Day 17: Asparagus Day

"Eat nothing but asparagus all day long to ascertain how noxious your pee can get."

"[Asparagus]...transforms my chamber-pot into a flask of perfume." --Marcel Proust (1871-1922)

Unless your aversion to anything vegetable has prevented an exposure, or unless you've remained farther than 12 feet from the toilet bowl you've just leaked in, you've smelled the unmistakable, germinating scent of asparagus pee.

Last Monday I ate asparagus with EVERY SINGLE MEAL. I know that the assignment calls for only asparagus for every single meal, but I'm already a vegetarian so I think that would push me over the edge. For breakfast: an asparagus, mushroom, and onion omelette. So basically, I had bad breath in addition to bad pee. For lunch: a quick sandwich and cold asparagus dipped in mayo & capers. For dinner: angel hair pasta and baked asparagus & parmasean.

Some more rambunctious people told me to dip asparagus in a homemade hollondaise sauce, but after cooking so much butter, I'm pretty sure I would start to resent the asparagus. And the raw asparagus already resembles something of an inhospitable cactus, although a more leggy, model-type. So I stuck with the basics.

Now I realize that this blog business basically exposes one's private life at a level of that person's discretion. Well, I'm going down that road. My pee was beyond upset with me. If my pee could talk, it would be squealing. It would be like the sound of a man after he's had a bowling ball dropped in his lap. My pee was beyond extra-terrestrial.

And it lasted into the next day. I eat dinner late. Sometimes I go to bed on a full stomach (not recommended), but in this case, the asparagus attacked my toilet even the next morning. The asparagus was vicious. The asparagus was a bully. The asparagus won.

It will be awhile before I can willingly look this vegetable in the eye again. Jagermeister (aka anise) and I still aren't on speaking terms and I fear that the stubborn silent treatment has finally severed our friendship. So, the next asparagus dish better be worthwhile or else I fear a lifetime of produce animosity. Suggestions?

Day 16: The Digital Salute

"Discreetly give the finger to people all day."

I know for a fact that old people are down with the Canadian turn signal, although they seem to manipulate it in different ways than Gen X&Y. Don't get me wrong, they can still fuck the bird very effectivley, but their loss of muscle tone and/or their flagging flexibility makes the universal high sign less convincing. I guess they feel that they need to compensate by flipping the stick and then punching it into the air with a couple of geriatric thrusts for good measure. Either that or they've already given the finger so many times in their lives that they must creatively expound on it: my beloved adopted grandmother, nicknamed Stinkie, lived into her 90s and until her last months she used to hold up 3 fingers to her caregivers, "Read between the lines," she'd cough and holler. This is the same old woman who would regularly remind us that she "liked two things hard. And one of them was ice cream."

Today I went for a run around McKinley park. Normally when I'm in the proverbial "zone," I space out and after emerging from my endorfin haze, I either spit some pathetic excuse for a loogie or correct my posture. (You see, when I worked at Jamba, we had these worthless exercise books that dictated the proper erect running stance. Yes perverts, erect.) Consequently, I'm sure all of you are completely unaware of what you look like jogging. Let me tell you straight up: you look like fairies. Sure, when you're at the gym there might be a mirror around in which you can babysit your mojo, but for the most part, ya'll jog with prancy baby steps and limp wrists. I'm in the process of training myself to not run like a girl for the following reasons: 1) it hurts my knees, C) it tires me out, and IV) no one takes me seriously.

This afternoon in particular I remembered my assignment and decided to discipline my hands into versions of the finger. First I tried it on one hand. Then the other. Finally I worked up to double daggers and kept my pepper spray handy should some one take it personally. For the most part, I think fellow joggers were preoccupied; either that or they were too busy staring at my ass as I lapped them. But it was nearing rush hour and I hope that a few cars (preferably not buses full of pre-schoolers or nuns) noticed my neutral 'up-yours.' I received no indication of acknowledgement. Perhaps they were too busy texting illegally or extinguishing power boners after just firing somebody at work.

There is still time to work in some finger-flickin' fun before the end of the day. I trust you to do the same. Although, since Thirsty Thursday is the new Friday, I expect you to reign it in at the bars.....D-bags are dying for any excuse to miss class tomorrow with a fist broken on your mandibula.

Arriba, Abajo, Al Centro, Al Dentro!

Day 15: Be Gay for a Day

This one was easy because everyone knows how I love making out with girls.

Now that I have your attention, please note that this blog is being written about yesterday because I happened to be partying in the gay capital of our nation, San Francisco.

Slobbered out of bed around 8:30 am from a healthy night's sleep of about 5 1/2 hours. Dragged my hungover ass to Safeway where I purchased an ORANGE Gatorade because the aftertaste resembles goldfish crackers, and fish are gay, right Kanye? I almost hugged a complete stranger because she not only let me and my Gatorade go ahead of her in line, but she followed me out to the parking lot after I'd left my car keys at the cashier. Was I was still drunk?

