Overzealous Exercising Guy/ Brita

My gym is full of wack jobs. I don't know if it's Bethesda or what; Crunch in SF was kind of snobby but not filled with so many weird sights: the 5'3" man with 4'2" lats, or the skinny girl on the Stairmaster who obviously can't tell her fake tan is traffic-cone orange. My favorite this week has to be overzealous exercising guy. I first encountered him on the pull-up assist machine, where he was knocking out a lot of pull-ups in an exuberant fashion. As I worked in, I noticed I had to adjust the assist a lot because he had counterbalanced the machine with almost my entire body weight. Now, this guy has to be about 6 foot but not by any means heavy or muscular, so he couldn't have been more than two bucks. I don't think he understood the point of the assist feature; it's to enable weaklings like me to do a few pull-ups, since I can't do any on my own. Not to allow some gaylord to bounce up and down all day on a machine.

Anyway, after lifting I moved upstairs to the ellipticals, and after about 10 minutes I was again joined by OEG. He was pumping him arms back and forth and breathing loudly through his mouth, his lips pursed into an O. He was too young for emphysema, so I think it was just his way of being hardcore. Maybe "Eye of the Tiger" was playing on his iPod or something. I'm baffled by the whole situation.

-------------------

So now my roomie's boyfriend has moved in, which is great because he brought his Brita filter/pitcher. Why do all guys buy a Brita filter/pitcher at some point in college or in their 20's? I don't know any girlfriends who have one. Zero. Aren't girls supposed to be the neat freaks? And if guys are so concerned with the cleanliness of their drinking water, why are they oblivious to the unsanitary conditions of their bathrooms? I know I'm making broad, sweeping generalizations here, but really, what is it with the Brita? Seriously.

Chickens have very simple social lives. They can remember the appearance and social stature of up to about 40 chickens, and they function fine. But put them in a group larger than that and they start to freak out. They can't remember anyone's pecking order, and they become very hostile. 1

I wonder if humans aren't like that. Given enough time, will we have a more or less harmonious world culture? Do we have the cognitive and emotional capacity to deal with a global society? Or will we always be at war with each other? I'm not sure people have the ability to identify strongly enough with people outside of their familiar group, to put a stranger's needs above their own.

Being patient and nice to everyone, acquaintances and strangers, is adaptive in today's society-- but it wasn't necessarily for the X-thousands of years of human evolution. We lived in small groups of maybe 50 to 100 people. You grew to trust your group, and to treat outsiders with caution and suspect. I can't help but think that the extreme culture clashes we've been experiencing for the last century are evidence that a global culture is doomed to fail.

Throughout my life, I've been drawn to groups within groups. Whether it was the IB program in high school, or the sorority at Cal, or even joining the "military family," it's comforting to find a group of people to huddle up with while facing the larger environment around you.

With this in mind, I began to imagine a model for future societies. It's kind of a utopia, and I know all utopias are destined to fail, blah blah blah. But this one could be cool. 2 Basically, there would be a bunch of large communities that are basically freely-functioning units. They'd be characterized by their economies as well as the overall culture. You'd grow up with your family, and then choose a community the way high school students choose colleges-- brochures, interviews, etc. Then you'd join this community of about 500,000 people, and you'd get an job, probably meet your spouse, and set up a life that would be stable and psychologically rewarding.
It would kind of mean an end to innovation as we know it, because you need large corporations to sponsor the kind of costly research that is advancing human knowledge these days. But I'm not sure that's a bad thing. I think global culture is stressing everyone out, like the chickens in flocks that are too big. Would we rather have bigger TVs, faster computers, and a cure for AIDS and cancer, or richer, more rewarding personal lives at the expense of all that? It's an interesting thing to think about, anyway.

1 Ask me about bleeding-heart vegetarian factoids! I have a lot...

2 I am not in any way implying that if I ran the world, it would be a better place. Apparently over 60% of college students affirmed the former in a recent survey, proving that young adults today are narcissistic. I'm not narcissistic, promise, I'm just thinking about chickens and utopias.

I really wish DHA (the active ingredient in self-tanners) didn't smell like feet. I don't want to be all wrinkly and Magda-like in five years, so fake baking is out, but my sweet Spring Break tan is gone from keeping weird hospital hours, and tan in a bottle is the only solution I can think of for my paling skin. Sigh. It's going to be fall before I know it anyway, maybe I'll just get used to it. Or maybe I'll go into Derm and invent a melanin pill** so the masses can be tan without the wrinkles or feet smell.

I had my own personal elevator today! Someone was moving in and placed the elevator on hold-call, but then they didn't return it when they were done. I called it my Alli-vator. It waited for me on the 8th floor, and then brought me back up from Caribou. If only I had an Allivator every day.

** I'd sell the melanin pill as an herbal supplement so as to avoid the pesky FDA. Those guys don't let us citizens have any fun.

Call sucks

Hi. As a girl who likes her sleep, I have to say, call is cruel. Last night I got about 2.5 hours of sleep (a bragable number, actually) but I would have gotten more if my pager hadn't gone off right as I was getting back from the previous page... ow. It's actually interesting in a human experiment type of way because now I have no idea what time of day it is.

Anyway, on to more important things... I'm picking out my fall projects! Yay. Vogue has some cool new patterns. This is not one of them.

perspective

I got a new driver's license photo this week. It's a good thing; in my old one I looked about fourteen (I was sixteen when it was taken) and I kept getting crap from my friends for it. Now I have a picture that looks like me... and an accurate height. I put my height as 5'7" on my first license because I was going off to college and I figured that, at sixteen and 5'5.5" I wasn't done growing. After all, my mom is about 5'7" and my dad is 6 foot something.

But no. I was done. Now my license says 5'6" instead-- I figure if my Pharm professor can round up then so can I. Anyway, the point is, I haven't grown an inch since high school. Why, then, does my old high school seem way smaller than I remember? Hallways I remember as cavernous and neverending are actually rather puny. Is it my exposure to larger campuses since? Or is it a matter of perspective: I'm older, and high school isn't 'scary' at all anymore?

Maybe I'm remembering hy alma mater the way I saw it as a freshman. 13 years old. I was pretty short at that point. Damn, I'm pretty short now. 5'5.5" isn't tall at all.

How you gonna piss off Jay-Z?

It turns out that Chappelle's Show season 1 is the top selling DVD ever. I love both seasons (Season 2 is the third highest seller), but I wonder, what makes them so popular? Is it his style of humor, or the fact that the sketches never seem to get old? Is it word of mouth? Why is the second season the third highest selling DVD behind Dirty Dancing? Just kidding, I have no idea what the second highest is. Maybe America is ready for someone to poke fun at racial barriers, in an attempt to break them down.

The show is over, for ever (I think), which is just as well because Dave would have to rewrite his R. Kelly songs. Cris rhymes with piss, but alas, Dom and Krug do not. The makers of Cristal, which I have never tasted, recently made disparaging comments about the champagne's popularity among the hip-hop culture. I guess the president of Loius Roederer, the company that makes Cristal, was worried about the brand losing its status or something because rappers enjoy it. Whether this is true, or whether the author of the Economist article just spun it that way, Jay-Z is pissed and pulled Cristal from his shelves, and you can bet from his songs as well. Krug and Dom are to fill the Cristal void. Sell your stock in Louis Roederer.

