time out at the mailbox, eating account numbers and whatnot, and he has witnessed that most people pull out the stack of ads and, without so much as a glance, toss 'em.
So we did what any self-respecting, coupon-using Americans would do: we retrieved those Habit coupons from the trash (which is a fancy way of saying that we went dumpster diving). The good news is that Davis is super environmentally friendly so the trash can was technically a large recycling bin, solely for the collection of paper. And, lucky for us, people adhere to the paper-only policy.
In the interest of full disclosure, we did not just check our recycle bin but also the ones at the adjacent complex, partially because of our compulsive natures and partially because we are cheap and there were perfectly good FREE BURGERS going to waste. Every time I pulled out a free burger--and, let me tell you, I have at least 20 of them--I could hear a sweet cha-ching!
Care to come to Davis for dinner? I know of this great little burger joint. My treat.
Have you heard? St. Patrick's Day is rescheduled this year.
The Pope says we need to celebrate on the 14th. Or maybe the 15th. Others say that Saint Patrick's Day will be on the 17th, as usual.
Some are going to resolve the dilemma by just starting the celebration today and partying through the 17th.
In other words, you are gonna need to be wearin' the green for the next few days. Thanks to Paper Pony, I have discovered Polyvore and have spent my entire lunch break building St. Patty outfits for you.
Like, for instance, this lovely outfit which includes a $12 green apple ring.
So, the jeans in this outfit are $200, but the shoes and the bangle are from Old Navy. Evens things out.
How about a little Lilly Pulitzer pink and green? Perfect for resort life, summer in the Hamptons, or St. Patrick's Day!
And, finally, this outfit, which I put together for you to wear out to a pub. Doesn't beer make such a good accessory?
Happy wearing o' the green. For the next four days.
So, I noticed Katie Holmes has ditched the side-swept bangs for a more, um, non-sweepy bangs look.
Not that it matters much to me anyway. I get around by riding my bike or, if it is raining, by riding the bus, and neither of those options are particularly kind to the hair.
But, just in case I ever need to travel someplace fancy in a car (like, say, Target), should I go non-sweepy or sweepy? These high quality photos taken with Photo Booth illustrate your options:
To sweep or not to sweep, that is the question.
I've heard people admit that they are afraid to have another baby because their first born is such an angel--sleeps through the night, hardly cries, is just the perfect child--and surely that kind of good fortune only comes around once in a lifetime. The second child, they are convinced, will be the complete opposite--a difficult creature that will wreak havoc on their lives.
I don't have any children, but if children are anything like cats, I am here to tell you that those theories are TRUE. THEY ARE TRUE. If one is a lovely, uncomplicated piece of cake, the second will be a complete disaster.
Meet Olive.
We picked up Olive on Friday. I didn't want to blog about Olive because I could tell right away that things were not quite right. Plus, you know, blogs about cats are so awesome. I'd suggest that if you know something about cats or really love cats, read on. I need your advice, crazy cat people of the Internet. I am counting on you.
If you could care less about cats, I TOTALLY HEAR YOU. Totally. I don't want to read a crazy cat post either. Please, come back tomorrow for some non-cat content.
Now, the three of us who are still here, let's talk about Olive. She's utterly adorable, really cute, chases a string like a pro.
But.
For starters, I seem to have developed an allergic reaction to cats. We have a cat already, Millie, and I have always been mildly allergic to her, a sniffle here or there, but the allergies have been magnified since Olive moved in. Have I entered the permanent hell of itchiness or can you, uh, become immune to cat dander?
Second, and more importantly, she is kind of smelly. And that's putting it nicely. Really? She stinks. Specifically, she has a stinky butt. She poots all the time (we don't use the term fart here at this respectable website) but also her butt just stinks. We took her to the vet and they suggest that she will probably outgrow the stinkiness. No guarantees. Is probably good enough? And what does one mean by outgrow? Weeks? Months? Years? Because I'm thinking I can take about, oh, FOUR MORE HOURS.
The Internet provides all sorts of non-scientific sites dedicated to stinky cats and they suggest the following: change her food (we did), take to vet for assorted tests (we did), and various techniques involving lots of touching of cat butt (no, thank you, sorry).
We have two weeks to return the cat. What would you do, Internet, with this little face looking at you?
Don't look at me like that.
So, awesome, let's get a conversation going on here about cat butts.
(What is happening to this website? Should I just cancel my Typepad subscription now, redecorate in country clutter, and start knitting little kitty booties? On second thought, don't answer that. Stick to the assignment: should she stay or should she go?)
Well, there's not really anything else to say. I met Bill Clinton, this blog is over.
+ Eating garlic naan and girl scout cookie cake at the farmer's market, where we purchased zero fruits or vegetables.
+ Eating popcorn and drinking Coke while watching Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street with my friend, Michelle.
+ Eating a pita sandwich, a violet souffle, and drinking Armenian coffee at Café Méditerranée.
+ Eating meatballs, mac and cheese, and soft serve at Ikea.
+ Eating New York Cheesecake frozen yogurt with brownie bits, sprinkles, and strawberries.
+ Drinking half a bottle of Real Sangria.
I think I'm just gonna go and, I don't know, run about 18 miles now. Or maybe I'll just lie down for a minute.
When we returned home to Davis last night, there was a FedEx door tag hanging from our doorknob, the announcement of a late-arriving gift from Saks Fifth Avenue.
It was the addition to the collection of snow globes that Will started for me on our first Christmas as a married couple. This is my fifth snow globe, celebrating our fifth Christmas.
We didn't take out any decorations this year--finals lasted until the 21st and then we spent Christmas in Southern California--so the collection of globes is still packed away from two holiday seasons ago, along with the tree and all the rest of the holiday trimmings.
Will and I visited New York in the winter of 2001 and I would have gotten a snow globe then, except that we weren't married, we weren't even engaged, and a collection of snow globes was not even a thought. It was fun opening the box today, seeing the miniature yellow cab, the Empire State Building, the Statute of Liberty, the Brooklyn Bridge, and St. Patrick's Cathedral all gathered together in the bitty world with swirling snow. We were there once upon a time, although it was a good deal bigger and not quite as blizzardy.