I got to Berkeley to pre-party for the game a bit when Dev and I went to sushi (more gay fish) and talked shit about people the whole time. Wait I'm unclear..am I supposed to be a gay man or gay woman, here? Headed back for beers and football (ok, the butch in me is coming out) and I took a quiz testing whether my brain was masculine or feminine (http://www.bbc.co.uk/science/humanbody/sex/add_user.shtml), and sure enough, on a scale from 0-100, zero being gender neutral and 100 being either really masculine or really feminine, I scored 25 toward being a man, which is scary because the average for men was 50. I guess, just call me Barb.....

After pizza, beer, sports, and periodically readjusting my junk every 3 minuntes, I changed clothes for the city. Mind you, I was wearing the equivalent of a football shirt (you know, really short but really baggy) only it was leopard print. I got off BART at 16th and Mission and immediately got leered at by a bunch of dirty old men so I barked back at them like any self-respecting lesbian would. At Danise's birthday dinner, I ordered squash soup. Don't think there's any gay connection there... But I WAS about the only person there sitting without a significant other, so it's kinda like I was the awkward, half-out-of-the-closet token gay person?

Later, we headed to Medjool for drinks and a terrace view of the city. And obviously, since I was gay, I could point toward the Castro. Then I proceeded to make out with every chick in the bar and called it a night.

Now fuck off,
Barb

Day 14: A Day of Compliments

First off readers, I apologize for being so blog lax. Actually I hate that word because it reminds me of poop, which in turn reminds me of Rachel, who I in turn love because she actually reads my blogs. So maybe I will say LAX loud and proud. And when you come back from the bathroom, here is my latest anecdote:

"Flatter someone today and see if it does indeed get you anywhere."

It must be nearing the holidays because I'm already turning into a younger, better toned version of Ebeneezer Scrooge. (P.S. If someone were to name their child Ebeneezer today, what would his nickname be? Ben? I shudder...) Anyway, it is now 6:35pm and I was thinking back on the day in terms of compliments. It pains me to admit that nothing remotely tiptoeing towards a compliment emerged from my mouth before about 5:45pm! OK sure, I slept in until about 10am, then went to the gym where I generally make it a rule to ignore every bitchy housewife and her school-ditching daughter, whereupon I returned home and had to actually Google my breakfast, "how to cook eggs over-easy," while I was Gchatting with Calin (like the shoutout, honey?). I guess the closest I came to complimenting her was by calling her a Betty (and me a Veronica) as we brainstormed names for our upcoming fashion blog. Does that count? I think that anyone who reads Archie comics would probably not prefer to be compared to the technicolor version of Olivia Newton John, aka Grease's Sandy before she became a pleather-wearing, chain-smoking skank.

Next I made it to the banks, yes plural, because being the product of divorce forces at least bi-monthly bank inconveniences. And we all know that there is little opportunity to wedge in a compliment at one of the dryest, most sterile institutions in the United States...although I almost complimented the teller on her nail polish, but it was about 2 shades of green off from the color I prefer most. So nope.

After depositing my paycheck I drove into an area of Sacramento that I despise almost more than any other: Arden. Imagine strip malls, Outback Steakhouses, sushi warehouses (I mean, restaurants) named Tex Wasabi that manufactures gargantuan "Gringo Sushi" that has names like Jackass and Screaming Gobbler, a turkey, pepper jack, and mayonaisse roll. Yummers... After retching out the window at every other stoplight, I made it to Aaron Brothers Framing where I purchased a relatively inexpensive, shamelessly pretentious, flagrantly gaudy diploma frame. Ironically, it was made in Indonesia. Insert guilt here.

As I road raged my way home, I realized that over easy eggs hadn't satisfied me and that my overtly gloomy behavior and compliment deficiency was simply the result of an underfed tummy. I promptly asked Rachel where I should go to eat and she wasn't very helpful when she suggested Jack's, a SALAD BAR!!! I still love you though, Ape. I decided on Opa Opa, a Greek cafeteria-style restaurant at which I indulge myself from time to time. When I say "indulge," I'm not referring to food entirely; rather, I indulge on the attention. The thickly-accented Greek workers call me "love" and always compliment me on my outfit. What more can a grumpy girl ask for than a meal and an ego-boost? Of course, I couldn't return the compliment at that point because I was blushing too much.

