Queen Larbs of Strumpet Valley

It’s been on the tip of my tongue for a couple of weeks now. But my mind has been non-stop and when it is constantly going I become apprehensive to unleash it in any variety of out-loud format. Because it’s too much intensity and for some reason I prefer to contain that in my head. I am volatile and reactive and (thank god) I’ve finally learned that sometimes I need the fog to lift and the clouds to clear before I allow myself to vocalize my feelings.

Everything up through May was comfortable. Very comfortable, smooth sailing, walk in the park. For the first time (probably in my entire life) I really felt like I was fully in control. And no challenges came up, it was all laid out perfectly. Then my living situation got a little fucked and I realized it was time to leave my apartment. That meant finding a new place which, having my dog and my neighborhood limitations and non-closet standards, is difficult. New apartments also mean coming up with a security deposit and another month’s rent, and dealing with shady landlords who don’t want to give me my current deposit back. Let the challenges begin.

I spent a while being stressed. Stressed about finding a place that I like, in an area I like. And giving up my old Albion gem was difficult because it was a place I went into on my own when I first got into the city and I really made it home. I found great roommates and kept it clean and cute and welcoming. And unfortunately the whole great vibe we had going changed drastically in January when our latest roommate moved in but, still, it was a place I was proud of. And it had a sick backyard that provided a perfect location for dance parties and keg stands and summer days of lounging and a craddle for friendship and talks and drunken make-outs.

But Katie and I found a great apartment. And it’s still in the Mission and it’s still close to BART and it’s even closer to my cousins’ house. It’s an upgrade from Albion because my street no longer smells like a toilet. And I haven’t spotted a single person sleeping on my doorstep. Not to mention Delirium is not next door so I don’t have to deal with loud degenerates. The stress of finding a place disappeared so it was reduced to worries of coming up with the money for the maximum legal security deposit (two times rent, thanks) and worries of whether the landlord would approve us to move in. As soon as he approved us, it was shaved down to one. Deposit.

That’s when I stopped throwing myself a pity party. If my biggest worries are financial, I have nothing to worry about. Not only do I have one great job, I have two. I have a roof over my head and I’m a resourceful wheeling and dealing craigslist freelance furniture trader. I can and did make it work. I’m broke as shit but I’m in my new place and I’m living with one of my best friends and I couldnt’ be happier.

Yes, the fog has lifted and I’m glad I waited to react to it in the first place. Because I was pissed that I had challenges thrown my way. I felt wronged somehow, like I didn’t deserve to deal with that shit. I am fucking 23 years old. If I’m hoping the struggles are over, I’m in for a bitter surprise. And a lot of boredom. I don’t know when the subtle changes occurred, which often times go unnoticed when there’s a misty blanket clouding my perspective and only become clear when I can see clearly again, but I stopped seeking out challenges. That’s what makes me tick. That’s what makes me feel empowered. Isolating difficulties and conquering them and owning them; growing and learning.

So I’m glad I kept my mouth shut and had a private pity party of one. Because had I shared it, it probably would’ve dragged out and been exagerrated. Now I’ve been reacquainted to my love for adventures and new obstacles. I’ll overcome that business. I always do. Life’s going to throw me more curveballs and who knows how much worse they’ll be. No big deal, it all works out in the end.

Yes, New York Times. Yes, they are.

Excerpt from the Tara Parker-Pope article:

“While nut allergies are clearly a risk to some children, often the response to this health concern represents “a gross overreaction to the magnitude of the threat,” argues Dr. Nicholas A. Christakis, an internal medicine doctor and professor at Harvard Medical School, in a recent column in the British medical journal BMJ.”

Can we just talk about something? Nut allergies are total white-people allergies. Is that on Stuff White People Like yet? White people, specifically North American white people, just can’t get over being able to eat food like normal humans. They are allergic to peanuts, and if it’s not peanuts it’s gluten, and if it’s not gluten it’s wheat. And if they’re not allergic they’re vegans. I know everyone’s trying to be unique and shit but like, seriously, what the fuck? Get over it. I have never heard of people being so allergic anywhere else in the world. Maybe just lactose intolerance in Asia but lactose tolerance is a genetic abnormality so go figure.

A doctor once told me I might be allergic to gluten. You know what I said? Ima go eat some bread. And guess what? I’m FINE.

If you haven’t heard, Nestle’s Tollhouse cookie dough rolls have been identified as the culprit in some recent E. coli cases. 70 people in 30 states were infected with the strain. And it’s all getting traced back to some poor little factory in Danville, Virginia. Now Nestle is saying it’s about to lay off 200 people.

First of all, 70 people. If Nestle wants to make lay-offs, why not stick to a 1:1 employee to victim ratio? Secondly, seems a little convenient in this economic environment for Nestle to start laying people off over an E. coli “crisis.” I think Nestle tainted its own cookie dough and spread E. coli so they could have an excuse to start canning people in what could be the greatest cookie conspiracy known to humankind.

And finally… Maybe this should be a lesson to people to stop buying fucking premade logs of cookie dough. It’s disconcerting to receive baked goodness in bludgeoning log form, no? Not like it takes a long time to fix a tub of margarine with a pile of sugar. Come on!

Related:

Why is Danish modern furniture so effing expensive? It’s like a G at least to get one of these.

As in, what mode of transportation. Not in what ways are you a hussy.