I'll be leaving this one out all year long.
I rode my bike downtown for a haircut today. It was my second cut with my new stylist--a sprightly 20 year old, just out of beauty school, who sings while she snips. It was a bit worrisome at first, having this girl who can't even order a margarita chopping away at my hair, but she did a fine job last time and this time was no different. She's a complete perfectionist and it feels like she is cutting my hair strand by strand, that's how long she takes in her careful and diligent attention to my hair, leaning this way and that to check each angle for accuracy.
She really ought to go into open-heart surgery, that girl, with her steady hand and meticulous ways. Although, considering what I pay, she probably makes more money in hair.
When we moved to Davis, I pretty much gave up drinking Coca-Cola. I'm not sure what prompted the change, but for three solid months I think I had a grand total of three sodas. It's not like I was completely addicted to Coke in the first place, but I typically had a Coke a day. Sometimes two. Plus some refills.
After three months of good behavior, I have fallen off the ol' wagon. I think it started at Costco, when Will got a free fountain drink with his hot dog purchase. And then I got a free beverage with my Ikea kid meal and they were all out of the lingonberry juice. Before I knew it, I had a 2-liter in the fridge and was drinking a Coke with my burger at The Habit.
I swear, when that 2-liter is gone, I'm back off the Coke. I think I might need to join a program to make it through the quitting a second time. Does anyone want to be my sponsor?
I'm not sure if I have mentioned it before, but I love me some peppermint. Like, I am truly, madly, deeply in love with the peppermint. The peppermint and I are totally making out behind the bleachers.
1. Fancy and delicious Rich Chocolate Cupcakes Filled with Chocolate-Mint Ganache topped with Mint Buttercream from the Cupcake Bakeshop
2. Peppermint Pie
3. Peppermint Parfaits
4. Trader Joe's Candy Cane Joe Joe's, if you can't wait for things to bake and chill
Also, Peppermintinis! Sprinkles Chocolate Peppermint Cupcake Mix! The easy peppermint cupcakes I like to bake up every year! Cat's Chocolate Peppermint Dreams! Chocolate peppermint dreams? That's exactly what I'm saying!
Oh, yum.
For the love of peppermint! Please immediately send your peppermint recipes to sliceofpink at gmail dot com. I'll make a peppermint webpage. Or I'll compile them into a pepperminty cookbook and send you a copy. Seriously.
I'm simply crazy for the peppermint. (Don't tell my husband).
Let's say, hypothetically, that the weatherman says that it is not going to rain. Cloudy, he says, but no rain.
Let's say you put on an expensive pair of jeans and a cute top and, I don't know, some open-toed wedge shoes.
Let's say you ride your bike downtown for a haircut and on the way you feel a couple sprinkles of water but you think, nah, the weatherman said no rain.
Let's say you go to a new salon where a stylist washes your hair with some Bumble and Bumble products and then spends an hour sculpting your hair into an Ellen Barkin a la Ocean's 13 cut with some fancy razor scissors.
Let's say, your hair? It looks good.
Let's say, the weatherman? Got. It. Wrong.
So, hypothetically, you walk across the street to Peet's and have a coffee. And maybe a gingerbread bread. And you wait. Because, it can't rain all day, right? The weatherman said no rain. So you wait some more. You wait until you decide, forget it, and you ride your bike home in the rain. Wet hair, wet jeans, wet feet.
You figure that eventually, eventually, the rain will let up because the weatherman has to know something, right?
Hypothetically, yes. But actually? No. Bad guess, weatherman, bad guess.
Here's a fun task: try to pack a suitcase for a weekend trip by locating items which have been haphazardly packed into 40 moving boxes that are now precariously stacked in the spare bedroom. Fun and impossible!
While I attempt to locate two black high heeled shoes, one strapless bra, one camera charger, one wedding greeting card, and my sanity, please divert your attention to an album of butterfly photographs taken by Will and me this summer.
So pretty! Completely unlike the current situation in the spare room.
This weekend, after 26 nights in a hotel, Will and I finally moved into our apartment. The U-Haul arrived on Saturday and the 14-foot truck was jam packed with our stuff. Over 40 boxes full of items plus furniture, lamps, paintings, plastic organizers, and my espresso maker which rode safely with my mom to Davis on the front seat because she promised, if nothing else, to get my coffee machine here in one piece.
Once the truck was empty and all of our stuff was moved to our upstairs apartment (don't even get me started about my legs and how they hurt), I began to cut open the tape on all the boxes to look at my things. With the exception of a few favorite items, I had forgotten what it was that we had. We had gotten along perfectly fine in the hotel with only one carload of stuff, so what in the hell did we own that could fill an entire U-Haul to the brim? Clearly nothing that we couldn't live without.
Not only has this experience shown me the insignificance of some stuff, but the past 26 days without my stuff reminds me of the Island Test by Paul Graham:
I've discovered a handy test for figuring out what you're addicted to. Imagine you were going to spend the weekend at a friend's house on a little island off the coast of Maine. There are no shops on the island and you won't be able to leave while you're there. Also, you've never been to this house before, so you can't assume it will have more than any house might.What, besides clothes and toiletries, do you make a point of packing? That's what you're addicted to. For example, if you find yourself packing a bottle of vodka (just in case), you may want to stop and think about that.
Since I basically did this for the last month, I already know my answer. For me, the list is five things: my MacBook, thick lotion, chocolate, thank you notes and stamps.
Coffee didn't even make the list. For 26 days I've actually been nearly caffeine free (chocolate aside) and while it has been perfectly fine, and while it may defeat my whole premise about the insignificance of stuff, I sure am glad my espresso machine arrived in one piece. And, I'm glad the rest of the stuff arrived, too. We certainly don't need it, but sometimes it is pretty to look at.