This is quite a departure and will require new rhymes. I can't think of anything that rhymes with Krug. However, opportunities abound with Dom. First is the obvious, the second name of the champagne, Perignon. it rhymes enough, but it's singsongy. Also, there's "Dom is the bomb." Mom, prom, Tom, I suck at this, but the point is Cristal fucked up and they just lost a bunch of customers.

I miss my sis

[21:05] madelineadele: ME TOOOOOO
[21:05] madelineadele: I WAS WATCHING ST PEPPERS THE OTHER DAUY
[21:05] madelineadele: AND IT BLOES
[21:05] madelineadele: AND IW ANT HEWLP

Good ol' ramblings

You heard it here first: Tristan Prettyman is the next big thing. It's kind of sad to realize this is true as I write it, because that means "twentythree" isn't going to be some neat, quirky CD that Alli has in her car. Instead it will be overplayed and readily recognized. But that's OK because she rocks.

I just got back from San Antonio. I saw enough Vera Bradley bags to make a person scream. In fact, the dude I was traveling with almost did scream, from me pointing them out all the time. I did get him to concede this: "They look like something a grandma would carry, and not a stylish grandma." See?

When you were young did you ever sleepwalk? I did, once. It's the weirdest thing: I was awake, but my consciousness was totally altered. I "dreamt" I was watching TV in the living room. I remember sitting in the dark room in the big red La Z Boy, looking at the black screen. As in, I really remember doing it. My mom came out and found me sitting there. When she asked what I was doing, I said, "watching TV." Creepy, huh? It's like everything in my head wass consistent with the experience of watching TV, except minus the electricity. I would have been freaked if I was my mom. Scary movies are big in my house, always have been, and little girls doing scary shit have always been a major scary movie motif.

Yarr

The last three DVDs I've watched (rentals from Blockbuster) have all started with a lame, psuedo-edgy public service message about how downloading movies is a crime. My complaints, in list form:

1. Preaching to the choir, nuff said.

2. It makes its point by starting out "You wouldn't steal a car... you wouldn't steal a handbag," and then demonstrates nogoodniks doing just those things. You're supposed to think, "Wow, they're right, I wouldn't do those things." I just think about all the petty thieves who actually have stolen a car or a handbag, watching the message and making fun of it.

3. It makes an example of a poor college student downloading the movie off the internet: a little close to home. Hey DVD makers, why don't you pick on the bootleggers in Hong Kong for a change?

4. The final message they leave you with is: "Downloading movies is piracy." Piracy? SWEET! Yarr, me mateys, we be lookin' fer doubloons and DVDs.

Fashiony girl

Last night as I was coming home on the Metro I saw a stylish girl get off at Cleveland Park. Her jacket caught my eye first, but then I saw her Citizens of Humanity jeans and Frye boots and realized I was dealing with a fashion pro... First of all, they were the same boots I was wearing, so I had to give her points. But it was more than that. Sure, she was comforming to a fashion formula, but it was one that isn't recognized here in DC. I admired that. She contrasted starkly with the cashmere swathed, Ugg-booted 'tantes of Georgetown, machines I've been raging against ever since I got here.

I was going to compliment her boots, but the friend I was with wouldn't know a Frye from a hamburger and probably would have thought I was being pretentious. And that's certainly not the point, right?

Why have I never been here before?

Surprising: I've never tried typing in allishop.com before. No two words go together better in the english language, and I never put 'em together as a url. Disappointing: it's filled with boring crap. I feel like writing in and insisting they sell awesome stuff if they're going to use my namesake.

Gym Germophile

My new gym is definitely the most germ-conscious gym I've belonged to. After their cardio session, every gymgoer takes the time to spray a paper towel with yellow cleaner and wipe down the machine they just used. When I went to the gym the first time, I noticed other people doing it, and kind of went, "Oh," and I made a mental note to do it, too. It's kind of like when you go to a nice dinner, and you see other people holding their silverware in a weird way or using the little escargot clampy things, and you just say to yourself "Oh," and you do it too, pretending that's what you would have done if left to your own devices.

So I picked up the habit of hitting the sanitation station after each machine. I even do my friends in fitness one better, by wiping off the little buttons I might have pressed with my sweaty fingers on the screen! Tonight, I finished the detailing on the recumbent bike in time to see this big sweaty guy hop off the Precor, take the nasty sweaty rag off from his neck and wipe the machine with it. He then grinned and proudly presented it to the woman waiting in line for it. Like, "Here you go, lady! I even smeared around my man scent for you to enjoy."

Eugh. I think I got cooties just from seeing it happen.

Silly rabbit, Vera Bradley's for fogues!

What is up with Vera Bradley bags? For some reason young women east of the Mississippi are obsessed with them. They look like rolled-up quilts with zippers, I shit you not. Why, people? They look like something a grandma would carry... and even my Grandma has better fashion sense than that! My illustrious ex-roomie (who is, like me, a West Coast girl) mused that these girls are carrying them to practice for when they're boring housewives who actually find those bags stylish. My spinning instructor had one yesterday. She had long highlighted hair, black leggings tucked into Ugg boots, and... the ugliest calico hag bag Ms. Bradley could conceive.

Maybe it's a handicap thing. In her book "Survival of the Prettiest," Nancy Etkoff suggests that women who smoke are sexy because they are advertising their strong genes. If their genetics can allow them to smoke and look good, then they must be worth mating with. Similarly, really cool, classy, attractive girls might carry Vera Bradley to say to potential mates, "I'm so amazing that I can wear this nasty trash and still look good." Sadly, like smoking, they can't.

Takeoffs and Landings

Airplane bathrooms are like points on Drew Carey's show "Whose Line is it Anyway?" They don't matter. Think about it: most people use airports only once or twice a year, and some people have several airports in their metro area, so they won't travel through the same one very often. Certainly not often enough to remember which airports have the shitty bathrooms (figuratively).

I have lived in two of these extended metro areas (SF and DC) and I ended up flying through Dulles about four times a year over the last two plus years. Add it up: that's a lot of times this psychogenic polydipseic has been sitting on the Dulles toilets and getting splashed by the premature flush that always accompanies my attempts. They're awful! The little infrared sensor that's supposed to keep things hygienic and hands-free is tripped to flush at the worst possible moment, which ends up being way more of a nasty bacteria spreader than a simple flush handle would be. Use your feet to flush, people! There are bathrooms now where everything is sensor driven, right down to the soap dispenser. Add a bidet and the bathroom experience would be 100% hands free.

Here is my guide to airport bathrooms. It's not all-encompassing in the least; I wish I were more of a jet-setter, but the reality of it is I'm a working girl who ends up in weird places for weird reasons.

Montgomery, AL: Award for "Most Original Seat Cover." This airport has a weird automatic seat cover mechanism, and I can't decide if it's cutting edge, or a throwback from the time when "the future was plastics." The seat is covered entirely by a tubular hairnet, and when you're done you press a button and the plastic you used goes away and a new plastic cover snakes on. It's unreal.

Dulles International, DC: Dubiously clean, and the toilets are hellbent on turning your peeing experience into a revival of Kevin Costner's "Waterworld." F

Chicago/Midway, IL: Wow. What an experience. The stalls are as big and private as a Nordstrom dressing room, and there was room for both of my huge bags, which I insist on carrying on, because I hate checking baggage. Usually I end up dragging my luggage into the handicapped stall because the loudspeaker lady admonishes me not to leave my bags unattended... and then I have to hurry and avoid direct eye contact with fellow bathroom patrons so as to avoid the hateful glares I recieve when I emerge, and I'm obviously not handicapped (except by my too-big carryons).