I enjoy my self-image of an environmentalist hippie who takes showers. As such, it’s important that I stick to two main modes of transportation: walking and biking. I don’t have a bike at the moment so that option’s out the window. Thus, I must walk. This is very important in preserving my hippie sense of superiority to people who drive (nevermind the fact that I often drive my cousins’ cars…)

I like to walk to the park, to the store, to my job and anywhere else that’s reasonably accessible by foot. If I have time on my hands I’ll even walk miles away because, why not?! That gets Walter a nice long walk too.

If my destination requires more than 45 minutes on foot, or if I’m in a hurry, I must resort to the next most environmentally conscious mode of transportation: public transportation. This is generally both nasty and cheap. For example, I frequently ride MUNI buses that smell like flaming cheetohs and orange drink. And there are post-flaming cheetoh sticky finger marks everywhere. Or sometimes I walk onto BART and get smacked in the face by hard-boiled egg smell. Thanks dude eating the hard-boiled egg - your aroma made my day.

Another bonus of public transportation is listening to crazy people yell things. Yesterday I was riding BART with a crazy, or drunk, or both man. First he shoved a cup in my face. I thought he was offering me some of his booze so I said “no thanks!” Then he screamed “coins!” so I was like oh, yeah, also no to that too. He walked away from me and sat a few rows down for me, then started yelling about a prostitute and her anatomy and what he did to her anatomy and different bodily fluids and solids that entered the equation during their encounter.

So the lesson learned here is that I should walk more than I take public transportation. Or if I take public transportation I should also have headphones with me and turn my music up really loud. But if I can bike, that’s probably the best alternative because then I get there quickly, free of crazies *and* for free. But I also run the risk of getting hit my cars, or having my bike stolen… Oh man, no win.

You already know that I now refuse to shave my armpits and will only get them waxed. This is both the most wonderful and the most horrible thing ever.

I got them waxed a couple of months ago, then went to Spain, then was broke, then went to Sasquatch, then the weather was nice and a series of events occurred that left me with no choice but shaving my armpits. I didn’t like it. But I had to do it!

So yesterday when I put myself in Tracy’s hands for my first wax in months, she looked at me and goes “you shave!” then proceeded to abuse me. Waxing, tearing, ripping. While I was laying there utterly horrified it struck me that it’s very odd to pay for a service where you can potentially be completely physically abused and left in pain. What was I supposed to say? Could you rip out my armpit hair a bit more tenderly, please? Could you be more gentle when you’re pouring hot wax on my skin then tearing it off? Wonderful, thanks.

What I love most about my family is that we’re all a little crazy in very different ways. Here’s a sample of the insanity from a recent email:

“And you should have seen [my assistant] last night; the events person at the [venue] was not quite on her game and we were having a little turf war as to where my bistro tables were going and that I did not want any of her round dinner tables by the small stage. There was a lot of me POLITELY saying, no we are pulling these tables back and her saying, I think they should go forward, and after 3 or 4 times of going back and forth, back and forth, [my assistant] looked at the woman like she was crazy and said so firmly, ‘REALLY, I AM TELLING YOU, THESE TABLES HAVE TO BE MOVED BACK BEFORE SHE BLOWS A GASKET.’”

And later commentary from the assistant:

“…it’s just best to do what she says. Your [relative] was about 2 seconds away from knocking that chick out with a verbal blow like no one has ever seen… thank god I was there.”

Move the goddamn bistro table!

Underground. Drinking. Lounge.

My three favorite words.

Let’s hang out. (courtesy of Joe Green)

So, blame it on getting sick, blame it on whatever. I have not been able to get out of bed before 9am this week. Thank god my commute to work is only ten minutes now. A while ago I twittered some bullshit about waking up at 6 am and jogging and being a morning person and this is who I am now. Well, I spoke too soon. This is not who I am at all. Desperate times call for desperate measures and this is the note that now rests next to my alarm clock (aka cell piece).

And yet I still can't get out of bed.

Hey guys, I’m pregnant. JUST KIDDING. But my cousin is. And I’ve never been excited about someone else’s babies however I’m beyond stoked for these little green beans. I’m only going to speak to them in Greek and Spanish and it’s going to be so fun. Also I’m going to babysit all the time and walk them around in a stroller. Nanny Chowderson.

Anyway, now Jamie and Joe are thinking of baby names. One of the names they are considering is Corinna. This is a good thing and a bad thing. It’s a great thing because I would be so happy to have a namesake! It’s potentially a bad thing because what if I made namesake green bean my favorite? Nah, I think I’ll love both green beans the same. Either way, I’m trying to help them decide on names so I’m lobbing out suggestions left and right. One of the names I suggested is really great but Jamie said her friend just named her daughter the same thing. And I was like “oh, is that a thing?” You can’t name your kids the same name as your friends’ kids - this is, in fact, a thing.

So, even though I’m 23 and single, I would now like to reserve some names just in case my friends have kids before I do (just in case). And, friends, I’m warning you in advance that if you name your kids any of these names, I will not hesitate to also name my kids the same. And there will be evidence that I dibsed it first.

Girl names: Sofia, Stella, Sol, Luz. Boy names: Phaidon, Gabriel (Spanish pronounciation, not Peter Gabriel pronounciation). There is also a name I recently suggested to the Greens. If they don’t use it, I might. But I won’t post it right now because I don’t wanna give some pregnant chick out there any ideas. I’m very very paranoid about this baby name stealing.