William Morris said, "Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful." I guess we just have a lot of beautiful. A whole U-Haul full of beautiful plus one espresso machine.
So, I'd like to know, what are the things you would make a point of packing for your island trip to Maine (or Davis, perhaps, now that I can invite y'all to come for a visit)?
It's day three in Davis and while Will spent his first day at a new job, I spent most of the day riding my bike around town. I rode to the bookstore, the law library, Rite Aid, the student union, and back home to the hotel. Will picked up a new bike at the local bike shop after work, so in the evening we rode to dinner and then through the campus. The weather was perfect, especially in the evening, and we rode under lots of pretty trees by the arboretum and down quaint little bike paths.
In total, I rode about 8 miles today. It was quite nice, in theory, what with all the little squirrels running around and the nice wide bike paths, but all I could think about those last few miles? How much the damn bike made my ass hurt.
I wonder where the bus picks up.
After spending two hours packing and six hours in the car and another hour checking in to our hotel and moving our suitcases into our room, Will and I finally arrived in our new town.
The weather was just lovely and so we went for a long walk, past our new apartment complex, through our new grocery store, past a park full of people playing soccer, around the shopping center with the Gap, and finally to Plutos for dinner. We shared a giant salad I created consisting of field greens, apples, grapes, mushrooms, fresh parmesan, red onion, pepperoncinis, and the best croutons I have ever tasted, as well as a plate of orange "smashed spuds" and a "vegetable galaxy." It was probably the healthiest meal I have in the last, well, um, ever.
We ended up walking over five miles round trip and when we arrived back at the hotel, I calculated the Walk Score for Davis and, happily, it is considered "Very Walkable."
All this walking and these fresh fruits and vegetables? I so lost half a pound today. That is, if I can stay away from the hotel vending machine. I am pretty sure there is a Snickers in there calling my name.
Tomorrow I need to go shopping for a bridesmaid dress. The bride is allowing us each to choose our own dresses, thank the Lord, so long as they are not floor length and are a specific color. There seems to be some discrepancy about the exact specific color we are all talking about and I have heard it referred to as wine, burgundy, maroon, and "the color of this sangria we are drinking."
I went to Macy's yesterday and found only one dress that sort of fit into any of the categories at all although, in my opinion, the dress was more of a cabernet. Or maybe a chambord. Whichever has a slightish purple tint when you hold just right under the fluorescent lighting.
Wine, burgundy, or berry, I need to buy the dress this week before law school starts. Otherwise I suspect I'll be buying it at a Mervyn's on the day of the wedding which I've done before but which is really not the route I want to go.
Starting today, Will and I are living temporarily with my mother, in the land of no reliable Internet service, so Will and I came out to a local bar that has free wi-fi, where I totally planned to answer many of your questions.
But, you know, some old friends are here.
And, also, wine.
And the time? It just got away from me.
Coming home drunk past curfew?
We are so grounded.
Tonight I am making my third Banana Caramel Spice Pie, the pie that Nicole recommended I make several weeks ago. Every time I make one, I end up giving part of it away because I want to share how delicious it is with everyone.
Nicole and I have never actually met in person, but we spent a couple mornings on the telephone a few weeks ago. She is writing a dissertation on female bloggers and asked me lots of questions which I happily answered. Most of the questions were related to blogging, but some were questions stemming from various loose ends that I don't ever tie up neatly and information that I simply fail to mention because I guess I forget that we all aren't friends in real life and I assume y'all already know that I hate iced tea, had twenty college roommates, and absolutely cannot stand wearing shorts. You knew those things already, right?
I noticed that Zandria is opening up her blog to questions and I thought it would be fun to do the same. I'll play by Zandria's rules, because that is, uh, easier than trying to make up my own. So, as she says:
If I only get one or two (or five) questions I’m probably going to think I’m extremely unpopular, so do me a favor and ask something you think you might want to know the answer to.Any questions are game and I’m not setting a specific limit, so you can post multiple questions if you’d like. But if you ask multiple questions, I reserve the right to pick and choose between them — I’ll answer whichever questions I like best if I don’t feel like answering all of them.
So, what do you want to know about me? Ask away!
Yesterday, Will and I were sitting around a hotel pool with my family in Santa Barbara, after a weekend that consisted almost entirely of eating and shopping, when our friend Zanon called to invite us to the Magic Castle. The Magic Castle is the world's most famous private clubhouse for magicians, is home to the Academy of Magical Arts, and is only open to members and their invited guests. Zanon, knowing one of last night's performing magicians, was able to get four guest passes.
It's not the first time that we had been invited to the castle, but it was the first time our schedules allowed us to attend, so we packed up our beach gear, said our goodbyes, and got on the road. And then we sat in traffic. And some more traffic. And some slower traffic. It became apparent that there was no way that we would make it all the way home with time to shower, get dressed in the required cocktail attire, and drive back into Hollywood to meet Zanon and Kelly for the 7:30 show.
So we did what any normal people would do in such a situation.
We pulled off the freeway into a shopping mall and dropped a few bones on some cocktail attire (dress, coat, tie, pants, socks, the whole bit). Will washed his hair in a sink. I put on my makeup and painted my nails during the remainder of the car ride. And, when we got to Hollywood, we stopped in an alley, stripped out of our beach clothes, and threw on our newly purchased formal wear. Presto Chango! We made it with five minutes to spare. I don't think I even have to point out how good we looked.
The Magic Castle was fantastic. There was wine and big desserts, which would have made me plenty happy by themselves, but there was also magic. As you might imagine, there were many tricks involving cards and coins, rings and rope, silk fabric and doves. We whispered "Open Sesame" and a bookcase opened up to a grand salon. We met Irma, the invisible ghostly pianist. We got reserved seats and a VIP tour from Zanon's magician friend, Eric.
