Best Present EVER.

I’m terrified of bugs. Absolutely terrified. I will jump out of the shower (shampoo in hair) and run down the hall screaming if a spider decides to drop in for steam bath. I can’t sleep in a room if I know there is a spider lurking, and don’t even get me started on that whole “you eat 8 spiders a year while you sleep”. Can’t handle it. Nightmares.

So, my quest for a bug killing solution started a few years ago while I was studying in Spain with my amiga Jacqui. We were staying with this little senora named Rosario. Darling woman. She only had one big front tooth, but she could make a Spanish tortilla like nobody’s business. If not for all the walking I would have gained 50 lbs. in a month. Here’s a picture of our little Rosario:


Told you she was *tiny*...


We, of course, didn’t have air conditioning in our building. I mean why, in 100+ humid weather, could you possibly need air conditioning? Considering everytime an ambulance wailed by she would comment on losing another “old” one to the heat… we were obviously just fine sweating through our clothes. In order to not die we opened the windows into the courtyard — well not so much a coutyard, but a hole in the middle of the building where everyone hung their clean underwear, but that’s another story…

It was one of our last nights in Granada and we were finishing up our final projects when a BEAST BUG flew in through my open window. It was essentially a big, green cockroach with wings. Imagine me… screaming, flailing and trying to communicate (insert language barrier here) what the hell was going on. I run through the one long hallway yelling “cucaracha, cucaracha” (the spanish work for cockroach) due to the lack of the actual BEAST BUG’s name. Little Rosario pulls herself up from her nightly soap, grabs a can of what can only be described as toxic waste and sprays the thing to death. A few minutes of aerosol toxic waste. In my room. With the BEAST BUG. At least he was dead right?

She grabs him up and sends him swirling down the toilet. Things had calmed down, until I re-entered my now bug free room and began to immediately choke on the toxic waste. Coughing, heaving, eyes watering, gagging, more heaving etc. were all a part of my next hour. If I ever develop some sort of respiratory disease or lung cancer, this is why.

I have since determined that there has to be a better way to manage these pests. Running soap in eyes through the halls and choking on toxic waste just can’t be the only options. Enter my birthday present:

It electrocutes any little creepy crawler or flying beetle that decides to mess with me and/or just hang around on the front porch. Some call it sadistic, I call it preventative measures.

My Little List of Words

For the past six years I’ve kept a list of words I love. I add to it, change it, and admire it. Here are a few lovelies:

Tapering, cryptic, taut, superfluous, unaffected, cosmos, extrordinaire, veiled, enamored, ethereal, aspen, peppered, squelch, emanated, travesty, tucked, luscious, cloaked, flecked, bucket, fancied, seething, skewed, pocked, dotted, darling… and on and on.

Have any words that really rock your socks?

1/2 Way.

I’m half way through Nablopomo. Half way. Part of me thinks this is a milestone, part of me thinks “Holy Crap 15 more days!!!! Expletive, expletive!!” All said with a smile.

Life has been more than crazy. Borderline insane. I know we all like to think I’ve truly been tied to this computer  for the past 15 days… but I decided to have a life instead. I know, I’m a disappointment. I do, however, have a room and purse full of sticky notes with hair brained, scribbled ideas for things to post about. When I actually get desperate enough to look through those scribbles I’m baffled at my incoherent notes. They generally looks something like this:

Menopause — flashes

Bug spray and purel

Gay strip flip cup

Any thoughts? I’m not really sure where I was going on any of those. Not a whole lot of help in the confusion category! Here’s to the next 15 days and some more coherent topics.

I don’t want your celebrity.

A LOT of people have celebrity crushes… or even celebrity obsessions. Sure, sure I went through a Leonardo Dicaprio phase in 6th grade, right after the Titanic release.  And yes, I thought Johnny Depp was about the hottest thing since sliced bread after watching Pirates of the Caribbean. Other than that though, no major celebrity crushes. It baffles me really. I’m much more amused by the people around me. Normal people rather than some hyped up movie star that will eventually end up in rehab after 4 divorces. Not my style.

I can appreciate what they do, enjoy their movies or their music, and fully admit that they are probably more attractive than your average Joe… but I don’t spend much, if any, time thinking about how I want them in my life.

Can you imagine being a celebrity? You’d have impersonators, stalkers, people starting fan clubs and hunting down your every move and every detail of your life. People talking about having your children… awkward. I find it absolutely bizzarre. What kind of people have so much time on their hands that they can do that? I barely have time to  shower let alone devote hours and hours to a person I’ll never meet. I just don’t get it… and probably don’t want to.


Take George here... he's got tons of woman freaks after him!
Take George here... he's got tons of woman freaks after him!



Time for the ol’ unplug.