Finally, after eating half my falafel gyro (the take-out menu claims it's pronounced year-o) and all my side of spanakopita, Igor, my stepsister's boyfriend came home. He's living in Sacramento during the week to work on a prestigious science fellowship at the capitol. At this point (about 5:45pm), he had packed and loaded his car. He was thanking me for letting him crash the party pad while the parents were away when I could easily have been using it for, well...parties. But honestly, I didn't care! He left the parents two bottles of wine and presented me with a pot of my second favorite flower, orchids. Then he said I could eat any of the food he'd brought with him and after asking if I used iTunes, gave me a gift card, a perk he'd received at work! I could get used to this! But seriously, he's a terrific, gracious, helpful dude so I had no choice but to compliment him and let him know he could come back any time. Mind you, this is not really my house to be offering, but he's the kind of person who's welcome anywhere. So he deserved my first compliment of the day. I haven't yet made another, but it's Friday and the night is still young...

Day #13: Mass Murderers

Send a letter to a mass murderer.

Depending on my mood, I always have on some sort of background noise when I'm getting ready to go out. Most of the time I shuffle my Giggity Gizzle iPod playlist, aka my Look-like-a-stunna,-play-like-a-beast mix. However, when I keep the TV on, it usually means that even though there is nothing remotely entertaining on the boob at 9:30pm on a Friday night, I would rather stay home burrowed in a barcalouger. This particular day in Berkeley, I had spent a in a DVR haze, my treat after an especially gruelling week of essays and midterms. Those of my friends who hadn't come down off their week-long diet of 8-hour energy shots were, of course, ready to paint the town. Initially insisting on remaining in, yet having deleted the last of my shows, I switched to a documentary of the 1960s and jumped in the shower to get ready for the bars. In other words, I crumble to peer pressure.

As I was laquering my face with makeup, the documentary began taking a look at the dark side of the decade of free love. Hippies took to the streets, combining their penchant for LSD with heavier narcotics, and eventually turning the once emblematic Haight-Ashbury district into a slum. Drug dens and cults developed from the leftovers of the broken flower children. Throughout California, the days of love were becoming no more.

Among the ashes was Charles Mason, my chosen mass murderer pen pal so it seems. In the late sixties he moved to Berkeley where he met Mary Brunner, a 23-year-old librarian at UC Berkeley. He convinced her that polyamory was the way to go and they soon had 18 other women living in their apartment. Soon Manson's drug-induced groupies were trailing him all over the western US, agreeing to his every whim, either acting as servants or playing sex slave upwards of 20 times per day. His cult vision coupled with his newly recorded album and musical interest caused him to name his movement, Helter Skelter, after a Beatles album. Manson participated in and instructed his followers to initiate several mass murders over the course of a few weeks, the most famous of which came to be known as the Tate murders.

As of now, Manson is 75 years old and serving a life sentence in San Quentin. After reading this condensed bio and watching the following video clip, I'm sure you'll come to realize why I refuse to spend the cost of a postage stamp on this particular assignment.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5uhmtAmwnDQ

Day #12: What's your type?

Tick it here today as a reminder at drunken parties:
Women:

• dumb blonde
• clever brunette
• wild redhead
• lesbian
  
• nag
• cold fish

Men:

• Beefcake
• Mr. Nice Guy
• Loaded
• Married with Kids
• Sleazeball
• Handsome prince

In regards to men, I checked none of these boxes because the semantics is all wrong. For example, while I enjoy a tanned six-pack and shoulders that won't quit, I don't want to peg myself as the girl who's into "beefcake." That sounds dirty. And even though I hope that my date will pick up the tab at some restaurant like...I don't know...Chez Panisse (?), I'm not specifically looking for anyone with a $6 mil trust fund...$4 mil will do.

However, I feel like I definitely fit into the "clever brunette" classification for women because A) I have dark hair, and B) I can be quite witty at times. Case in point, this blog. Therefore, because you're reading it, you can tick me as your type. ;)

Day #11: Introduce Yourself to Someone New

"Introduce yourself to someone you've never met and spark a conversation."

Do you routinely go somewhere and before you even get there you know you're going to run into someone who you entirely dislike? And yet you still continue going there? I'm a victim. I regularly work out at a gym in Sacramento, but between the hours of about 8am and 2pm on weekdays, I walk through the doors preparing myself for the uppity voice of the hugest bitch in the metropolitan area. She's always been vaguely familiar, even the first day I came across her, but I think it's because she somehow infiltrated my nightmares.

What's weird is that she's ALWAYS so friendly with my mom, even when I'm standing right next to her, yet she turns to me and gives me the dirtiest looks. I've determined that she's just an ageist like every other bitter old person with a wasted youth. Once, I came into the gym at an early 7am and because she isn't usually in that early, I hadn't prepped myself for her hostility before walking in. On this particular morning, I had also left my card at home (lucky me) so when I got in, not only was I fumbling around half asleep, but I was stunned at the sight of her wrinkly, frowning face. After asking for my card, I kind of mumbled and stuttered something non-sensical and she laughed at me! Not a kind, you're-hella-asleep-and-it's-cute giggle, but a full-on scoff, like one of those "Chh" air expulsions. And then just rolls her eyes, turns her back, and shoos me away! So much for customer service...