Finally, we must have looked good enough, because Will and I were asked to be the assistants in one of the shows (sparkle, sparkle). We sat with the magician for the whole show and got to do very important tasks like check if the coins were real and choose a number between one and ten. I did a very official job, I think, considering the two large glasses of Pinot Noir, but I may have slacked during quality control of the long string which was cut up into tiny pieces and put back together before our very eyes.
It was all very Harry Potterish which was decidedly apropos considering that we had just been at the book release party two days prior, all dressed up as Harry and Hermione. Somehow we worked magic and were the 7th people to receive the book despite the some 3,000 people in line (magic having to do with knowing the party volunteers and Barnes and Noble employees). Will had the book with him all weekend, sneaking in pages when he could, and was avoiding the Internet, text messages, and phone calls for fear of spoilers.
Now, if we could only get a disapparate spell. Traffic would be so less of an issue.
If you are feeling particularly energetic this 4th, you should make this star-spangled summer shortcake which I would totally make except it requires turning on the oven, making dough, dividing the dough, beating cream to peaks, blah, blah, blah.
Us? We're just gonna go to a baseball game and eat hot dogs and drink beer instead.
The 4th of July is Will's favorite holiday because it a.) requires no gift buying and b.) requires no decorating and c.) requires no planning and d.) is centered mainly around barbecued food and a firework or two. It is, as Will puts it, the "no bullshit holiday."
Have a good one! No bullshit.
I get emails from a few museums in the Los Angeles area so that I can be up-to-date about exhibitions, screenings, tours, and special events. One of the museums, the UCLA operated Armand Hammer Museum of Art and Culture, sent me this list of events via email:
This is a close up of the portion I circled with my mad Photoshop skillz:
WTF? Is it just me or is there something seem terribly wrong about a Father's Day Erotica Reading? It seems that a nice barbeque to celebrate dad would be such a better plan.
As I was walking to my apartment last night, a young guy, probably about my age, stepped out onto his patio.
"Do you go to LBC?" he asked me.
"What?"
"LBC."
I was confused. "LDC?"
"No. LBC."
"Not following here."
At this point, the guy explained that LBC were the initials of a local church in town--a church which I happen to know is the most fanatical religious experience within 50 miles. They require women to always wear skirts and allow them to earn a college degree in "Clerical and Secretarial Studies" at their unaccredited, fundamentalist college campus.
This is where I get even more confused.
"Nope. Definitely not a member."
The guy keeps looking at me like he maybe has something more to say. So I continue.
"Why do you ask? Do you recognize me from somewhere? Did you see me at your church?'
"Um, no," the guy replies. "You just look like you would be a member of the LBC."
Um. Dude. Is this supposed to be a pick up line? Are you trying to engage me in a friendly conversation? Trying to get me to come be a member of the LBC? Because baby, even if I weren't married, which I happily am, I would need a dozen more gin and tonics before those lines start working.
What do you think? Do I look like the type of person that would forgo law school to take some courses in word processing at a school that answers to God, not the government? Maybe I need to get some reading glasses or a math shirt so that my appearance approximates my smarts.
When Will and I registered for our wedding three and a half years ago, mostly everything we selected was brown, beige, gold, and maroon. I've liked these choices--they are warm and cozy--but we both agree that they are getting a bit tired. Our apartment color scheme looks kinda like we took inspiration from a 2001 model home. Which is basically what we did.
We are moving into a beautiful apartment in September and I think it is time to rethink some of our past decorating choices. We will keep some of our furniture, all of which is dark brown leather and wood, but will get rid of a majority of the accent items and replace all the warm colors with light, airy turquoise and Tiffany blue. Something like this:
I like this image because the walls are white and apartment managers generally discourage the painting of the walls. Our new apartment will have a fresh coat of white paint when we move in and, since I will be starting law school and have little time for things like painting walls, a style that embraces white is an excellent deal for all parties involved. The current browns, golds, and burgundys? Not working so well with the white walls.
Mostly, I'd like a style that is much more clean and simple. Particularly, I would like to have a lot fewer things to dust. In the next few months, Will and I will be clean sweeping our house, preparing for the move. Will loves this idea, of course, but I need a little more help getting rid of things. Martha Stewart offers 100 reasons to get rid of it and I am going to take her advice. To the very best of my ability. I'm totally not against getting rid of things until you start talking about the specific things that need to be gotten rid of.
If you want a golden rule that will fit everything, this is it: Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful. --William Morris
Today Apple is announcing the assignment for the first Insomnia Photo Festival, a challenge to shoot the perfect photograph in 24 hours.
You have to have a Mac, be a student of some sort, register by 5pm EST, and have some free time in the next day or two, but you could win a 15 inch MacBook Pro, a copy of Aperture, and an 80GB iPod.
Let's get snapping!
I am thinking that I can lose three pounds by hula hooping for 15 minutes a day. I was the 3rd grade hula hooping champion, you know. I'm buying my hula hoop today.
In the last three weeks I spent, oh, about 48 hours at home. All of that time was spent doing the laundry minus the 8 hours I spent in urgent care for some unidentified lingering illness. I had self-diagnosed it as a bad sinus infection. The doctor didn't necessarily agree, but she also didn't suggest it was anything else, other than something that required antibiotics. Do you ever get the impression that your doctor has no idea what she is talking about?
We spent some time in Los Angeles and some time in San Diego and spent the last week in Philadelphia with 30 students eating lots of cheesesteak and pretzels and, weirdly enough, cereal at $3.99 a bowl. Yes, you can buy a whole box of cereal for that much but it's not nearly as fun.
Traveling with students is a fun experience but it is also horrible and exhausting and, no matter how organized you try to be, it is frantic and frenzied and hectic. During the Philadelphia trip alone, all of the following occurred:
2 lost cameras
1 lost wallet
1 lost ring
1 lost medal
2 lost jerseys
1 sprained ankle
1 hurt knee
3 thrower-uppers
1 102 degree fever
You can't take kids anywhere. And, yet, we're all packing up for Atlanta next week, the kids included. I guess we do need somebody to drive the robot and run to get our morning coffee.