You can’t have my eyes or my skin. They’re mine and I’d rather not have you take them. I’m an organ donor and well neither of those are technically organs so I’m keeping them. Even if I’m dead.

I had to make a visit to the lawyer today. Apparently when you turn into a grown up (though I’m still not admitting to being one) you have to make a will and if you don’t want to end up brain dead in a hospital after an accident you have to have a living will. It will seriously put a damper on your day to have to think about who’ll be in charge of unplugging you when the day comes, and who gets to manage your estate (or in my case lack thereof) when you’re gone.

What an honor. To be a beneficiary and a legal advisary for someone so incapacitated they can’t function, think or decide anything on their own. I’m not so sure I’d want the job so I feel a little guilty assigning it off to family members. I’ll be sure to leave them something good, like my cookbook collection or extensive collection of  Christmas decorations to make up for it. Now don’t you wish you were related to me?

According to the lawyer I’m ahead of just about everyone my age. Anyone below the age of about 35 apparently thinks they’re invincible and doesn’t require a will. Me on the other hand… I’m convinced that I’ll end up as a quadriplegic in a coma by the age of 30. I’ll keep you posted on that progression, though will my schizophrenic driving it may happen before then. Just kidding, sort of.

I’m also the girl that is always reluctant to go to the doctor because I refuse to be known as a hypochondriac. I put off going to the doctor when I had my appendix out because I was worried they would tell me it was just indigestion and that I needed to go home. So I put it off and put it off and convinced myself it really was getting better. Then I had surgery because in actuality it wasn’t.

So back to the whole writing my will… the real kicker of the whole thing is I get to determine exactly what organs they can take… I’ve been secretly worried about this for months. I don’t want anyone touching my skin or my eyes. How creepy is that? AND NOW, I get to put that in my will… and nobody can have them. It’s a good day.


I’m 6′, or darn close. No surprise… not a secret. There are great things about being tall. My height always ends up as a topic of conversation, so let’s address it. Much like being short there are some spectacular points as well as some others that cause severe loathing… On the bright side, it’s much harder to tell if I’ve gained weight, I’ve got LONG legs, height was on my side for sports, and I never have a problem reaching the plates on the top shelf. BUT being tall has it’s downsides… and implying that I’m wrong is one way to get me wound up in a flash. Try these on for size you positive Polly’s:

1. Pants. Try buying some when you have a 36″ inseam. Not only is it intensely frustrating, but expensive. That’s just jeans and dress pants. If I want pj pants its going to be special order. Jealous? Or I could just buy the size 18 and have them taken in because according to the apparel industry, wide also equals tall.

2. Heels. I love them, but when I’m a good 6″ taller than everyone around me I don’t feel attractive, I don’t feel girly, I just feel like a BEAST. And, nothing you say will change that. When you wear heels and reach a towering 5′ 9″ it is not the same thing. Just doesn’t compare.

3. Awkwardness. It just comes with territory, or at least for me. You’ve got all these extra inches of limbs just waiting to flail, bang into something, throw your center of gravity off and steer you into the wall in front of large groups of people. Also quite prone to falling, tripping, stumbling, and tumbling down stairs.

4. Beds. They just aren’t long enough. Ever been to Europe? You’d swear it was a continent of midgets. My legs hung off from mid calf down in just about every bed I slept in. Talk about comfort, I’ve never been so comfortable in my whole life. Not.

5. Basketball. “Did you play basketball?”. For the 100th time. No. Stop asking.

6. Planes… well transportation really. Leg room is abysmal in most every form of transportation.I had a friend mention that she loves car trips because there’s room to move around. I had to pause… is there room in cars? I feel squished, cramped and uncomfortable. But, then again if your 5′ 4″ you’ve got all the space in the world. In my car, the seat is all the way back and my knees still hit the steering wheel. It’s a great time. Really, you should try it.

7. Dancing. Back to awkward… limbs flailing, awkward movements… When people suggest a dance competition I counter with how about a “sway” competition. I’ve got swaying down, pat.

8. Being Asked. When someone finds out how tall I am, their jaw seriously drops and they are like, “REALLY!?!”. Saying the actual numbers adds to the overall effect. It’s not a freak show, move along people.

9. Stares. I once wore heels out and received stare after stare after stare. The only comment I received all night was, “Wow, you must be one confident woman”. Um… in comparison to you smerf, yes I am. Thankyouverymuch.

10. Photos. I’m either in the back or bent into some contorted position. Attractive? Yes.

So, for the 100th time. Being tall is great but it also has its moments… Enough already.

Enough Already.

Ever have a day or days where some songs just make you cringe… maybe some songs no matter what day it is cause you to gag. A few are overplayed (ahem, maybe by myself in the beginning), but some are just T.E.R.R.I.B.L.E to begin with. Literally terrible.