Trying to be cool

I made a mistake when I signed up for the Ironman next summer. Not the way you think, I'm still glad I'm registered. No, I'm referring to the box where you put your profession. I think I put medical student or something similar, mundane and true. Those in the know, however, put something outlandish and awesome. Examples:

Jeoffrey McCoombs, "lion tamer"
Andrew Owen, "Rugby analyst"
What? Okay... my favorite was "chocolate quality inspector" though.

Next year maybe I'll put "hand model" or "Mr. Jeans Shorts Inventor." Assuming there is a next year :o)

Smith vs. Snow

One thing is true: there is nothing valuable about snow. The way I see it, snow is water that's biounavailable. It's beauty is fleeting; if it sticks around for more than a day is becomes grayer and uglier than Momma's hair from "Momma's Family." Or if the sun comes out, it melts into a slippery layer of ice, rendering wintertime running impossible.

I went out for a run today on my favorite route, the Capitol Crescent Trail, and I got about half a mile into it when I had to stop: the whole trail was covered with nasty iciness. I turned and ran the other way up the trail, only to meet the same sight a mile up that way. Resignedly, I turned home and fought my way through the cold. (Did I mention it's cold?) What a waste! I don't know why they even bother selling cold weather running gear here. They should sell crutches and splints for the broken legs you'll get attempting to run on the ice.

Another potentially bad thing about my run. Before I left, I was debating whether or not to wear this hat my roomie lent me. I wanted something to cover my ears, but the hat didn't really do the trick. I think she thought I didn't want to wear it because it looked silly, though. She tried to convince me to wear it, and I kept refusing, until she finally relented and said, "Alli, you're so Californian." I think it might have been an insult.

No more IM

I'm sorry I'm naysaying so much lately. It's like a tsunami of negativity. You can quote me on that.

I thought I had it rough in high school when they took away our lockers. I guess the argument was that students might be hiding drugs in them thar lockers, and if you remove the lockers, students won't do drugs anymore! Then Columbine happened, and if our lockers hadn't already been hauled away they would have been history after that. Now, the newest in anti-teen technology: the see-thru backpack.

Now, my back is wrecked from not having a locker in high school. That's not a myth, that's a fact. It would be more accurate to say that the combination of trying to be "cool" and wear the backpack over one shoulder, while ignoring the reality that I was carrying around heavy huge textbooks for my inescapably uncool accelerated learning classes,
caused my back problems. But hey, who's counting? What matters is that I can see no way that teens can juggle both in school today if see through bags are required. Either you blow a disc or get beat up daily for wheeling around this monstrosity.

How sad is this bag? It looks like it's going to fall apart the second Mommy drops you off at the curb. Ironically, the company who makes this bag is "Respect." Personally, if I were making a bag like this, I'd name it "Mistrust" or "Highly Suspicious."

Maybe they should move towards see through clothes, so kids can't hide drugs or weapons in their pockets. Ha ha! That would be sweet! It's so fun to think about being subversive in high school because the only punishment you canreally get is suspension, or at the worst, expulsion. That's nothing compared to real life! On the OC Marissa shot and killed a guy, and her school expelled her, and she cried. I mean really, sister, what did you think they were going to do?

A true story about today

Now this is story all about how my bike got clipped by a car downtown
and I'd like to take a minute just sit right there,
I'll tell you how I became the Princess of Fresh Air
In Northern Cali, born and raised;
riding bikes is where I spent most of my days.
Chillin out, maxin, relaxin' all sweet and all ridin superfast up and down the street
when a couple of cars they were up to no good,
startin makin trouble in my neighborhood
One driver yelled at me but I wasn’t scared I said,
"Fuck you, learn how to share the road asshole." (No, it doesn’t rhyme, but it felt so good.)

You can find me everywhere

I was shopping for a G-unit necklace for my Mom, and I came upon this blurb:

"The G unit necklace is revolutionary. The G unit necklace has ignited a craze accross the country that can't be stopped. The G unit necklace is showing up everywhere along with rings and watches.
The G unit necklace really hasn't been around that long. The freshness that it brings to the table really helps its momentum and popularity. You have seen the G unit necklace being sported by many of your favorite rappers and hip hop superstars.

Make sure that you aren't the one left in the dust and without a G unit necklace. You can find the G unit necklace everywhere, but the #1 place to grab it is here at Hip Hop Capital."

And I thought, I'm kind of like a G-unit necklace. I'm sparkly and I like to spin. What would happen if... (dream sequence)

Alli is revolutionary. Alli has ignited a craze accross the country that can't be stopped. Alli is showing up everywhere along with rings and watches.

Alli really hasn't been around that long. The freshness that she brings to the table really helps her momentum and popularity. You have seen Alli being sported by many of your favorite rappers and hip hop superstars.

Make sure that you aren't the one left in the dust and without Alli. You can find Alli everywhere, but the #1 place to grab her is here at Hip Hop Capital.

Wow, I'm not sure I've been so accidentally but accurately described in my life.

Geek chic

Yeah, so:

This month's Lucky magazine proudly features white hospital shoes as the new "in thing." Apparently the coolest girls on both coasts are over cowboy boots and into the comfort of nurse's clogs. Splendora's weekly style forecast tells us "What to Bag: a real doctor's bag w/ gold initials." Why, people? It reminds me of the camouflage craze. I guarantee camo just doesn't seem as cool once you have to wear it every day... and doctor's bags similarly lose their cache once you see geeky med students carrying all their doctory tools inside.

I love the random queries I get from strangers that want to add me to their myspace list. Invariably it's some local dude who 'really likes my profile and thinks we have a lot in common!' When I look at his friends list, it's got a couple hundred women in varying degrees of skankitude, with varying degrees of fake breasts. How did you pick me, random dude? I'm in my pajamas on my profile picture, for crying out loud!

This week's myspace specimen: alternaboy.
"sometimes i wanna runaway. you know, just pack my bags one day and completely leave the country with absolutly no plan. Grow my hair out and have a beatnik beard. Being in silence is alot easier sometimes. I like to excerise my mind. I smoke weed and drink lots of alchool."

I can already see we have a lot in common there, pal. I like to exercise my mind too! One way I really get my mental juices flowing is by spell checking-- try it, you might like it! I don't think the military is too keen on the beatnik scene, and weed is kind of verboten... and now that I think about it, "leaving the country with absolutly no plan" isn't going to work for me. Nevertheless, I think we'd get along great! See you at the mosh pit?

Mad dash

There's nothing better than a relaxing Saturday morning with a grande Americano, an open schedule, and a crazy race against the clock to wash your car.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I'm talking about the wild sport of coin-op car wash. Once the quarters are in the machine, it's four minutes of fast and furious scrubbing. The pros know all time-saving tricks, like not using the low pressure rinse and soap-- that's for wusses with weak wrists and extra quarters to waste. Now, four minutes isn't a long time to wash any car, even a little one like mine. I came through with three seconds to spare this morning, wasting a little extra time on some encrusted bird droppings but picking up bonus points for holding the spray gun thug-style. What will I do with the extra quarters? Maybe I'll spend them downstairs at Safeway in one of those sticker dispenser machines. You never know which one you'll get, but if I get the "Punk Princess" one it's SO going on my bumper. Umm...

