6 Cakes

Our neighbors, we'll call them... Bob and Janet*... have enchanted me from day one. Not only do they spend 40% of their time here, smoking,


but 40% in the backyard enjoying life, and 20% doing heaven knows what inside that house I sometimes dream about touring, but usually never want to see for fear it will ruin the fantasy I have imagined for them in there. I hope that some day I can enjoy life as much as the two of them and only need a cigarette, a dog, and American Idol to be happy.

Yesterday I made cupcakes for them for being so fantastic, and for six cupcakes, Tom gave me:

1 Big hug
2 Trips from the front of the house to bring in our trash cans
3 offers to give us his old microwave (which he is getting rid of because apparently its popcorn capabilities have recently diminished)
4 minutes of his time, anytime, to come over and make popcorn on his new microwave
5 Invitations to his Fourth of July barbecue
and 6 ''you're awesome''s.

(Tom repeats himself a lot when he's drunk)... (Tom is always drunk).

I may be more in love with our neighbors at this point than I will ever be capable of loving a family of my own. And I think the common man would agree if he had been called awesome six times in under six minutes for six sub-par cupcakes left on his door step.

*I just realized that's the only time I used the psuedonym for my all-American neighbors, but it just doesn't seem right to not use their real and befitting names.

Havasupai: The Outcome

There are a lot of things that I won't do again because they almost killed me the first time, but Havasupai is not one of them.

In fact, there are a lot of things that drunk Indians, rabies-ridden guard dogs, and ten miles of feces might keep me from, but not the Shangri-la where I spent my weekend. I felt like Pocahontas off the drugs and with more logical camping gear.

On the way down, I wasn't too convinced. My Tomogatchi kept me about as alive as our "protective Havasupai native rangers" might have: by falling asleep within the first five minutes of the hike only to remain completely unconscious for the hardest part of the trek, dozing in his own defecation like the undignified bastard he turned out to be.

I didn't need him though; the few days spent in Supai were so marvelous, I would pass up the following trips just to go back:

1. New Zealand (actual country, or glorified movie set? I'm dying to find out... just like everyone else)
2. Time travel
3. The moon
4. Kolob
5. The Swiss Family Robinson tree house
6. My own wedding

Havasupai: the Prediction

My roommates, some scattered friends and I are headed to this paradise to hike this weekend. It's ten miles down, ten up, over three days. Here are my predictions:

Things that will surely kill me:
1. Packing in 15 minutes while talking (undoubtedly loudly) on the phone. (See also, things that will surely lose friends and influence roommates to move)
2. Eating half my trail mix while packing my lunch just now.
3. Prioritizing survival just beneath proving a skinwalkers' ability to show up on film.
4. My inability to ration.
5. Draining my Camel Pak for funzies within the first hour because the nostalgia of drinking out of a super soaker it provides is just too blissful to resist.

Things that will surely save my life:
1. Carb loading since Saturday, just in case.
2. The Tamagotchi my friend Rachel sent me for my 23rd birthday circa 1999 from a garage sale. (Original box, original Wal-Mart price tag for $14.00, original dream come true after years of settling for Nano babies and Giga pets). When he eats, I eat, and If I die, he dies.

So my chances of survival are about two to five. Which is also 40%. Which is also the amount of americans born in the 80s who own or have owned a Tamagatchi. Which is also me as of a week ago, so I'm pretty confident about the whole thing. Wish me luck!

I Always Knew I Liked You

‘If you tell a funny story at the dinner table in front of 10 people, nine will laugh, and one will say: that’s not true. I’ve always hated that person’

--David Sedaris

Here's to You, Roomates

All of my roommates are gone for various reasons this weekend, leaving me alone with my own thoughts. Here is what I've come up with.

1. NO ONE did romance like the early 90s
2. NO ONE did the loose braid/wispy bang combo like Meg Ryan.

Thank you 90s. Thank you Sleepless in Seattle. And thank you roommates, for leaving me alone, but not so alone with your fantastic collections of 90s romance DVDs. You were missed, but your legends lived on in our living room.

Oh and happy birthday. In advanced, thanks for not letting me wear a braid and over-sized blazer to work this week. You girls are the best.

House Centipede in my House

Came home to this little monster waiting for us in our apartment tonight. It was a little more horrifying than owning a hamster and a little less horrifying than the time I woke up with a millipede carcass draped in between my ring and middle finger (but very much the same kind of horrifying.)

At first we were intrigued, then it moved. We (my roommates and I) screamed like ethnic mourners and killed it with an oblong bike lock: something that may have been more logically used on a human intruder. It took several blows. And a lot of emotion.

Just when I think I'm a rational, self-respecting adult, nature gives me 100 wriggling, screaming reasons why I am anything but.

I Hate Myself for Loving You

I may judge a man for the things he likes, but I will loathe myself for the things I love.

For instance, I sort of hate myself for how much I love Titanic. I also hate myself for not loving Flight of the Conchords. It's probably so I can beat everyone else to the punch of hating me (because I'll always forgive myself, but I know that people like my brother may never find it in his heart to forgive this kind of crime).

But most of all, I hate myself for loving, so much, the ironic, hilarious statement T's. Tonight I went to the laundromat and saw a large man, daughter in tow, with a shirt on that said "STOP SNITCH'N!" across a stop sign, and I had to laugh because, sir you are YELLING at me and we've never met.

But this isn't the first time I've appreciated and adored these shirts. And I hate that.

I hate that you are a grown man wearing a shirt that says, "Sister for sale..." and that I love it.

I hate that I wonder how many times a week you wear that "Warn a Brother" shirt because I know it's more than one and I hope it's more than five.

I hate that I want to know what you were thinking when you bought your shirt. If you laughed, or if (and I hope) you looked at it and thought, 'yeah... people do need to stop snitch'n, and I need to let them know that... one to five times a week.'

But most of all I hate that I don't hate it, not a little bit, not even at all.