A few songs that will cause me to instantly change the radio station today:

  1. Recent Taylor Swift hits
  2. Evanesence
  3. Linkin Park’s “In the End”
  4. Green Day’s “Wake Me Up When September Ends”

*Note: Coincidence that both 3 & 4 have the word “end” in the title? I think not.

Choke, gag, barf. Why is that all the radio stations here in D-town can come up with today? Someone needs to rethink their playlists. Seriously, people?

San Fran, Day 2

Day 2, Day 2, Day 2. My most flagrant memory of day two was the drunk, pedophile that followed us around the ferry to Alcatraz. Imagine, a man. Tall, a little gangly with thinning, greasy hair done up in a scraggly, hap-hazard comb over. His clothes are a size too big and he appears to be a fan of beige, from head to toe. He’s got a 5 o’ clock shadow at 10 in the morning. His hands are shaking, his pupils dialated and more thank likely it’s been a few days since his teeth had a date with his toothbrush. He’s carrying a brown bag, most  his liquid lunch concealed. His squinty little eyes give off that most definitely chill inducing “I wouldn’t EVER want to be in a dark ally with you alone” vibe. Essentially a creepo. Now, get on a boat with him and commit yourself to a few hours on a small island with said creep. Good times right?

Well that is how day two started. Pedophile central. We went to Alcatraz, wandered around Pier 39 where I was made a spectacle in some “real life” magician’s show. I already knew the trick he tried on me… so, how to you fake surprise instead of annoyance? I’ll tell you how. Just look utterly terrified. Works like a charm.

We bought bread at Boudin’s sourdough factory and did a wine tasting — four letters, LOVE. Ate dinner at Nicks then rode the trolley home. It was lovely. A couple photos because the last two posts didn’t have quite enough…

Prison. Part 1.

There are a few things in life that can instantly catch my attention whether they are incorporated into casual conversation or mentioned in a sleazy commercial. These two topics happen to be prison and sharks. I’ll start with prisons because I just visited  Alcatraz. I suppose I should probably cover sharks too since those hang out in the bay area — as rumor would have it.

Everything about prisons fascinates me… I figure it’s probably because I’m utterly terrified of going to prison and being forced into some jail house woman love triangle. *shudder* I try not to think about that. If Lockup RAW is on or any other prison show for that matter I will drop what I’m doing and be glued to the screen for the next hour. I, heaven forbid, could even forget to eat if there was a prison show marathon on MSNBC. I love watching how they survive, the dynamics, how smart 85% of the prisoners are and most of all how freaking creative they can be with what they have. Not always in a positive way, but still. I’m also horrified by so much of it. It’s like a bad highway accident you can’t help but stare at due to the sheer horror. You want to turn away, but your head is permanently glued in that direction, I’m helpless and fascinated all at the same time. That my friends is how I feel about prisons.

So imagine, me, going to Alcatraz. My jaw dropped, hit the cement and dragged behind me throughout the 3 hours I wandered the island. Hmm, maybe that was part of the reason I fell down the stairs? Boom, boom, boom, ouch. Dented camera… but otherwise crisis averted. The one disappointment in Alcatraz was the lack of eeriness. There wasn’t any part of it that sent chills up my spine… the way you imagine a prison should. At least any good prison shown on MSNBC. But, then again I set the stakes high.

Here are a few of my favorite shots from the island…

San Francisco, Day 1.

I’m back home and have settled down. That’s a lie, but it sounds better than, “I’m still in disarray trying to pull some semblance of my life together”, doesn’t it? I ate my way through the past 4 days and did enough walking to burn at least a quarter of it off. Or, so I tell myself. The trip, as always, flew by, but was packed with hundreds of hysterical moments, amazing food, and tons of sights.  Let’s start with day one.

After 3 hours squished on the plane we arrived in San Fran. P.S. Whoever devised the seating arrangements on planes was not 6’ tall… not only is the leg room abysmal, but also try typing with my gangly gargantuan arms. I had my elbow so far protruding out in the aisle I got hit by anything and everything that went by. [Checking for bruises now.]

Got off the plane, got our bags and found our way to the BART station. I thought we may lose my hearing due to the screaming noises it makes going through the tunnel, but alas we persevered.

Dim Sum was our first order of duty and we fitfully made our way to Chinatown. Ate some BBQ pork among an array of dumplings and sticky rice and headed on our way. Scoped out some of the wharf, hand a WONDERFUL sundae at Ghirardelli (made my heart swoon), slurped down and Irish coffee at Buena Vista and then headed back to Santorini‘s for dinner. Honestly, food was our #1 priority… so food we found. Here are a few photos of that first day…