Speaking of princesses... I was watching "Top 50 Fashion Don'ts" yesterday and some dude made a very true statement about tiaras. He said: "Women should wear tiaras more often. It's like an advertisiement: 'This relationship is not going to be easy. I'm a little high maintenance.'" Damn straight.

Time for a key change

Does knowing you have a spare key make you more careless, and more likely to lose your key? This is a question of the ages.

Regardless, I need to have a spare key around. My talent for losing keys is legendary, whether or not there is a spare. Last week, post-loss, I went to the hardware store to grab a few copies to have around in case of emergency (read: lose in my room). The key master was making about ten copies of one key for someone; I waited semi-patiently until a voice behind me piped up, "Sorry, I'm taking forever with my order."

I turned around; it was a Cute Guy. He smiled at me. We chatted a little bit, and then the conversation turned to keys as it usually does in the key department of a hardware store. We looked at cool key rings available for purchase. It went something like this:

Cute Guy: "What about that one?"
Alli: "Yeah, like a whistle on your key ring is gonna save your life."
CG: "I know. Wow, he's still on my order!"
A: "Serious, that really is a lot of keys."
CG: "Yeah, well, gotta do it right! I don't believe in doing anything halfway."
A: "If it's worth doing, it's worth doing well."
CG: "Exactly!"
A: "You're going balls deep in key making!"
CG: ...

He kinda laughed, but it wasn't the same after that. He paid for his keys and left. Either he had never heard 'balls deep' before, or our relationship was just too new for that. Didn't we have a connection? No? Sorry, my bad.

You know those hairstyling magazines they have at the salon? You always end up looking at them while you're waiting for your running-late diva of a hairstylist. The pictures inside are of perfectly coiffed women, and at the bottom of each photo is a little byline: "Super Salon, Marietta, GA." Or whatever salon it was. But a lot of them seem to be in Marietta, GA.

Here's what I want to know: does a stylist decide ahead of time to create a hair sensation for the express purpose of taking a picture? Or does he do a cut and then say, "Gee whiz, that'd look purdy in a magazine!" Furthermore, what are the guidelines for submitting photos to these magazines? Can an independent party (e.g. me) just cut some hair and submit a photograph? Are these hair journals peer-reviewed, or does any submission with enough product make it in? C'mon, Medium Cuts for You, inquiring minds want to know!

hey there little guy

I ran into the cutest kid today. I was on a run on the Capitol Crescent Trail and I was being all meticulous about measuring my mile splits... until I saw this boy riding his bike up the hill at River Road. He was struggling with a big gray thing while trying to pedal up the hill. He ended up steering right into the retaining wall and eating it! I wanted to laugh, he was so not even close to making it up that hill by himself. I didn't though, and offered to help him out in the most dignity-preserving way possible. I ended up running him home, holding his PE gear (the big gray thing turned out to be a sweatshirt/sweatpants phys ed fashion statement).

As he biked and I ran, we chatted about junior high, and what a pain it was to bring home PE clothes every week. I admitted that I'd sometimes forget. About halfway to this kid's place I realized, "Hey! It's still hot out! This is no weather for sweats!" I shared this realization with him and he told me that the sweats were a purchase made in anticipation of the coming wintry weather.

I kind of wish I had asked his name; then I could write about this here without calling him 'kid' and 'little guy.' I figured that it was a stretch for him to accept help from a stranger, though, and a name query might have set off the warning bells. And then he'd have been crashing his bike every three seconds all the way home instead of getting help from me. I gotta tell you though, it was such a trip talking to this kid. He was nonplussed that a random runner was carrying his gym gear. By the time I dropped him off, I had backtracked a good distance and my mileage was incalculable (which was a shame because I was running fast today). It was totally worth it though. What a sweetie.

Fly Me to the Moon...

If Sinatra were alive, he could definitely afford a trip around the moon. For $100 million, you can buy your very own lunar mission. Read this.

No thank you! I have no desire to be all claustrophobic and weighless and scared for my life just to see the moon a little closer. It's cool, but what's the point? Is Earth not good enough for some people? I admit it's getting a little small, but it we need to start voting people off the island then I'm not paying a ton of money to go look at a cold atmosphereless dustball. My little Voyage to Mars earlier this week was more than enough.

Yes, I went to Mars with a bunch of my dear classmates. It only costs $1000 per voyage, and we fit about 20 people comfortably, so that's a mere $50 per person of wasted taxpayer money spent to treat us like sixth graders. Although we haven't yet earmarked the time, there's a spot in the lobby for our own collage of Crayolaed "Thank You" cards. The really cool thing about the Voyage to Mars is that I did it back at Space Camp. In sixth grade. The exact same one, I'm pretty sure. The only difference, I guess, would be the addition of jokes such as "Mars Control, please set the probe for Uranus." Also, we got to name the spacecraft anything we wanted (the sole source of autonomy in the entire flight). We chose the SS Feldt, because our classmate Brent Feldt was down with the flu and cough cough couldn't make it to Mars. It made for one good joke that we didn't get tired of: "Mars control, we have gotten Feldt up." "Roger that, it's great to see you get Feldt up."

More San Antonio

Last night a thunderstorm threatened San Antonio just after sunset, at around 8:30 pm. The clouds were the strangest, most beautiful color of navy blue, and I instinctively looked up to where my sunroof would be to get a better look. Too bad my rental car doesn't have a sunroof; I ended up craning my neck out of the side window to better appreciate the sky. Not a great compromise. At that moment, I realized that I really miss not only the sunroof in my little car, but also my entire life back home. I miss waking up in my bed, walking down my street, and driving my car to do the stuff that I want to do. Maybe if I had grown up the youngest in a big brood of children I'd be better at going with the flow, but as it is I was an only child for eight long years of spoilage, and I want things my way, damnit! I usually try to make the best of things, but that gets old after an entire summer of compromise and adaptation.

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I golfed for the first time ever today! I wasn't that bad, I guess, and the guys I played with did a lot to boost my ego, so it was a good day overall. We played scramble, which meant that my suckiness didn't slow everyone else down. Two cool things happened:

1. I made up a song for when your coplayers screw up:
"Twinkle twinkle, over par,
get inside the fucking car."

2. We couldn't find Ramsey's drive, which would have been the best of our four, and so we played off of Kipp's. Coincidentally, his second landed right where Ramsey's first had, so after finding Ramsey's ball we just played off of that and counted it one stroke. Kipp was really proud of himself for showing the way to Ramsey's ball and asked for a little gratitude. And gratitude Kipp got, in the form of a train...

---

If there's one thing I know for sure about Texans, it's that they love their AC. Maybe it's the desire to burn up as much oil as possible before distributing it to the rest of the country. Anyway, my body is still confused when I walk from 90 degree heat with humidity into a 62 degree room. I actually buy hot espresso drinks when in Target because the place is a damn freezer.
So there's this AC unit in the stairwell at Best Western that is always on the coldest setting, full blast. Walking into the stairwell is a shocking experience, and the control knobs have been removed (probably because warm blooded people like me tried adjusting it in the past). It's the same wall unit as the ones in our rooms, though, so I know which way to turn the little stick that the knob would go on. I turned that sucker up to high heat yesterday morning and when I came home, the stairway was a comfortable temperature for the first time since I've been here. Aah.