Last night I got five hours of sleep, which would be fine except that I had been awake for 22 straight hours prior to that. I have lots of photos to post but first I am going to take a nice long twelve hour nap.
Last night I wrote y'all a whole post complete with photographs of gingerbread houses and excuses about how busy I have been and many other important things. Before I pushed the publish button, however, I went upstairs to take a shower and think about whether I had anything else to add to the post. And then I got into bed and fell asleep. Which means that I never did press publish and which also means that I didn't pick up the laundry from the laundry room that I had put in an hour before. Sadly, the laundry room was locked at 7am when we left for work and, therefore, two loads of sweaters and jeans and every pair of socks that my husband owns are currently chillin' in the public dryer at my apartment complex. Awesome.
I'm wearing a pair of slightly flooding jeans and I am pretty sure Will is wearing a pair of my socks today since all of his clean socks are those cute little athletic ones that end at the ankle. We are so hot.
Remember the day that the electricity went out at my house? Remember I could not take a shower and went to school in a lime green dress and a pair of tights with a hole on the thigh because I got dressed in the dark?
Other than the electricity being out (a transformer blew, by the way), nothing remarkable happened that day.
Oh! Unless you count the fact that one of my students filmed my lecture to be included in a movie he was filming.
I thought nothing of the filming; my students are always coming up with crazy plans and wacky schemes and I play along for my own entertainment and their benefit. I had been sending kids down for weeks to be extras in Andre's film and when he showed up with the video camera to film my lecture, I played along in my lime green dress and tights with a hole on the thigh and hair that hadn't been washed. I did a horrible job and figured that Andre would cut me right on out of the film.
(I really did a horrible job. I got camera shy and kept looking at the camera and asking Andre if I was doing what he wanted me to do. And, should I just sit right here? And, am I talking loudly enough? And, can you see the hole in my tights?)
Anyway, tonight was the premier of Andre's film, Notes, and Will and I went to the theater to check it out. I didn't know what to expect, but I certainly did not expect a packed house, over 300 people in the school theater.
We settled into our seats and the film teacher got up and started saying how Andre was the best film maker the school had ever seen and how amazing he is and blah blah blah, and Andre stood up and looked totally like an indie film maker in his Converse and jeans and shirt and tie, and then the film started and right there in the opening credits MY NAME APPEARED. Which meant I was going to SPEAK IN THE FILM. Which, holy shit, I had totally forgotten about that day of filming.
My scene came up in the first five minutes. Somehow I did not look like a total moron, which is credited entirely to Andre and his excellent editing skills. Also, you could not see the hole in my tights, although one of my students approached me after the movie and said, "Mrs. Wallace, that was totally the day you had the hole in your tights!" Yes, thank you.
The film, a horror/thriller piece, is being entered in some indie film festivals--it is THAT good, really--and I am going to ask Andre if I can reshoot my scene, this time wearing something a little less lime and a little more J. Crew. If not, I'll spend the rest of my life stuck in an indie film with a lime green dress and a hole in my tights and, although nobody will ever know, I will be fully aware that I had not taken a shower that day.
But at least I made the credits. Email me your address if you want an autograph, darlings.
Not only is it Friday the 13th but, after drinking a glass of wine at Chili's, I dropped an open compact, breaking the powder and the mirror on the tile floor. This is supposed to ensure seven years of bad luck for me.
My eyes grew wide with fear but Will quickly pointed out that a broken mirror on Friday the 13th was fine since a negative times a negative equals a positive.
Another good reason to marry a math teacher.
According to the vet, my cat needs dental work. Apparently, now that Millie is six years old, it is time for regular dental care, which looks like this on the fee estimate form that the vet so generously provided:
Sedation: $50.70
IV catheterization: $10
Fluid therapy and injections: $65.40
Cleaning and polishing: $45.65
Fluoride treatment: $10.00
Prescriptions: $57.00
Extractions (if necessary): TBD*
*TBD=To Be Determined
Which, when you add it all up, is like: $238.75 plus some undisclosed TBD price.
Which is more than it costs when I go to the dentist.
Which, um, wtf?
And, also, I was drunk.
And, furthermore, I was watching Da Ali G Show on DVD.
But, mostly the books. The horrible, horrible books. But now that is over and I hardly even complained about it. Unless you live with me, in which case I am terribly sorry about the Complaining That Never Ceased.
I have big plans for October. Such as: clean off the dining room table, drink wine, sleep, and put the laundry away.
Oh! And train for a half marathon. That, too. I got me some $90 running shoes to do it in, which seems a little expensive, but they were the cutest pair on the shelf and, having never purchased a proper pair of running shoes, I based my decision exclusively on style. For the record, I can run about one-quarter mile before I pass out on the track and have to be revived with Coldstone ice cream. Much complaining to come.
I am posting from Kathryn's house because she is at Disneyland and we are feeding and watering her dog while she is gone. We are also eating the food out of her freezer and watching her television, a rare treat since we do not have television at home.
Kathryn's husband left instructions detailing the usage of the remote controls and once we figured out how to navigate the 300+ channels, we ended up at the end of the Miss Teen USA Pageant, the part of the contest where the final five contestants answer a question and then the winner of the pageant is crowned.
I think that the question and answer portion is not only pointless, but is also completely embarrassing for the contestants, their parents, and the entire United States of America. The Miss Teen USA Pageant committee should seriously consider dropping any part of the pageant in which the girls open their mouths to speak and simply add an additional swimsuit or evening gown parade.
One of the final five, a beautiful blonde girl, was asked to answer this question: What does integrity mean to you?
Her answer described how integrity meant knowing what you want in life and not stopping until you get it.
Okay. Um, not exactly. Pretty much not even close. And, yet, Miss Integrity was crowned Miss Teen USA 2006.
So, what is the point of the question and answer portion? Were the judges listening? Did they turn down their iPods long enough to hear that the girl they selected cannot define an 8th grade vocabulary word?