Anyway, after sleeping the entire ride back from Berkeley today in a pancake food coma, I determined to head to the gym around noon, in other words, peak scary lady time. When I got there, surprise(!) I had forgotten my card again. She asked my last name and looked for my card, and when I said my first name, she was like, "I know, Stephanie. I remember you well." After not finding my card, she had me sign the necessary form and as I set the pen down, she winked and said, "I let you use my special pen." I laughed (not sniggered) because I had finally been introduced to my mortal gym enemy-turned ally and got to use a pretty writing instrument, which us writers always appreciate.

Ultimately, I didn't really "spark" any conversation, but judging by our past showdowns, I think it counts.

Day #10: Check out Noah

I'm supposed to check out this guy named Noah's blog on www.thisbookwillchangeyourlife.com, but apparently Noah is make-believe because so is this website. Stephanie- 1; Noah- 0.

Day #9: Do Something Before Breakfast

"Do something before breakfast today."

Since my breakfast consisted of coffee, which according to experts, doesn't even count as a meal, I squeezed in a fair amount of activities prior to noon-time food. However, only a couple are of note.

I succeeding in immediately making my mother mad. Actually, she was upset from the night before. Apparently a cousin who was at the BBQ needed to borrow our Yukon to transport some family members and their luggage to an international flight out of San Francisco. All pretty standard, hypothetically simple plans...Except that in my state of cheapness and poverty, I had refused to put in more than the $10 I had already spent on gas for that SUV hog over the weekend, so I had driven in back into the driveway with the fuel gauge literally reading below empty. I feel bad now because, in the end, it wasn't actually the parents who had to coast on fumes to the nearest gas station; it was a cousin. OOPS, my bad! Pre-breakfast drama.

Amidst the revitalizing fumes of coffee, I also updated my portfolio AND studied for the GRE. Some would say these important stepping stones in one's career advancement and grad school preparation should be approached with a full stomach and a brain untainted by the buzz of caffeine, but I say, "Damn you, breakfast! All you're good for is lethargy and lactose!"

Day #8: Addiction-Free Day

"Your body is a temple. Cut out addictive substances and habits for the day and see how much purer you feel."

The second I woke up, I failed this assignment. I fell prey to my very worst addiction: cuddling. Not only was I clutching my stuffed Pink Kitty up under my chin, but I was also playing big spoon to my tattooed twin, Cathee. Normally, she takes on the big spoon position, but sometimes you have to shake things up a bit.

I'm not one to half-ass things. If you've woken up a failure, continue on the path of doom. It's like waking up and indulging in half a pack of cigarettes and a tall stack of Ihop pancakes...it's all downhill from there. So I wasted about an hour and a half watching Spongebob Squarepants while Cathee slept off her stupor. However, I barely had time to change when we were abducted by an SUV full of friends on the pretense of brunch. One young man kindly gave up his seat and instead nestled himself in the trunk, and we were off like a Mexican mini-van. After arguing at warp speed all the way downtown about the myriad of restaurant choices awaiting us, we decided on Streets of London because it seemed one of the few places that A) had a TV for football, B) had strong drinks, and C) wouldn't frown at the hair I hadn't combed in 48 hours. And so the day meant to remain free of addictive substances continued with Screwdriver shooters and very odd Bloody Marys that were made with Guinness (I can promise I will NEVER become addicted to those).

We relocated to Sweetwater, a cleaner, yuppier establishment, where another young man in our group proceeded to order Prison Sex. Shot glass 2/3 full with Crown Royal, topped with Butterscotch liqueur, chased with another shot of Coca-Cola. Just like prison sex, it hurt in the end. We chased 3 rounds of these with addictive California Benedicts and French toast (wisely split between Cathee and myself).

Smart addicts are clever enough to stop ingesting at least 2 hours before they must go to work. Which is exactly what I did. Made it home by means of a sober driver, drank about a gallon of water, a can of another addictive substance, Coca-Cola, and sped off to work.

Nothing particularly addictive there other than the annoying power trips everyone experiences in customer service. Five hours later...

Headed home to participate in what I thought was the tail-end of a family BBQ. If you know anything of my family, this BBQ was not a place to avoid addicting substances. There were German pretzels and sauerkraut, dark beers and tequila shots, gossip and ridicule (i.e. the major family food groups). I escaped with my life to crawl into bed at midnight, hours before the laughing and hollering ceased in my backyard.