Then some wily, sneaky maid must have discovered what I did because it was cold as butt this morning when I went down to get my coffee. Curses! I can see that this will be a battle not easily won-- hopefully not involving superglue, but I reserve the right to employ whatever force is necessary to complete the mission.

San Antonio, Part 1

Death by PowerPoint has inspired me to sink to new depths in classroom misbehavior: the lecture bingo game. It only took one and a half lectures to win; how pathetic is that? Must very lecture we get here at USAFSAM be nothing more than a string of buzzwords?

Anyway, when you get five in a row, you have to raise your hand and ask a question with "Bingo" in it to win. I asked the following question: "Where have the resupply flights been going in the current theater?" See? Been going? Bingo-ing? It's a stretch, but I'm the biggest giggle box in the world, and the guy giving the talk was a retired colonel. If I'd actually said the word "bingo" I'd have dissolved into laughter and gotten myself an LOR. Man, it was a glorious moment. I heard a few snickers behind me, and Stefan just turned around and shook his head (he wanted the whole Bingo effect).

L.A.M.E.

Gwen Stefani is going Jackson on us. Her music videos for the L.A.M.B. album are just plain weird, and her songs—while they sound cool—are lyrically lacking. At best, her lyrics are confusing; at worst, they’re embarrassing. She took liberties with the school-cheer theme in “Hollaback Girl;” the result is a very simple song that is surprisingly easy to do an interpretive dance to. My main beef is with the song “Harajuku Girls:”

The language of your clothing is something to encounter
A ping pong match between Eastern and Western
Did you see your inspiration in my latest collection
Just wait till you get your little hands on L.A.M.B.
'Cause it's super kawaii, that means super-cute in Japanese

WHAAAT? When did it start being okay to hawk your merchandise in your songs? It reminds me of DVDs that don't allow you to skip the previews. It's just wrong to abuse a captive audience like that. Perhaps shameless mid-song ads are the norm in Japan, but I can't help but see Gwen's lyrics as alienating her American listeners and subliminally manipulating her Harajuku Girls. When this song comes up, I skip it in an act of defiance.

P.S. Her clothing line is pretty bomb though.

My 24th birthday is coming up. I'm excited, because I've always had this vague feeling that age 24 would be great, a fun year to remember. Why? I don't know, but I'm usually more right about these things that just in a self-fulfilling prophecy kind of way. With about 18 good years of introspection under my belt, I've come up with plenty of reasons to believe age 24=good times:

1. 24 is divisible by a lot of numbers. 1,2,3,4,6,8,12,24. No other nearby age can top that.

2. My Mom had me when she was 24. I don't see myself following in her footsteps or anything, and in fact if I did I think that would make this a pretty tricky year. But still, her 24th year was a good year for ME, so maybe my own 24th year will be cool too in a genetic passdown kind of way.

3. 24 is the number of hours in a day.

4. 24 oz is the biggest iced Americano you can get at Starbucks.

Okay, yes, this is ridiculous. But anyway, I'm turning 24.

This weekend I went to Silver Cycles to get some lube for my chain. It was five bucks, and I felt bad paying for that with my credit card... so I picked out some aero bars, new wheels, and cute blue tires to boot.

To be honest, I have been meaning to make the above purchases for a while... I definitely needed them before the CaliMan Half. It wasn't as impulsive as that. Proof. (I wish I had the money to just go buy a ton of biking stuff whenever I want!) Anyway, I got my fingernails greasy, put all the goodies on my bike, and took it out for a spin! It's so speedy. The aero bars have a dual effect:
1. They make me faster by reducing my profile.
2. They make me meaner looking and more likely to zap pedestrians with MIND BULLETS.

The thing about aero bars is, you can't not feel badass when riding in them. Just look at my pic below. Okay, I'm smiling, but it's a badass smile. And I guarantee if you were a pedestrian, you'd jump outta my way if you saw those gnarly bars comin atcha. I even invented a game. If I want a pedestrian to move out of the way, I press an imaginary button on my aero bar and the pedestrian gets zapped with mind bullets. Then they jump out of the way. If that doesn't work, I call out, "Bike on your left." That works, too.

My imaginary pedestrian zapping weapon, complete with imaginary red buttons.

Why I'm a girl

I'd make an awful guy. I know I'd be really bad at guy-type things, like throwing a baseball, and they'd all make fun of me for it. Plus, I'd have to deal with hair in weird places and I definitely wouldn't be able to dance in my socks to Britney Spears anymore. It's probably a good thing God made me a girl, because I'd make a real mess of things as a guy.

But there are some things about being a girl that I just can't grasp. Why can't I own a pair of pantyhose for longer than a day without snagging them? It's not like I'm rolling around in a pit of Velcro all day. Another ladylike talent I lack is the ability to sit still. I'd much rather slouch, stretch, and scratch than perch in a chair with my hands neatly folded in my lap. I stick my foot in my mouth, I like getting dirty (stay with me people, minds outta the gutter), and I am the best parallel parker in forty eight states. These are not girly traits.

In order to increase the likelihood that I will finish a marathon this fall, I entered this wacky 200 mile relay called Tom's Run. Runners have bike escorts to make sure they traverse the path safely. I was running a leg somewhere in Nowheresville, MD (Pop. 25, frog pop. 18,295) at around 10 pm last night and tripped over something big. Chris, my bike escort, laughed at me.

The photo below is my new roommate Erin debriding my wounds. She's an expert because she's a prior. I trust her completely. Except... she did lock me in her car at one point last night. On accident. I think. Just a warning: if you happen to be in a BMW and the doors are locked from the outside, there's nothing you can do. The doors won't open from the inside, and the horn doesn't work. They're also quite soundproof, so people on the outside might mistake your bloodcurdling screams for frogs having sex (Erin did). I might buy a BMW, so in case I come across a fugitive from justice I can lock him inside my car until the authorities arrive.

I'm smiling in this picture. I wasn't smiling later when I got locked in the car.

Luck is in the air

I feel so free! I just downloaded Trillian and got rid of AIM and Yahoo Messenger. It's somewhat lacking; for example, I don't think I can click on links in people's profiles. Maybe this will help me refrain from checking and rechecking profiles, though (and accidentally clicking on spylinks... damn damn damn).

As I was walking to school today, I passed an LOL carrying some clover in her hand. I was preparing to give her the cursory howdy and walk by, but she thrust the clover in my face and cried, "Look!" There in her hand, she had an honest-to-goodness four leaf clover.

I wonder about the luck that comes with finding a four leaf clover. They're genetic mutants, and you kind of have to wonder what happened to the plant to mutate it. Is the lawn around it saturated with icky lawn chemicals? Did someone hide a radioactive bar in the dirt below it? If you have to get really close to a mutagen to acquire good luck, it doesn't seem worth it. It should be noted that she also had a five and a seven leaf clover. She seemed puzzled by these, and asked me, "Have you ever seen this many leaves on a four leaf clover?" I could honestly answer that no, I had not.

A few paces down the road I found my own four leaf clover. It was kind of jacked, but it's only the second one I found myself in my lifetime. I wish I had taken a picture of it for everyone to see, but I lost it on my way to school. Instead, here's a picture of what I believe is the luckiest plant ever: Rabbit Foot Clover. It's like a 2 for 1 special.

Wow. Just wow.

I've been addicted to "America's Next Top Model" all day. It's pathetic, all right? I know. But I needed something to do instead of study, and ANTM fits the bill.