Or, scary thought, was she the smartest of the 50 girls running?
I guess the isn't Scripps National Spelling Bee, but would it be too much to ask for a little brains with our beauty?
There are two pairs of panties in the community laundry room and, although I am certain one pair of them is not mine, I am pretty sure the second pair belongs to me. Will was doing the laundry last week and must have left a pair behind in the dryer, which somebody kindly set out for the owner to pick up.
The discovery:
Me: Those are MY underwear! (gasp!)
Will: Are you sure?
Me: Pretty sure!
Will: Are those other ones yours?
Me: Nope, those are absolutely not mine.
Will: Then how are you sure the other pair is yours?
Me: Because I know my panties!
Will: You don't think someone else might have purchased the same pair as you? (I do have such good taste.)
Me: Ummmm...well, maybe.
Will: Are you willing to take that risk?
I decided that, no, I was not going to take that risk and if they were, in fact, my adorable lace-trimmed boy shorts, I'd just call it a loss and buy another pair.
The thing is, my underwear have been chillin' on top o' the community dryer for one week now and I'm not sure how long to wait before I put them in the trash. Every time I go in the laundry room to wash a load of clothes, my underwear are just hanging out for all the world to see. They are just right out on display, sitting on top of dryer #2. And it's a little embarrassing. I feel partially responsible for the free exhibition of lingerie in the laundry room.
I'd just put them in the trash, but what if they are not mine, as Will pointed out? Would it be rude to throw away another tenant's panties?
To toss or not to toss, that is the question.
Yesterday, while Will and I were riding in the car (or, more specifically, while I was riding in the car and Will was driving the car because, no, we do not have a chauffer), Will pointed out that I don't really ever mess with the control systems. Like, I never change the radio station or turn on the radio or turn up the air conditioner or try to control the air flow or whatever. I just ride to wherever we are going and it never really occurs to me that it is silent and two million degrees.
Sometimes, when it is very hot in the car, I'll roll down the window a little bit and I always complain if sports radio is on because I cannot stand the overly-enthusiastic voices of men sportscasters. Also, car dealer commercials. The enthusiasm for sports and used cars on the radio kills me. It wouldn't be nearly as bad if they would just speak like normal human beings, rather than male Miss America contestants after their first-ever hit of crystal meth. Sometimes I'd rather just listen to the silence.
At home, Will has discovered some new iTunes radio station called Groove Salad which he now plays incessantly. The music is described as having ambient beats and grooves, but there is so much more to it than that. There are beats, yes, and grooves, I guess, but also many weird things that can best be described as music created from your kitchen cabinets using bags of rice and wooden spoons. There are also weird voices that for an entire song will only repeat the words "love me, show me" and, also, recurring sounds that I can only describe as the noise created when nice, green aliens come to earth in one of those cute UFOs with lots of little rainbow lights.
My dad is a musician and when I was 10 years old he got this awesome digital keyboard with which you could create all sorts of bizarre sounds. There were specific settings for creating space invader noises and for warping sounds in order to create the sensation of being locked in a time tunnel. The music in my house now reminds me of that keyboard and all of its weird science fiction functions.
There are some things make me a bit snobby, I guess—I like going to art museums and I schedule things in my Palm Pilot and I won't touch fabric softener because I hate the way it feels—but this ambient music with atmospheric soundscapes? Dude, just give me some Micheal Jackson and Black Eyed Peas.
After the jump is the recipe for the Key Lime Pie, which was pretty good, although might want to go to Coconut & Lime for a Coconut Key Lime Pie recipe. Yum.
After two graduations and grad night at Disneyland and a very long day at work following the all-nighter at Disneyland, summer has officially arrived, thank god. Last summer, I stayed in my pajamas all summer long and did not do the laundry or complete any important tasks for the most part. But this summer is going to be different! I have goals this summer! I have ambition!
Firstly, I am going to make some money this summer by teaching a photo enrichment class. This should excuse me from sole responsibility for washing the clothes, which is a totally lame job, one that I will never again position myself to be in sole charge of. I would rather work at a job than be wholly responsible for laundry. That's right.
Secondly, I am going to read all the books that I borrowed from fellow book club members in the past year, all the books on the sidebar over there, and possibly Confederacy of Dunces which Will has been telling me I should read since the summer of 2002.
Thirdly, I am going to spend a significant amount of time studying for the September LSAT.
Fourthly, I am going to stop spending so much money on stupid crap.
That's not even the start of my list, but I just finished three glasses of wine and I couldn't quite remember if fourthly was grammatically correct or not. My Oxford American Dictionary Widget says yes, it is a word, which I thought so, but for how long can it possibly go on? Tenthly? Eleventhly? Thirtythly? Because I have a big list of goals, people. Many more than four, many more than ten. But, between finishing this list and having another glass of wine, I'm gonna have to go with the wine and figure out this ending in -ly numbering system tomorrow.
Hurray for summer!
When Will goes on a diet and exercise program, he goes all out. All out as in gets-up-at-5am-and-runs-three-miles-and-then-goes-to-the-gym-and-eats-only-800-calories all out. Once he ingested only lemon water for 10 days. No food, no other beverages. Just lemon water with a dash of cayenne. This diet is aptly named the Master Cleanser and Will will tell you all about it over dinner, so it’s better that you just not ask and be content knowing that it does its job of, um, cleansing fairly well. Or incredibly well. Or, well, it's just too much information, really, so we'll leave it at that.
Yesterday, Will and his friend, Jose, decided to get going on some sort of exercise routine and healthy eating plan. They looked at some books at Barnes and Noble and came up with some schedule for going to the gym. They also decided to take weekly pictures, ala John Stone, so they could track their progress. Last night Will took out the camera, stripped down to his boxers and I took two photos, one of his front, the other of his back.
Out of curiosity, I stripped down to my undergarments and had Will snap a shot of me.
(Guess where this is going?)