Operation: FAIL

Day #7: Masturbation

Obviously, I have a little catching up to do. This weekend left me little respite as you will soon discover. I had barely enough time to shave my armpits, much less respond to Saturday's instructions:

"Masturbate at 13:56 to the following fantasy:

WOMEN:

Dark storm clouds were gathering over the Alpine mountain top as Emma finally reached the refuge. Where were the others? Where was her husband Edward? Perhaps they had fallen behind and taken the safe track back toward St-Paul-des-Clercs and civilization, she wondered. Well there was no point in panicking now. Night was falling fast, and she would have to spend it up here all alone at the mercy of these peaks. Exhausted, she entered the deserted cabin and barely had time to strip off her drenched clothes and slip into the thermal sleeping bag that Edward had thoughtfully given her for their sixth anniversary, before a deep slumber overtook her naked body.

As even the moon retreated from the inhospitable horizon, strange and fitful dreams came upon her. She tossed and turned in the night, her feverish brow victim to wild imaginings, full of visions of werewolf-like creatures creeping around the cabin, circling, surrounding her with deep-breathing low whistles that seemed to hiss and crackle like FIRE?!!! Emma opened her eyes and shrieked in the empty night. There, across the room, stood the tall, dark stranger. She held her breath in terror as he looked up from the fire he had lit in the wide hearth and stared at her inscrutably. His eyes seemed to contain worlds beyond her ken.

“Who – who are you? What do you want?” she cried. The man made no reply, but simply tossed another log onto the fire with barely a flicker of his powerful deep-veined forearm. He breathed in deeply, closing his eyes. Emma’s voice was trembling.

“Look, now, I don’t know what is going on but…”

He silenced her with a look from his piercing green eyes that seemed to cut right through her. Before she even realized what she was doing, Emma raced through the door in a mad dash for freedom, through the door and out into a thick curtain of rain lashing down over her exposed skin. He caught up with her easily, his strong arms grabbing her by the waist and hauling her back into the cabin. She writhed desperately in his grip until she could no more. He held her still, stared into her eyes and finally spoke in halting English, in the manner of one who seemed above words.

“Don’t. It is too dangerous out there for you. You are safe here with me.”

And somehow she knew that this was so.

The fire dispensed a warm glow to the room. Before she had even recovered from the onslaught of the elements, she was trapped in an embrace as power as any of Nature’s Furies. As the storm raged on outside, she stared into the infinite depth of his eyes. And then he was upon her, touching her deep within, roughly of course but with infinite tenderness. Suddenly lightning struck a tree nearby, while its thunder covered her animal moans. He held her tight for what seemed an eternity, until the first light of dawn broke the enchanting spell the mountain Gods had woven around them. And he was gone, as swiftly as he had come. Was it but a dream? Emma wondered wistfully, as she drifted off back to sleep smiling, her brow no longer troubled.

MEN:

Two blondes. Doing it. Together."

Now having never read a romance novel, yet pretty much intimating that the gist runs very closely along the lines of consensual rape, the aforementioned female fantasy seems pretty tyical. Yet, how can I follow the recipe when the ingredients reek? I refuse to partake in this fantasy on the principle of authorship. These few paragraphs were essentially copy/pasted out of a book that only sexually frustrated, involuntarily celibate saps would ever consider reading. It is beneath me. I'm a bodice-ripper snob and proud of it.

On the other hand, if I were remotely interested in blondes...

Day #6: My Novel

"Today write the opening sentence of your debut novel."

Not an easy feat, my friends. None of the classic novels have a boring first sentence. The first sentence is like the journalist's lede; that's right, not lead. Although journalists are hard-pressed to fit the entire summary of the succeeding story into this first sentence, novelists have all the wiggle room in the world. However, like the lede, it must draw the reader in. Therefore, every novelist's first thought must be, "Now, how do I incorporate sex into my debut sentence," even if he or she might be writing a book about the shelf life of applesauce.

So that's the first step: what will the novel be about? Additionally, who are the main characters? What is the setting? These are the most important queries for a novelist. Luckily, I'm about to answer them in regards to my sooner-or-later-to-be-best-selling-novel.

I wrote a short story back in a creative writing class at Cal called "The Honey Collector." (ADDENDUM: I reserve the right to sue anyone who attempts to steal my idea.) It followed a truck driver across the country as he discreetly smuggled small amounts of honey out of each shipment in preparation for the extinction of honey bees. It was his plan for becoming rich via the old-fashioned method of the American monopoly. Since receiving an A on this story (come on, are you surprised?), I've tweaked the character into a woman trucker who refuses to drive on freeways, preferring the precariously winding highways like CA-Hwy 1. Obviously it's a comedy (think Tom Robbins and David Sedaris). I haven't worked out many more of the details being a little preoccupied with post-grad survival and all, but according to the following debut sentence, feel free to scrutinize the validity of my future masterpiece:

"Orla appreciated sampling the edible components of animal excrement."

Don't be grossed out. Unless you didn't already know, honey is regurgitated bee puke. Oh, and eggs come from chicken butts. Sweet dreams!