I also got a laugh during this last episode, when they asked the girls to portray several ideas/emotions. They asked to see anger, passion, happiness, and aloof. NONE of the girls knew what aloof meant-- not one of the six. Kind of ironic, right? A model not knowing what aloof means? But I know what it means, which makes me better than the models. Boys love love LOVE my word power, baby.

I can sing again! Now that the coughing has completely subsided, my vocal cords are happy and my voice has returned to its former glory. Uh. At any rate I no longer sound like a caterwauling emphysemic everytime I belt out Britney.

So last night I sang with Ben Folds. It was amazing. Just him on piano, and me singing... and about 500 other people too. But they were kind of in the background. Really it was just me singing along to some badass songs. I have been practicing the piano pretty religiously since the beginning of the year (when I took it up again after a twelve year hiatus), so I think there was this one point where he was going to let me take over the keys. Of course, I demurred, because people came to see him play, not me. I'm not conceited.

Seriously though, Ben rocked. It was my third time seeing him in concert, and my first without Alyssa and the Fillmore. Alyssa is in Romania right now, and the Fillmore is still in SF on Geary. Couldn't bring it with me to DC. :o( But I have a new concert buddy, Adriane, who is about the same height as Lyss and me, and is therefore doomed to share our fate: the shadow of the Oaf.

Why do really tall guys feel the need to park in front of me at concerts? I think I'm going to make a shirt just for wearing to concerts that says "Tall people go here" on the back. Or bring a stepstool to stand on. Adriane and I both broke our backs from standing on tip toe to see the stage!

Cost of concert: $35
Concert T-shirt: $20
Cost of transportation: $15 (cab home... damn you Metro!)
Cost of back surgery: $10,000 (actually it would be free since we're military, and I'm exaggerating, but still)

The diagram above demonstrates the painstaking accuracy with which the Oaf blocks my Ben viewage. (Note: Adriane had a similar Oaf in front of her. It would have made the diagram busier to have two shorties and two Oafs. Just remember, for every shorty there is an equal and opposite Oaf blocking her view.)

I'm still sick. Sense of smell is still MIA. But did this keep me from doing a triathlon today? Hell no!

I actually wanted to bail in the worst way. My case of pneumonia-bronchitis-pleuritis just won't go away (although I did start taking random antibiotics, which may cure me or may create a multidrug resistant super bug). But once I realized that neither my race fee ($60) nor my wetsuit rental ($25) was refundable, I got cheap and decided I wanted to race, goddamnit! Besides, even if I just did really crappy I had a great excuse-- "I've got the black lung! Cough Cough."

It's funny-- besides not being able to breathe through my nose on the swim, and not being able to breathe at all on the run, the race wasn't that bad. It wasn't until the drive home that I began to feel that maybe, maybe, a triathlon isn't what my immune system needed. First I got a croupy cough, and then a fever... and the only prescription was more cowbell! Unfortunately, I had no cowbell. I stopped and got an Americano instead.

Now that I'm home, I'm dreaming of all the training I want to do, and the cool goodies I want to buy before CaliMan Half: a new wheelset, aerobars, and a wetsuit... But not yet. First I have to overcome my tuberculosis.

Lung for sale, cheap

I'm sick. (cough cough) It's mostly a minor annoyance, except for the fact that I missed the Sallie Mae 10K today. I've been looking forward to it for a while, but from what I've heard it's hard to run 6.2 miles when you only have one lung. Oh, sidenote: if you know anyone who needs a lung transplant, I have one in fair condition. I coughed it up last night. I think the other one might be coming out really soon...

The worst part isn't the coughing, but the fact that I can't taste or smell anything. It's profound! Yesterday, I went to the Kensington farmer's market and bought some soap from this handmade soap lady. I explained to her, "I'm extremely congested and can't smell anything, but can you help me pick out a soap for my Mom? She likes lavender and other florals." So what did the lady do? She handed me a soap to smell. WTF! I politely sniffed it, but of course I couldn't smell a damn thing. I told her, "I'm afraid I can't smell this. It's too bad, you have lovely soaps. What is it supposed to smell like?" Then she kept presenting me with more soaps to smell, and finally I just pretended to be able to smell one so she'd stop. I have no idea what the soap I bought is supposed to smell like, but it's yellow. There are some things that are yellow that smell good, I suppose. Hope you like it, Mom.

This morning I broke down and bought some cough syrup to try and quiet my earsplitting cough phenomenon. Grape flavor, but who cares, right? I can't smell or taste anything... or so I thought! All I have to say is, it's so unfair that the only thing I've been able to taste for the past four days has been that damn grape cough syrup. Why, God, why?

Self-delusion, SF style

The other night I got off Metro at Downtown Bethesda, alone. The combination of my solitude and the quality of the night's darkness allowed me to indulge in a little fantasy: I forced myself to believe that I was really in San Francisco, exiting BART at Montgomery Street. It wasn't that hard to do, really-- BART was modeled after Metro (or vice versa; I can't remember) so the stations and trains are eerily similar. As I emerged from underground the tall buildings of downtown Bethesda became downtown SF's skyscrapers. It's funny how a place can mean so much to you.

--

My favorite time of day to be out in SF was at night. You could go out in anything; sure, there would be club hoppers dressed up, but I could hop on the cable car in my sweats, post-swim, and feel right at home. Everyone out on the streets was happy (except the drivers looking for parking spots, of course). The city was bite sized, compact, and highly digestible for a pedestrian like me. From my rooftop I could see across the bay to Berkeley and Richmond, and somewhere in between (El Cerrito?) there was a flashing green light. The night I saw it I felt like Jay Gatsby. That's the thing: there was always something new to discover, so that each day you could convince yourself that you had experienced something special.

I really want to go back and visit SF (can you tell?) but more than that, I want to fall in love with this place. All the stars are aligned: I'll be a pedestrian again in the fall, living in Downtown Bethesda, and I'll be able to Metro anywhere in DC. I'll go out at night and find little tea shops and fabric stores and spend my weekends in Dupont at Kramerbooks and Afterwords. Maybe then I can stop writing pathetic odes to a city I no longer inhabit.

Daylight Sucking Time

Twice a year, we screw with our clocks and run a very good risk of showing up an hour early or late for something important. Bill Gates has taken it upon himself to automatically adjust the time on my computer (thanks, dude!) which is a godsend for me, really. No other clocks under my possession change automatically, so I end up changing clocks here and there for a few days after the time changes. It's all very haphazard, which is what you should expect from me by this point, right?

The last clock to change, each and every season, is the clock on my car stereo. My long term memory must be about five months and 29 days long or something, because each time Daylight Savings rolls around I have to reinvent the wheel and figure out how to change the damn thing. I'm sitting here trying to remember what I did the last time, but all I can remember is the "aha!" moment when I figured it out. I distinctly remember thinking, "Woah, maybe I should write this down, so I don't forget again." I also remember thinking, "Nah, I'll remember it, it's so easy!" Ahem.

"Hey Alli," you suggest, "why not check the manual?" Ah yes, good call... except my car stereo is after-market and I bought the car used, so there's no manual. Another confounding factor is the fact that I've only actually had to change it about half of the time-- various boys who have meandered into and out of my life have taken it upon themselves to figure it out, usually during long car trips (since it really does take upwards of half an hour to crack the code).

