November 26, 2005
It is DAMN cold here.
Like, I don't remember cold being this cold.
I know what you're thinking -- "Look at her, she's lived in California for 3 months and now she thinks she's all West Coast and whines about how everything else is lame but her. I'm a big moron."
Well, you're wrong, except for that last part.
I'd probably be complaining about how cold it is here anyway and how I wished I lived in a warmer place.
Living in California only affords me the right to never complain about how cold it is there, just as it affords Justin the right to never complain about how hot it is after moving from Alabama.
Even though he still does. I turn the fan above 74 degrees, and suddenly all memory is gone of living in a state where restaurants can legally operate without a kitchen, where the waiters simply hold your delicious chicken dinner out a window and bring it to you piping hot minutes later.
I guess some people are just eternally one temperature.
At work, my fingers often get so cold, when I walk out to my car at night, they get that painful feeling you get after playing in the snow without gloves. I talked to my LA boss and my building manager and they all sort of pretend to care and push an imaginary button which doesn't actually change the temperature, but I quit complaining about it because I don't want to be the Girl Who Complains. Well, I am sort of that, but I don't want to be the Girl Who Complains A LOT.
Everyone complains at work, right?
I don't think I'd have any friends if I didn't complain about stuff.
I certainly wouldn't have a website!
Speaking of, let me tell you about my delightful flights out to Pittsburgh. I had a layover in Detroit where Justin appropriately warned me of thug pilots commiting fly-by shootings. The point is, I had two plane rides, and on BOTH of them, I sat one row away from some snot-nosed little kid whose soccer mom and investment banker dad thought that turning 2 warranted the purchase of an overpriced DVD player so that they could save the actual parenting to the fucking Wiggles and Elmo on a four-hour cross-country plane ride.
Back in MY day, I had one (1) hard plastic, no points-of-articulation Strawberry Shortcake that I could either sniff, stare at, or make walk across the tray table in front of me, but not during takeoff or landing. When I was old enough to deserve expensive technology, I was allowed a GameBoy, BUT only if I had headphones and then only if it was low enough that my mom couldn't hear it when she put her head up to my ear.
But, no, both times, on both planes, these kids were watching their little show at MAX volume with no headphones. Is this even allowed? Am I the only person that was bothered? Am I the only person who can't hear the theme song for the lovable kids' show "Max and Rudy" without wanting to stab little Parker in the face?
His name really was Parker because I heard his mom call him that, and I'm sure the kid on the other plane was named Preston or Trevor or Mercedes or Waspy Wasp.
I seriously cannot believe there's no regulation for this. What if some teenager brought their boombox on their shoulder?
So, I obviously came up with the prefect solution.
Next time some kid does that, I'm whipping out my laptop and playing hard-core porn at full volume. Hell, I'm not going to even point the screen at me.
And if he starts to cry, I'm going to explain to him that that there's the whole reason he exists. Well, except for the money shot.
Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!
November 21, 2005
Based off of this web gem if you live under an inter-rock.
I saw the movie on Imax, which is really the only way to see it.
I apparently went to the Special Needs showing, however, because the kid next to me, who engaged me in conversation for a good 15 minutes, kept referring to the fifth book as the "Horror of the Phoenix," with no irony because he is 13 and probably thinks that "irony" is a cartoon mineral supplement. (GET IT?! O RLY?!)
Then, a girl wearing Harry Potter glasses who was only a bit younger than me had a conversation with me for about 10 minutes regardless of the fact that A) we were five rows apart, B) we were surrounded by people who probably wanted to have their own conversations, C) She had to stand to yell over the heads of everyone else and D) I clearly had my "Yes, yes, very interesting.... shhhhhhhh" face on. I don't wear my hilarious Harry Potter-themed shirts for your benefits, nerds. I wear them for quiet admiration. Quiet.
I don't care if you went to a party once that had a room that looked like the Great Hall with candles hung from the ceiling on monofilament.
Now, Silencio.
Stupidest thing I've said in the past couple of days #4354:
Mom: Has your laptop arrived yet?
Me: NO! It's been almost 10 days, and trust me, I had a tooth to pick with the USPS.
Mom: ...Do you mean "bone"?
Me: Wait, what did I say?