Day #5: Mass Social Experiment Continued

(See below entry for prequel)

Wet hair wrapped in a towel, feet sore with fresh blisters, makeup sloshing down my sweaty face. Yep, you can bet I jogged just a short while ago. And in short, the Mass Social Experiment was a success...but for whom?

I sauntered (because if you've noticed, that's how people walk at the gym) into the cardio room with the magazine clutched to my chest. I scoped out the options. There was a free treadmill toward the back of the room on which I hopped (something else fit people are known to do) and pressed the magazine to the digital control panel. But oh no! I sighed as I realized the machine was OUT OF ORDER! Shucks.

**insert evil snicker here**

I moved on to another machine a couple spots down and commenced my workout. At about mile 2.27, two young men began their search for neighboring machines, and soon they came upon the two free treadmills to my left. They prepared to hop on, when they spotted the sign denoting inoperability. They moved on...

After I finished my 3 miles (it may sound easy, but like I said, mascara dripping down to my collarbone), I stretched and lifted some light weights, and returned to the cardio room to check up on the "broken treadmill." A woman had mounted it! She had just pressed START!! She even had the guts to get the mph up to about 1.5 before her survival instinct got the better of her and she backed off. That's right, Xena Warrior Princess, heed the caution signs.

OPERATION: SUCCESS

Day #5: Mass Social Experiment

Assignment: "Cut out and stick this sign on any item of public infrastructure you might encounter today, including, but not limited to: elevators, garbage trucks, cranes, phone booths, toilets, ventilation units, escalators, entrances to subway stations. The aim is to achieve comprehensive social breakdown across the U.S."

I LOVE THIS ONE!! I was too asleep on my morning errands to remember to bring this sign with me. So far I've been to the bank, but I'm pretty sure it's probably a misdemeanor or something to tamper with an ATM machine. Plus they keep those things better guarded than the governor's mansion. I could have posted it somewhere at Starbucks had I remembered the sign, but where? On a can of whipped cream? No one in East Sac who is in a Starbucks at 9:45am even requests whip cream, am I right, snobby housewives? I heard 9 out of 10 people behind me frantically screaming, "Hold the whip!!" before they even got to the front, as if they didn't trust themselves or their pathetic self-control.

However, I will be going to the gym at 5:30pm, which is smack dab in the middle of commuter workout period. The 9-to-5ers in neighboring office buildings barely have time to strip off their ties and peel off their pantyhose in their rush to squeeze in a workout before dinnertime. Isn't the gym supposed to release the tension accumulated throughout the workday? It's as if these people haven't had enough stimulation, and their workouts are as twitchy and tense as a constipated news anchor.

I'm planning an ambush. When I get to the gym around this time, I'm usually lucky enough to find the last cardio machine somwhere, kind of like the perfect parking space. Others behind me are not so fortunate. In this type of climate, would it be entirely wrong to use the "Out Of Order" sign? It will be a challenge, I'm not denying it. I usually bring a magazine, in the pages of which I could hide the sign, discreetly slipping it onto the precious stationary bicycle or treadmill for which everyone is waiting. Is it too satanic? Conniving? Would it give me a giggle? A pang of guilt? A VIP seat in hell? Stay tuned...

Day #4 World Coloring-In Day

The authors somehow fit a map of the entire world onto one page of this 7 inch tall book, leaving me to squint at the names of various unrecognizable countries in this world of ours. Funny how little 9th grade geography one recalls.

The assignment: "Today, work out your globetrotting plans for the rest of your time on earth, and get on the phone with a travel agent (the State Dept. current discourages travel to the following countries: Afghanistan, Iraq, North Korea, Turkmenistan, Zimbabwe, and North Yemen). Fill in country to country by color. Green = been there done that. Blue = intend to go there this year. Yellow = intend to go there sometime before I die. Red = Happy never to set foot there in my whole life."

I wish you all could see my pathetic excuse for a map. It looks like it has a bad case of jaundice with all the yellow countries scribbled in. Here's the breakdown:

Green:
US: duh
Canada: road trip with mom, aunt, and grandma in the midst of hormonal 11th grade bitchiness. Not pleasant.
Mexico: Who in CA hasn't been at least to Baja?
Spain: lived there abroad. They like blondes, which I happened to be at the time.
Portugal: One of the friendliest countries I've ever been to.
France: One of the unfriendliest countries I've ever been to.
Italy: I could do chores on the men here (fry an egg on their hot bodies and wash clothes on their abs).
Germany: They like meat, I don't eat it. Also, threw up Jager in my parents' bed here.
Austria: Drove through the Alps and said wat up to Arnold.

Blue:
Nothing. I have every desire, but none of the cash money to jet off anywhere before grad school. Although it would be very romantic...