I suppose I can just add an hour to the time in my car until September, but I don't really want to make my life any more ghetto than it already is. Instead, I'm sending out an SOS! If you are one of those who has fixed my clock in the past (and remembers how!), or if you just have an idea, please let me know. There's not much to screw up-- I've already mangled all of my presets.

A whole nother post and a half

I like to think my grammar is decent, and while I'm not the best storyteller in the world, I can pull random SAT words out of my ass in the course of regular conversation (but only if I'm comfortable around you). The one thing I need to change is "a whole nother." As in, "I need to get a whole nother tube of toothpaste; this one has been contaminated." WHERE did I get this expression? It's so wrong. Possible replacements include: another, another whole, etc. Noted.

---

I think I figured out one of the reasons I'm better friends with guys than girls, in general. It has a lot to do with counseling and dealing with problems. What I have to offer a friend is insight on how other people react and respond to different situations. This is somewhat unique to me, but really all girls have this talent to some extent. Anyway, when a guy comes to me with a problem, I can help him understand how the different people in the situation are probably feeling and what to expect next.

What I lack, and what my guy friends offer me, is a clear picture of what I'm like. I have a hard time seeing myself as others do, so I rely on my friends to give me feedback. My best friends are guys who aren't afraid to do just that. If I screw up, they let me know, which no girl friend I've ever had could do.

What this boils down to is the difference between men and women. Women are good at feeling and empathy and sympathy and pathy in general. We can explain confusing things like why a girl keeps calling or why your friend is mad, because we can imagine what it's like to be that person. Men are great at seeing what's wrong in a situation and telling people how to make it right. I think a lot of girls who have only female friends are kind of like the blind leading the blind; they watch Friends and eat ice cream and agree that my ex must be an asshole because he hasn't called. And even if they think I might have made a mistake, there's no precedent set for how to correct each other's behavior; all we have is agreement. Guys have the self-confidence to tell others what's wrong, and girls have the nurturing instinct. I think that men and women will seek each other out as friends as long as they are interested in understanding relationships and knowing the truth; otherwise, they'll stick to their own sex for advice.

Easter Egg Hunt!

Welcome to Alli's Easter Egg Hunt! At the end, open up your eggs to get great prizes, such as your car, your house keys, and your luggage!

Station 1: Find the egg that has your car keys in it!
To do this, you'll need to leave all your luggage from Spring Break with Slider. Take Metro to Dupont Circle, and search very carefully for a wasted guy named R-Smelly who drove your car all week, while you were in Jamaica. Can't find him? Then take a cab home from Metro and wake up your apartment manager to let you into your apartment, because you don't have your keys.

Station 2: Find the egg that has a phone with which you can call aforementioned "friend"!
Start at the pay phone by your house, which doesn't work. Find the manager of your neighborhood gym, who can lend you his cell phone! Excellent work! Leave a message to have R-Smelly drop off your car ASAP (not after church, not after buying Andy a new cell phone, but BEFORE) because you have absolutely no tofu and things are going downhill.

Station 3: the home stretch! Grab that egg with your car and get your luggage!
When R-Smelly is done with your car, he'll drive it slowly but roughly to your house, probably with the parking brake on, causing as much damage as possible in the most amount of time. Well not really... in fact, his friend Jarod totally fixed the sound system so now it sounds decent. Now drive to BFE... I mean, North Rockville, to Slider's and get your luggage. Go home and try your best to sleep off a week's worth of hangovers. Sit on your hands and cackle like a chicken. Lose one egg, also lose $500. If you know what that last quote is from message me and I will love you forever.

Happy Easter to me!

Jamaica Mistaica, part 2

I didn't grow up on the beach, okay? If there's one thing I can't stand, it's the inescapable stereotype that accompanies a California license plate, the assumption that I grew up sandy-haired and brat-spoiled like the girls in "The OC." Well, maybe I actually like having that projected on me. :o) My point is, though, that there are a ton of things I've never done before when it comes to the ocean. Before this trip, I had never swum in deep open water (except for my triathlons, but those don't count because there's a dude in a kayak making sure you don't drown), I'd never cliff dived, and I'd certainly never peed in the ocean. Who said that was okay, honestly? Everyone was doing it, so I went ahead...

Unfortunately, Mr. Ocean was NOT okay with the pee party. He got me back when I cliff dived: after a 43 foot drop, I hit the backs of my legs in the water and scored a bruise that earned the pity of all. Now, when I pee in the proper way, sitting on a toilet, it hurts like hell because my legs and butt are battered up. That, my friends, is not coincidence, but revenge!

The good news: I got over my fear of heights and my fear of water in one fell swoop (my fear of public urination was conquered at some point last semester on a really long walk to Adams Morgan Metro)

The bad news: my vitamin deficient diet, described below, has enhanced my bruisability such that my post-jump DCAP BTLS may be around for awhile

Jamaica Mistaica

I seriously have scurvy. I got home just a few minutes ago from Jamaica and I had this uncontrollable urge to eat a vitamin tablet. I followed it up with what I hope is an energy-replenishing meal:

1 Gardenburger
1/2 bell pepper
1 can V8

This is a more complete meal than any I got on vacation, for sure. There were several factors that entered into my decision to eat... well, nothing in Jamaica:

1. There is no vegan food, except for white rice and jerk sauce, which I tired of immediately
2. Eating one meal a day is three times as cheap as eating three square meals
3. That extra money can be spent on beer, rum, etc.
4. Furthermore, because you are eating only once a day, you become drunker faster. This actually makes it approximately four times as cheap to eat once a day
5. Beer has calories, and is vegan, so stop stressing already

Very logical, right?

More later. My body wants sleep.

I was thinking about advertising today in the shower.

Last spring I was part of a focus group for this Neutrogena hair care line for people with really dry hair, and at the time I thought focus groups were ridiculous and the ad company was wasting its money. Basically I sat there for a few hours, ate some free food, and criticized different advertising layouts. In particular, there was one spread that featured a tub of hair creme, but the lid was arranged so it looked like a hockey puck. I told them it sucked.

Back to my shower musings... I bought the shampoo and conditioner from this line a while ago since the East Coast winter has plagued my hair with the frizzies. As I used it, I thought about the ad layouts and how advertising would be an interesting job; as a matter of fact, I would argue thatadvertisements are the most important art form out there today. You may be surprised/disgusted/suspicious to hear me talk about ads in such glorified terms, but it's true. If art is produced to make people feel a certain way, then advertising qualifies. A good ad makes you feel, among other emotions, incomplete without the product in question.

I was definitely feeling incomplete without the Neutrogena Triple Moisture shampoo and conditioner. In fact, my hair is looking a lot better but I'm not sure I bought quite enough of the products, so I might have to go back to CVS and get the once-a-week hot oil treatment. It's okay, though, I'm still ahead: I got $75 for the focus group. :o)

Alli's back!

After a brief Starbucks hiatus, I'm readdicted and trippin on the juice. The habit built up so slowly I didn't even realize it. About four weeks ago, I was completely abstinent with a bad case of the flu, and now I'm chain-drinking(1). Good thing I didn't decide to give up coffee for Lent-- I wouldn't have lasted past my first Sunday morning! Too bad there are no Peetses around...

I just got chastised for wearing my Juicy sweats to the gym. :o) It started out with a compliment from Jamie, my workout bud, but soon escalated into a fashion guilt trip. "Ooh, those are cute! If I had Juicy sweats, I'd wear them only when I'm trying to look casual but really look sexy and put together." The thing is, I work out 32% harder when I look cute because I'm like, hey, if I already look this cute then bring on the pain! Definitely worth the exorbitant price.