NOT A GOOD IDEA. You should NEVER, NEVER, NEVER do this, particularly under harsh fluorescent kitchen lighting. Hello, cellulite! Hello, thighs! Oh! There’s that bread pudding from dinner RIGHT ON MY BUTT!
Of course I deleted the photo right away. But, you know, I might go for a run later.
I have this to do list thing going on over at tadalist.com. I liked the name of the list--Tada!--and explained to Will the significance of the name. So, like, when you check something off the list, you get to say TADA! I have so much depth, y'all.
I refer to the list as the TADA! list which is ridiculous because in the time I have had the TADA! list I have only checked off a few things and, anyway, I added those things just so I would have something to check off because I was tired of not getting to actually check anything off and TADA! it.
Yesterday, I found out that I have been selected by the senior class to be a hand shaker at graduation. I thought that all I had to do was shake hands but, as it turns out, the hand shakers rotate as name readers as well. The very thought of some of my students graduating makes me teary-eyed right now and this has nothing to do with the fact that iTunes randomly selected Forever Young to play at this particular moment. I am a little worried that I won't make it through my name reading duty. There’s a reason why the Storypeople print in my hallway says: She said she usually cried at least once each day not because she was sad, but because the world was so beautiful and life was so short.
Also. There's an additional dilemma.
Remember the ordering of the illegitimate pink graduation hood? Well, it turns out that the lame high school cap and gown people do not carry pink hoods and so, instead of calling me to see what my second choice would be (lavendar), they simply sent me a hood in my university colors, blue and gold. Gah. A normal person would wear the stupid nylon hood with gold and blue lining. A normal person. The thing is, I think I can recreate the hood with pink lining as opposed to the blue and gold. It appears to be four pieces of fabric sewn together and turned right side out. How hard could it be? I can kinda sew. And, I can work wonders with a glue gun. Especially drunk, when things look much better than they do sober.
Gimme a vodka tonic and a sewing machine, baby. I'll have it covered in no time. The tears, though, are a whole different story.
For some reason, I was extremely tired this week. So tired, in fact, that after school on Friday I put my head down on my desk to rest for a moment. I was wearing a pair of gigantic, dangle earrings, one of which I removed because the numerous dangling beads and metal pieces were poking into my head.
In the middle of my much needed rest, the phone rang and the caller delivered some good news—the robot will be throwing the first pitch at our local baseball stadium, which is home to a major league farm team. We had been throwing the idea around for some time and I excitedly left my classroom to share the good news with some robotics team members and advisors who were next door in the computer lab. I spoke to at least ten people in two separate rooms all while wearing only one gigantic, dangle earring.
Not one person, not one person, mentioned the fact that I was missing an earring, even though my hair was pulled back into a ponytail and my earrings, in addition to their size, jangle like wind chimes. Tell me, are these hard to miss?
So, the deal is, I am looking for an assistant, pronto. Seriously, you don’t even need to apply. You're hired.
I will need my assistant to help me complete the following tasks:
1. Stop me from eating 45 Hershey Kisses a day. Also, stop me from eating spoonfuls of Whipped Supreme cupcake icing straight from the tub in the fridge.
2. Deal with the hotel key which I accidentally brought home from Fresno and inquire as to why the hotel does not move into this century and get those plastic credit card keys that you can lose forever at no cost.
3. Order a new cord for the computer and explain to everyone that the reason there was little going on in the way of posting while I was in Fresno was due to the fact that the cord started shooting off sparks when I plugged it in to charge the iBook. I’m not totally sure, but I’m guessing that’s not a good thing. Maybe I’ll find out in my new graduate course (see #6).
4. Tell all my students that no, Mrs. Wallace will not change your grade from an F to an A so you can go to the prom.
5. Locate my transcripts.
6. Complete my graduate homework, which consists of proving that I know how to turn on a computer, how to deal with a frozen computer screen, and how to send an email. Seriously.
7. Make 25 hair bows. Don’t ask. You don't even want to know.
8. Consolidate 6 purses of crap into one, organized bag. Take away all other bags.
9. Make me eat my vegetables. One vegetable a day would be a good start. And a piece of fruit. Maybe a banana.
10. Laundry.
You in, or what?
It is Spring Break which means that I got drunk last night and I will probably be getting drunk tonight and tomorrow I am leaving for Vegas so, you know.
It's actually kinda springy outside, even, and yesterday I put on some capri-length pants and flip-flops and then I realized that my legs desperately need shaving and I haven't had a pedicure in months so I decided I'd try the spring wear at another time and immediately went back to long pants and closed-toe shoes. Gah.
I spring cleaned, which in my world means I picked up all my crap off the floor, vacuumed, and emptied the dishwasher ALL IN ONE DAY. And then I had to take a nap.
Spring means baseball which means I won't see my husband until summer so, hey, do you want to do lunch? Dinner? Breakfast? Coffee?
And then there's this. Spring in all its glory.
One of the main differences between my family and Will’s family is directly related to the planning of family functions.
My family plans all family functions three weeks in advance. The big holidays require at least two months of arrangement time. There are weekend trips that have been planned for a year, including the hotel and restaurant reservations. We have Labor Day weekend booked in Santa Barbara through 2015. We necessitate this much time for important decisions to be made: dates, times, locations, who is responsible for bringing the dip, who is responsible for buying the margarita mix. There are emails and phone calls and, sometimes, functions to plan functions. The downside to this fanatical planning is that there’s really no getting out of a party that has been planned for two millennia.
Will’s family, on the other hand, plans most family functions on two hours notice. They will call you at 11am for a family barbeque that will be taking place at 1pm that very same day. Spontaneity is a fabulous thing, but for a girl who comes from a family where spontaneous means a last minute decision to bring apple martinis rather than the cosmopolitans you signed up for in the organizational email, spontaneity tends to be a difficult creature.
Will has many good qualities for which I will certainly keep him, but, I swear, he could not get six people to the same restaurant on the same day at the same time, even if his life depended on it. It’s a good thing his life does not depend on it. We are still in formal training phase of Planning 101.