Mom: You said "a tooth to pick." Like a "toothpick."
Me: ...
I really think I'm getting stupider by the minute.
But in other ways, LA sort of allows me to be me.
I've always sang musicals at the top of my lungs in my car, and I never really minded if people saw me doing it. But out here, it's kind of normal. Passing motorists will probably just think I'm some Acting Student.
I also didn't feel like changing out of my snowflake pajama pants to go to Barnes and Noble, so I didn't. Because this is LA. Passing mall goers will probably just think I'm one of those crazy outfit wearers.
Part of the reason I've always wanted to live out here is that when I was 15, I came out to visit a friend, and I saw a woman with bright pink hair wearing an outfit entirely made of driving maps and tap shoes. "This is where I want to live," I exclaimed, and I almost saw a tear form in a passing driver-by shooter's eye.
Then, the other day, I wanted to take Scamp to Carl's Jr. to get a 99-cent spicy chicken sandwich. And you know what? I did. And he loved it. I might have scared the drive-through guy, but he didn't speak English, which is a shame, because I was going to tell him deadpan that the chili cheese fries were for Scamp. Hah! And little would he know I was only half-joking!
So full of life, this city!
YES, RLY.
November 17, 2005
Los Angelenos are a busy people.
They don't have time to be all pronouncing every syllable of every word.
One of the more delightful and hilarious things I've seen out here are the ritual shortenings of everything from common phrases to obscure references.
I suppose it's part of its heritage.
"Los Angeles" is actually an abbrev itself.
The actual name of the city is something ridiculously long and Spanish that I don't feel like looking up right now, because time and syllables are money.
Then, of course, Los Angeles is abbreviated to L.A., or, as the more trendy hipsters call it, "LLL."
But everything is abbreviated here.
The San Fernando Valley is The Valley.
My bank, Washington Mutual is WaMu (pronouced, literally "Wah-Mew").
The local liquor store is called Bev Mo.
Granted "Beverages and More" is a mouthful anytime, but Bev Mo?
I'm sure there are more examples, but my personal favorite abbrev was when my L.A. boss told me to take the 'vator to the top floor. I tried to keep a straight face as I imagined riding on the back of Darth Vader flying Superman-style to our top floor, then I realized that he was probably just saying "elevator," which is much less fun, and much more wussy light-side Jedi.
Well, I've got to get to sleep, as I work early, and unlike magical flying Darth Vader, I have to drive to work like a loser. Or maybe I can hitch a ride with Vader's good buddy, Emp Palp. I will need to grab my gate pass out of my car, though, because I'm afraid the gate will be quite operational when we arrive.
November 11, 2005
Well, peeps, to answer the only question anyone -- including everyone out here -- asks, Yes, I Do Love Living in California.
It was a great plan, and I love almost every aspect of it.
The weather is like I'm on vacation every day.
Even on the rainy, smoggy, shitty days, it's better than Pittsburgh.
Even when people constantly remind me that I'm in a stereotypically unsafe town in a stereotypically unsafe city, I've been known to exclaim loudly to anyone who will listen, "Well, at least people aren't getting shot in the lobby of the movie theater I used to attend and where my ex-roommate used to work!!"
As a matter of fact, I'm about to go see "Saw 2" with Melissa, and I'll bet not even one of us is going to get cut up by a saw. I can promise you, though, that I'm probably not going to sleep tonight, even though I will have spent the duration of the movie staring at the seat in front of me.
Well, I'm going to be late and I'm afraid of Melissa, so I'd better go.
I told Scamp to bite me if I don't update more regularly, and he agreed a little too enthusiastically and gave me a practice bite for not uploading any recent cute pictures of him lately.
So, yes, more later. Unless I get sawed to pieces at the theater.
November 01, 2005
Some golden gems I've said in the past few days...
Justin: Do you know what Wi Fi is?
Lauren: What do I look like, some type of moron?
Justin: What is it?
Lauren: Wireless...fi...
And then at a Japanese Zen garden, we watched a huron catch a fish from the pond in its beak, and I loudly exclaimed "That's some Discovery Channel shit right there!"
I'm sure I've said a lot of more things, but it's time for work now.
And my cat is trying to climb up my leg like a lumberjack.