Hey, That's My Bike II

Sometimes we don't solve problems. We talk over the ones I create for myself. Here's what happened when I tried to use a discount code for tickets to Wicked.

GPG: Oh dammit! Dude, I just spent over $200 on the tickets.

La Ria: Uh oh.

GPG: I so didn't mean to do that! I was trying to check my points balance and then all of a sudden it said congratulations. And you can't return them! I hate Ticketmaster.

La Ria: Can you sell them?

GPG: No, because the genius that I am, I opted for Will Call. So I'd have to show up on the night of and become a scalper. Oh Christ.

La Ria: That's too much hassle. We might as well just use them.

GPG: Oh my god I'm so retarded!

La Ria: Well, where are the seats?

GPG: Oh, that's actually some good news! We're right smack in the middle. Which isn't bad for $100...Still, I'm so pissed I hit the wrong button!

Then we got there tonight and found out they'd upgraded us to the second row. All in all, a pretty damn good screw up.

Overheard in the Family #12

The other day the G-brat's class took a field trip. Since the school district doesn't bus kids to school, she'd never ridden one. So I asked her about it:

G-brat: And we had to sit and wait outside for the bus to come.

GPG: What did it look like?

G-brat: It was big and yellow.

GPG: Was it short?

G-brat: No, it was long.

GPG: Are you sure?

G-brat: Yes, GPG! It was long!

Don't argue with a 6 year old.

My father and her father overheard this conversation and both busted out laughing. We mock because we love.

Random Hypothetical #5

If your ex, who you had completely written off as a lost cause, suddenly starts calling again but refuses to leave messages, what do you do?

Why the hell would said ex bother???

I imagine situations like this would leave one feeling batty. I personally hate that little red Missed Call icon that isn't complimented by an orange Voicemail icon.

So should you ever call me, in reality and not hypotheticals, leave a damn message. That's all I ask.

Just Another Random Wednesday

Having things to look forward to is what makes the world go 'round. It's like I was telling La Ria this morning over our morning cup of email banter: I'm all perked up now that I'm not just staring down the barrel of 5 days of nothing but work. First of all, I've already crossed two off and tonight I get to drink!

And so I did. Thank god for bourbon, that's all I've got to say.

But also, there is travel back to 1995 with Blues Traveler on Friday and EVEN BETTER: my baby brother will be here this weekend!!!

And I was able to watch part of the Celtics game over the bar.

So here I am, stuffed full of Kentucky's finest, wondering if my girl Lex will be her for my birthday in 3 weeks and really just babbling. I should try to put something cohesive together, like date tips for girls concerning an unexpected phone call from an ex...or how I ran into a magical Swede on the internet recently. Also unexpected.

But isn't my nicely lubricated babbling so much better for you? Something keeps bringing you back. I don't know what it is...boobies?

Must Be The Playoffs

It's that time of year again. I don't know if you have this stupid trend in your city, but right about now, all the fair weather Lakers fans have annoying purple and yellow flags flying from their car windows. I also don't know why I hate them so much, but every time I see one I want to smack the owner.

The LA Downtown News apparently doesn't think that much of them either.



Go Denver...

Recipe for a Nasty Headache

I can't shake this damn brain pain. If you want one too, try this:

1. Have a really late night with the girls. Include wine. The red kind.
2. Wake up waaaaaaaaaaaaay too early.
3. Force yourself to the gym upon finally waking.
4. Work out for 45 minutes. Don't drink enough water.
5. Nearly pass out while stretching.
6. Shower, eat a rice cracker, take a nap.
7. Become awakened waaaaaaaaaaaaay too soon by cute little people.
8. Go to library for research. Read small print under bright lights.
9. Eat dinner. Drink more wine. The sweet white kind.
10. Lay in bed the rest of the evening, beset with a dull ache behind your eyes.

I'm guessing I'm dehydrated.

In other news, I need a new template for this here blog. Because I'm bored. It's been over 2 years, so it's time for a rehaul. But everything I'm finding is very juvenile. Can anyone recommend a halfway decent place for templates?

Looking for one is just making my headache worse.

Ready for Round 1

It's that time again: NBA Playoffs time! And it's like the basketball gods knew exactly what I wanted:

That's all I care about.

Flirting with Change

My parents are trying to get rid of me. They want me to go far away. Probably because I haven't given them grandkids. My baby brother took his way down south, Big Fish keeps his brood around the corner, but apparently I'm just taking up space.

Or maybe they want an outpost up north too.

It started when my dad sent me a job listing for a position in San Francisco. He knows how much I've always wanted to live there, and the job is right up my alley. It's for a great company, too.

C-dub would love for me to live up there with her. Rumor has it that a certain man might be returning to the area too. So I'd have a little tribe ready-made. A really good, sexy tribe in one of the best cities in the world. Who doesn't want that?

But I feel like I just got my sea legs on the job I already have. I've been in the new position for a mere 8 months. But I'm good at it. My employees like me, my boss adores me. And I just had the opportunity to draft plans for a new infrastructure. Little ol' me is helping redirect the future of my company. I like that, both the responsibility and the accolades.

I'm not sure I'm ready to give that up.

Though I suppose it couldn't hurt to dust off the résumé, right?