Yellow:
Here goes...
Alaska: not a country, but Sarah Palin thinks being governor here makes her qualified enough to run ours.
Brazil
Argentina: most beautiful accents in the world.
Chile: skiing.
Costa Rica
Cuba: just to piss of the US.
Iceland: Bjork is from there! They always produce interesting folk it seems. Not any one type.
England
Ireland: land of the ancestors
Sweden: land of the ancestors
Norway
Netherlands: Amsterdam isn't necessarily just for stoners.
Croatia
Greece
Turkey
Israel
Egypt
Morocco: I do have a bracelet from there for which my dad overpaid.
Kenya
Namibia
Botswana
Zimbabwe
S. Africa
India: thanks for all the souvenirs, Dev.
Pakistan
China: although one has to be more specific, I suppose.
South Korea: to visit Yoonki, my personality twin...except he's a conservative gold-digger.
Japan
Thailand: if I ever need a cheap kidney or an STD.
Bali: again not a country, but probably the only place in Indonesia I would go.
Australia: still considering running away from home to live there.
New Zealand

Red:
(all probably self-explanatory)
Iran
Iraq
Afghanistan
Sudan
N. Korea
Ukraine: not really sure why on this one...

These are the countries of the world I have already dominated, those that should be warned of my imminent arrival, and still more that never have to worry about seeing my infamous mug, unless it's to kiss my ass. Just kidding, I'm as neutral as Switzerland (oops, forgot that one!).

Day #3: Throw Away Something That You Like

What I really need to do is throw away about 200 things that I like. My room looks like it was raped by a monsoon and then pillaged by modern pirates. I try to avoid letting my mother anywhere near this "wing" of the house because she just doesn't understand. Most artists and creative minds thrive in their version of a pigsty!! I am no different. I don't pretend that my mess is in any way unique. I'm sure there's a girl out there somewhere with My Little Ponies and coconut bras flung haphazardly about her crib...the opperative word being crib.

No wonder people move out of their parents house and leave their rooms exactly the same as high school. It's not like in the movies where they become all teary-eyed and sentimental to see that their mother has left the Hanson poster in the same spot on the wall. No, no. In real life we HAVE to leave our rooms because we don't know what to do with half the shit we've accumulated over the years. The thousands of dollars spent on crap that we somehow deem "precious" isn't easily tossed out. But something tells us that a collection of mardi gras beads wouldn't match our trendy loft in Lower Pac Heights.

Which brings me to today's assignment. Although it would probabaly bode well if I got rid of something littering the floor that I know, sooner or later, I will actually have to un-clutter, the whole point of it being strewn so strategically is that I may need it in the near future. Converse that I wear to work, a volleyball blanket that I take on the occasional picnic, and crutches...that I haven't used in 4 months...are all necessary items that need to be within arm's length in case of a hasty emergency.

However, the more permanent fixtures stocked in the bookshelves or hanging in the closet or packed away in the armoir will be more challenging to remove, and therefore, life-changing. We all know giving away clothes, and dare I even think it, shoes, is NOT an option. And the protective ski helmet wedged in the armoir has saved my life many times. So what? What to throw out?

I look over to my left at the wall decoration: framed Steve Miller Band album cover, My Little Pony and Obama Hope posters, but to my right, something sparkly catches my eye. I'm face-to-face with the "photograph" of Josh Hartnett, specially ordered online for its shiny finish and striking handsomeness. Oh, how many naughty, hormonal high school dreams I had while laying below my ceiling, papered with pictures of Josh. I even brought him to college where friends and dates teased me mercilessly for my crush. Over the years, as my preferences changed, the posters and clippings were tossed, but I could never bring myself to crumple this specific mail-order Josh. It graces and complements my wall to this day. But I know now that I have to do it. It has to go.

Before I rip it to shreds, I have to ask: is anyone willing to adopt it to a new home? Like the time your parents told you they sent Spot off to a wide-open farm in the country, when really they put him to sleep, would anyone like to humor me and send Josh to a better wall? ...I'll throw in a pack of gum too....?

Day #2: The Love of Your Life

"Today, gaze at everyone wondering whether they might be the one true love of your life, the one destined for you and you alone, and whether you might be passing them by forever...Act in consequence."

This was either the best possible day to scout out future soul mates, or the worst coincidence...ever.

I began the day groggy and half-asleep after my father called at 9am to cajole me into going to the gym with him around 10:30. Apparently my brain was releasing excessive amounts of dopamine because I agreed, muttering a silent vow to wake up again by 10:25 in order to get ready. After dragging my ass onto the treadmill and plugging in the earbuds to watch Obama's Labor Day speech on CNN, I finally began today's task on the track to change my life. Yes, if I must, I will marry Barak Obama and spend the rest of my life nibbling his oversized ears. What a girl does in the name of her country...