In no way do I mean to disparage a family’s organizational processes and, in fact, it is sometimes superior to embrace a lackadaisical approach to life, but had better planning been executed, I would be at a party right now.
Yep. Instead, I am at home. Listening to Journey.
(Never mind that I just watched a movie, drank a watermelon martini and watched a friend blow $880 on blackjack. That’s not nearly as depressing, which is totally what I am going for here.)
The good news is that you get an overdue post, albeit a needy and disappointing one. I have all the time in the world because I am not at a party! Look! I am at home! Lucky you!
So, here’s a dilemma. One of my students has a clothing company. He designs and silk-screens t-shirts and tank tops and whatnot. The kids all over campus are wearing this kid’s stuff and I bought two tops to support his business. Twice last week I went to put on one of the tops (a rare pink edition shirt!) and decided against wearing it to school. Why, you ask? The brand is “Dirty Pony” which is emblazoned right across my chest. The student swears it does not mean anything bad, it’s just a logo he came up with and he is in the top 3% of the Senior class, but I don’t know. Dirty Pony. Doesn’t it just sound, um, dirty?
While we’re chatting (or, technically, while I am rambling and you are listening patiently—what a good friend you are), does anyone else get a horrible pain in their ear while flying? I have a super high sensitivity to elevation change and I can’t even go to the bottom of a 4-foot pool without my ears feeling like they are going to pop from all the pressure. I’m flying on Tuesday and need some advice, if anyone has any. I’ve tried chewing gum; I’ve tried EarPlanes; I yawn repeatedly. Nothing seems to control the feeling that a knife is stabbing through my ear into my brain which sure makes flying a lovely experience. Suggestions?
Also, how fabulous is Sarah Jessica Parker?
It is that dreadful time of year again. The time of year when I turn into a greedy, gluttonous, shifty addict. I hide out in my storage room to secretly indulge. I lie about my supply, claiming that I am all out of stock so that I won't have to share.
It is Girl Scout Cookie time.
I bought my first two boxes to help a student reach her sales goal; all subsequent boxes have been purchased out of sheer necessity. Addiction is a bad, bad thing.
My name is Janet Wallace and I am a Samoasaholic. Also, a Thinmintaholic. Oh, and a Dosidoaholic. I'm not so much into the Trefoils. Although, if you gave me a box of the Trefoils, I'd totally eat the whole box with hardly any complaints.
(Segue from cookies to crazy socks.)
I got a chain letter in the mail today. The last time I got a chain letter it was one of those recipe trees where I had to send a recipe to the top person on the list and I was supposed to get 1,300 recipes in return or something like that. It did not work. I think I got three recipes.
This chain is a crazy sock chain and I am honestly really excited about it. Apparently, if I send out one pair of crazy socks and six letters, I’ll get 36 crazy socks in return. I want 36 pairs of crazy socks. Waaaaant them. Neeeeeed them. We all need funky socks to "boost our outfits" as the chain letter states.
I am looking for a few good people to be a part of my chain. People who want crazy socks and are going to follow through on sending out the letters and sending out the socks, unlike the recipe tree people who did not close the deal. I need people who are organized! People who can follow instructions! People who can put stamps on envelopes! People who have the time go to Target and get a cute pair of stripey socks! I am once removed in the chain so not only do you have to be good, but your people have to be good.
I know you have good people; you know you want 36 pairs of crazy socks. Send me an email if you’re in.
(Segue from crazy socks to prom dresses.)
Last night, we received an automated phone call from the school informing us of the prom dress code. As chaperones, we need to know the prom dress code so we can enforce it at the door. Many of the kids had also received the call and we were reviewing the guidelines in class today. I reminded them that backless dresses, dresses with slits higher than mid-thigh, and keyhole or cutout style dresses were unacceptable. One girl, at hearing this, announced that she already had purchased a cutout dress, but then decided that it was no big deal—she would just wear a tank top underneath.
Cutout dresses, in case you, like I, didn’t realize the new trends in prom couture:
Teenagers have so much class, don't you think?
My alarm goes off at 6:00 in the morning.
By 6:02, I am already 45 minutes behind schedule. And, seriously, it's not like my life is all that packed. I mean, I go to school, I chill with some high school kids, I sit around at Robotics. It's not like I am running a Fortune 500 company or anything. Seriously.
And yet, at the end of the day, I have failed to complete any of the tasks that I should be getting done. I especially seem to have a huge problem with small, simple tasks--tasks that should take, literally, 5 minutes to complete.
For Example:
Big Task: Prepare non-profit year-end audit (did it)
Small task: Buy a pair of safety goggles (did not do it)
Big Task: Write 25 Thank You notes (did it)
Small Task: Put the notes in the mailbox (did not do it)
(This is a real pain in the ass, because I wrote some of the original thank you notes on fabulous Valentine notecards but now that Valentine's Day is two weeks past and the cards are still sitting, unstamped, in my book bag, I will have to rewrite them.)
Big Task: Prepare a calendar of dates for my AP class (did it)
Small Task: Make ten photocopies of the calendar (did not do it)
I'm going to blame this all on February, what with it being two days short of a real month and all, and make March a month of progress. If only I can catch up with myself.
I really shouldn't talk about my job here on SoPink because it's not really appropriate and I would hate to get dooced and whatnot, so I am going to tell you about a meeting my friend went to (my friend who works at a different school, in a different city, in a different state and who does not like pink one bit. Ahem).
So my friend went to a meeting with some foreign exchange students to discuss some fun activities for the exchange students to participate in and some possible trips to cool Southern California hot spots (I mean, cool Kentucky hot spots. Ahem). Anyway, the kids were asked to name some places that they might like to check out. They came up with some great ideas: Disneyland, Six Flags, Santa Monica, Hollywood, Pasadena, Los Angeles, Universal Studios...
And then one kid raised his hand and announced that the place he would really like to go to is McDonalds.
God Bless America. Home of the Quarter Pounder.