Lights, Camera, Exasperation

One of the more heinous inconveniences of living in the entertainment capital of the world is the neverending filming that is done smack in my way. When I was just a co-ed, we were constantly under seige by film crews on UCLA's campus. I can't tell you how many times I was late to class because of some bullshit shoot.

That scene in How High when the car runs into the statue and the head falls off? I was on my way to the library that day. But I couldn't cross the quad because of the damn shoot.

I swear, my life is hard.

It hasn't gotten any easier out here in the real world. Just this last Friday, as I was trying to maneuver around the Dodger game traffic, I passed two separate shoots. Coned off lanes, detours right and left, a tight police presence redirecting traffic, all causing me longer delays. Argh.

We get it a LOT downtown too. Almost every single car commercial advertised in California originated on Bunker Hill. That magical white tunnel that stars in almost every single vehicle ad recently? Like the most recent Cadillac ones: that tunnel is directly outside my office. Guess how often I'm impeded by that crap?

And tonight I get home and find a lovely notice on my front door telling me that parking on our street is going to be compromised for the next few days. Because something called "Mostly Ghostly" is filming in the neighborhood.

DAMMIT.

Thankfully, this sounds like more like a kids film than a cops and robbers flick. That's what they were filming last time. It was fun waking up to the sounds of gunshots in the middle of the night. Like living in the ghetto.

Oh joy.

Faith, Defined

It was the last face she expected to see in that crowd. She shouldn't have been surprised, they were there, after all, to support his best friend the fillmmaker. It shouldn't have been completely unforseen that he might be there, too. Despite the fact that he lived 3000 miles away.

They had not spoken since his last visit. Life had gotten in the way for both of them. But he hadn't called to say he'd be in town. And he always called.

The first words out of his mouth were, ironically, "what are you doing here?"

She just looked at him. And he knew what she was thinking, but she said it anyway. "You're kidding, right?"

He sighed. "I should have called."

"Yes."

"But I didn't think I'd have time to see you."

"You're here for the film festival?"

"No, I'm actually here on a job. It just worked out that I could come tonight."

She raised an eyebrow, too stunned to speak. She would normally be ecstatic, but in that moment she was numb.

"Sweetie, I'm so sorry," he stammered, as if he'd been caught red-handed. She continued staring at him in disbelief.

"It's been six months."

"No," he protested. "It hasn't! It couldn't have been that long."

"That's the last time you were here."

He continued apologizing to her as they stood ignoring their friends around them. She couldn't tell if she was mad or relieved, the unexpected shock of seeing him in person too disorienting for any other emotion.

And then he hugged her and the world came back into focus.

"It's kismet. I should have let you know, and this is the universe righting my wrongs."

She rolled her eyes and laughed. He could be such a sap. But she couldn't be mad at him. He was genuinely guilt-ridden.

And he always gave such good hugs.

For the Love of Cleavage

For those keeping track at home, my birthday is in 30 days. 30 days till 30. Woo wee.

To celebrate, I made a serious error in judgment when getting dressed this morning. I have a brown blouse with a deep v-neck. It's just barely modest enough to wear to work. And goes perfectly with the pants that unintentional weight loss suddenly made fit better. Yay!

Girls know that certain tops require certain bras. And not all bras are created equal. You don't wear a thin t-shirt with a lace bra, if only because the pattern will show through, your boobs will look lumpy, and then god forbid if it gets cold. Unless you're a whore, and then what does it matter? By the same token you can't wear a v-neck shirt without a plunging bra that adds a little oomph.

I opted for the razorback. Good support. Again, the girls know what I mean here. What I didn't realize was just how much...uh, more "on parade" my tits were going to be.

If you know me, if you've been reading this for any length of time, you know I absolutely adore my boobs. They're pretty fabulous. And a full 2/3 of the people who end up here randomly did so by searching for this on Google. And that's all well and good, but maybe not so much at work, right?

By noon, my boss had pointed out to me TWICE that I was threatening to pop out of my shirt. Imagine my comfort level when I was later in a closed door meeting with the [male] head of HR. Crossing my arms in front of me only exacerbated the problem. I began wishing I'd worn a muu-muu to work.

On the plus side, the mailroom guy did offer to send my mail for free.

The moral of the story is that I'm never wearing that bra to work again. Happy hour, on the other hand, most definitely.

Overheard in the Gaslamp District

I really like San Diego. Not enough to move there, much to my baby brother's chagrin, but it has its charm.

And I really love my family. Because we have conversations like this, while we pass a drama unfolding outside a low-rent hotel:

Baby Brother: Check out the brotha and his white girlfriend.

GPG: Aw, he's making her cry. Now he's on the phone telling his boys he's gonna be late cuz the bitch won't stop crying.

Shambot: She is NOT cute. And her clothes needs help.

GPG: Really, what the fuck is she wearing?

Shambot: You'd think if you're not cute, you'd at least try harder with your outfit.

BB: Dude, you are mean.

Shambot: No, it's true. It's about balance. Look at Sam Cassell. He's ugly but also rich and athletic, so it all balances out in the end.

BB: See GPG, that's why she fits in with us. She's the meanest out of all of us.

More reasons to adore the Shambot: she's not Puerto Rican, but still manages to talk smack better than any other cheerleader from the OC, and she make basketball references. I'm so glad she's marrying my baby brother.