However, the assignment called for an all-day, dedicated analysis of men (and women?) worthy enough to cohabitate with me for eternity. And today was my lucky day...yes, Labor Day sees the last of the California State Fair. I had promised my aunt that I would accompany her to countless county exhibits. (I feel that the more time I spend with her, the less she will hound me about reproducing so that she might play with great-nieces and nephews.)

In between mechanically dancing apples and gold-blazoned horseshoes in the Napa and Modoc County exhibits, I "gazed" at a number of prospective candidates. Those of you fortunate enough to have spent any amount of time in Sacramento know nothing of our city until you have visited the state fair. Actually, strike that. Go back and visit the first sterotype you heard about Cow Town, low-class, borderline hokey Sacramento and that's exactly what you get at the State Fair. You can imagine how many hunks I came across. But then there were the carnies...

So basically no soulmates at the fair, unless you count a man whose new take on the mullet is sure to grace the pages of Vogue in the coming months as "trashy-chic."

Later, Rachel and I raced to Mikuni's only to find that our incompetent waitress couldn't muster up an oyster for our beloved oyster shooters. Shit, if she can't assemble a decent drink, she's not soul mate material. After orgasming many times over our James sushi rolls (at $16 a pop, they cost more than a Greyhound bus station hooker), we wandered to a frozen yogurt shop where I fell in love...Stomach already bursting from seaweed/sake heaven, this man proceeded to overload my senses by giving us each THREE samples of fro-yo. He then proceeded to offer us a taste of each of about 15 flavors of mochi. Not being a mochi fan myself, I let Rach ingest while I literally melted over my newest crush. This man was serving me food with a smile on his face and conceding to my every whim. Apparently all it takes to fall in love is compliments, persuasion, and ...dessert.

Day #1

So, inspired by the recently release movie Julie & Julia, in which a 20-something young woman decides to, day by day, tackle Julia Child's French cookbook recipes, I would like to engage in something similar with a publication called This Book Will Change Your Life. Apparently, for every day, the book assigns the reader to do something he or she normally wouldn't think of doing. Like one day, the book instructs you to throw away something important or meaningful; it could be a Barbie or a magnet or a clump of hair from your first boyfriend, whatever. Another day the person is told to cut out this red sign in the book that says "Out of Order," tape it somewhere interesting an observe what happens.


Not trying to be narcissistic by expecting that any of you will actually tune in, but I consider myself a mildly decent articulator and I think you might be entertained, or provoked, at the very least. I will try and post something every day so that, if you choose, you can follow along and hopefully someone will catch on to my genius idea and want to publish my observations in 45 languages spanning all 7 continents.

Dreaming big,
Stephanie

P.S. All of you need to get blogs too because they're fun and, let's face it, some of you are bored at work with little other stimulation than the occasional flatulence that can be heard from 6 cubes away.



OK so day ONE of This Book Will Change Your Life. The instructions for today read:
"As this is your first day, you should warm up with an easy task that will only change your life a little bit. Choose one of the following options:

1. Do one press-up. (Don't know what that is)
2. Perform a striptease...in private.
3. Triple-tie your shoelaces. (It's summer so I didn't wear any shoes with laces today)
4. Learn to play Chopsticks on the piano. (Already know how)
5. Increase your typing speed by 3 words per minute.
6. Jaywalk in a pedestrian zone. (Did that already...$130 pedestrian violation ticket later...)
7. Set all your clocks to exactly the right time. (Who can tell, especially when POPCORN is now disconnected?)
8. Whisper a white lie when no one's listening. (What's the point?)
9. Fantasize about your partner.
10. Use a different thickness comb. (Haven't combed my hair in 6 days so maybe that's a good one)
11. Say 'yo' instead of 'hello.'
12. Hold the phone up to your other ear.
13. Tell someone your middle name. (How do you work that into a conversation?)
14. Try a new sandwich filling.
15. Leave work 5 minutes early. (I already left 25 minutes late)
16. Bookmark a new website.
17. Give your genitalia pet names.
18. Decide which of your toes is the prettiest.
19. Insult an insect. (I can't find one! I live with a neat-freak mother)
20. Go on a one-minute hunger strike.

I've decided to overcomensate and to perform a few of these small life changes because I can accomplish them just by sitting here. My feet hurt too much after work to get up and make a larger effort.

5. Increased my typing speed from a) retyping all of the crap above and b) still feeling like I'm tweaking on crack from a super hectic day at work.
8. "No, of course I didn't notice the upper lip sweat combining with pizza flour to form a paste that resembles the afteraffects of a facial."
9. I come home to find a trail of Chex Mix leading to the bedroom where my man is waiting with wasabi paste and a large pillow of foam bubbles. I love, you, Ryan Reynolds.
16. www.writinganovelin50daysorlesswhilesimultaneouslysearchingforafulltimejobandmoonlightingasawaitress.com
18. The index toe on my right foot. It's very tan and curvy in just the right places.

There, now you try!