On March 18th, fear comes full circle. No, I'm not talking about "The Ring 2." I'm talking about my last day of finals. What the hell am I going to do?

(1) Chain-drinking is a phenomenon encountered with heavy Starbucks users. When approaching Starbucks you throw away the almost-empty cup that you're still consuming in the outside trash can so your car cupholder can hold your new drink. Outside trash can is key; don't let the barista see that you've been drinking or they might cut you off.

The wacky world of DC bathrooms

I think the thing I miss most about California are the bathrooms. I have simple expectations; when I walk into a bathroom, I expect a few stalls, a sink with soap, and a second or two alone with the mirror. Here, the affair is completely ruined. First of all, the stalls almost never have seat covers. What is that? You name the place: hospitals, nice restaurants, seedy bars, they all expect us to do the lady squat I guess.

After an unsatisfactory stall experience, I move to the sink area to be met by a bathroom troll who has removed all the paper towels and soap from the dispensers. Why? So I have to turn around and get them from her. It's a racket. You can't not tip the troll, because they're just so darn helpful. Except for when they stole my soap and towels, but I digress.

So not only are the bathrooms less hygienic, but they also cost me. This is not good because I have a tiny bladder. The troll has a ton of stuff to sell you: gum, cologne spray... and maybe she should throw some diapers in there, too, so once we go into the bathroom we never have to come back the rest of the night. The really jacked up thing is that I can buy cologne and gum and mints in the bathroom of a bar, but I can't buy alcohol in a Safeway.

I've always wondered whether food wants to be eaten. It could go either way, really. Think about it: when a kernel of rice falls from your plate of kung pao, is it rejoicing in its escape from the death row of your belly? Or is the little guy heartbroken because he lost his one chance at making you happy and fulfilled-- his one purpose in life, to feed you, shot to pieces by one careless flick of your chopsticks?

According to Adam Sandler, it's the latter. In his own talks with anthropomorphic food, he advises the food to be nice to its creator, the lunch lady. Quoth Sandler, "If it wasn't for her the kids wouldn't eatcha/ you should be shakin' her hand and saying 'Pleased to meetcha.'" Since the food is meant to be grateful to the lunch lady for serving it to the kids, it is safe to assume that food does in fact want to be eaten.

So next time you see a little stray noodle on your placemat, don't cast a blind eye. Pick that sucker up and send it down the chute. It'll be happy you did. And never forget the five second rule.

So I have to study the brain for the next three months. It's funny when you think that I spent three months studying the whole rest of the body. Yeah, the brain is complex. But it's so small! I keep getting frustrated by having to squint and lean in close to see these infinitessimally small structures. I thought, "Hey, it would be great if brains were bigger, so then I wouldn't have to strain to see all this crap." But then I realized that if my brain was bigger I wouldn't have nearly as hard a time grasping all this. I guess there's an ideal brain size that would allow learning about the brain to be easy. I'm getting a headache thinking about this, so I will stop now.

I have this weird paranoid version of solipsism. It involves the classic view of oneself as a "special case," but in my pathos I'm not the Queen of Everything. Far from it. Sometimes, I just have to wonder: am I a really fragile sociopath who people are nice to out of a mixture of fear and pity?

My next door neighbor, Peppermint Patty, is peanut butter. Everyone thinks she's wacko-- our other neighbors, the apartment manager-- and my 5 foot 11 roommate triple locks the door every night becase, in his words, "She's the type that really would come after you with an axe." I avoid her when possible, but when I do see her I'm polite and civil. I didn't snap at her once when she cornered me in the building washroom and instructed me on the proper washing of my clothes. ("Oops, watch out, you dropped your panties.") Does she know people think she's wacko, or does everyone cover it up too well? How do I know I don't live in a world where everyone lives in fear of my crazy messed up reactive personality? Perhaps I'm so crazy I can't read people at all, like her.

Just the fact that I'm in med school doesn't mean I'm free of social pathology... in fact, that's one of the reasons I worry. My classmates are, for the most part, a goodie bag of personality disorders. On some level a lot of people are here to balance their shortcomings with the second half of a sentence. Example: "You may be __________ (crazy, ugly, uncouth, unfunny, a broccoli head), but you are a doctor... okay, let's have sex!" Anyway, so there are a lot of crazies here. Maybe I'm so crazy I can't tell. Maybe they're all gonna laugh at me!

This is what happens late at night after studying all day. I need to stop being such a broccoli head.

Medical school has unfurled before me a wave of self-discovery. Things I never knew about myself include:

I'm an anorexic dissector. When it comes to cadaver lab, I don't actually cut anything... I just moosh around the organs to make it look like I'm doing something.

I really am one of those multi colored pen people I mocked relentlessly in college.

I'm good at napping, inserting my foot in my mouth in front of deans, cooking, and making friends. I'm bad at studying, keeping nylons snag-free, and keeping them (friends, not snagged nylons).

ok, everyone relax!

me as flight leader at COT

I've been keeping a running tally in my head of things that are different in Maryland from back home, and whether it's a plus or a minus. I've decided to share this with you, just in case you were thinking of moving out here. (I've added Iraq as a third contender, since I'll be going there eventually, too.)

Starbuckses.
CA: good Maple Oat Nut Scones
MD: Sucky M.O.N.S. and my iced Americano cup sweats too much
Iraq: not applicable
Edge: CA (and yes, I know what a mons is)

House Pests:
CA: Daddy Longlegs
MD: house centipede (disgusting)
Iraq: camel spider
Edge: CA

Traffic:
CA: really really bad
MD: really bad
Iraq: light, but watch out for insurgents' bombs
Edge: MD

Vegan menu options:
CA: plentiful
MD: excellent
Iraq: the bean and rice burrito MRE
Edge: CA and MD

Metro:
CA: BART
MD: DC Metro
Iraq: seriously doubt it
Edge: MD

[friends and family]:
CA: about 70% of total
MD: about 15% of total
Iraq: 2
Edge: CA

Weather:
CA: aaah. Paradise.
MD: sweaty 24/7
Iraq: Would you like a side of melanoma with your heat stroke?
Edge: CA

All in all, Maryland did better than I expected. If I stayed here long enough I might even edge out Cali by shifting the balance of [friends and family] to this side of the equation. But I won't; I'll be gone in 4 years and then I'll have to go through this whole process again.

DRAMARAMA

Because my life is so boring I have to make up little stories about the everyday occurences in my life, and convince myself that somehow I'm extraordinary. And because I am a hopeless storyteller in person, I'll do my best here. I've been told I'm okay at writing.

My Starbucks is a source of neverending drama. It's almost as good as Muni used to be, except mostly the drama is in my head. Every day when I walk in, there are a bunch of well-dressed dudes in the upper mezzanine where I study. They talk in hushed tones and eye me warily as I walk in. In my overactive imagination, they are nationals from Ethiopia, Egypt, or Dubai, plotting against the government. And they have to be near D.C. to hatch their evil plot, but far enough away so that the CIA won't find them out. What better place than a Starbucks in Silver Spring to go undercover from? They even have wireless internet!

So I'm paranoid that they think I'm trying to listen in on their conversation, in whatever language it is. And then I think, how cool would it be if I really were an undercover CIA agent, pretending to study epithelia and enzymes, when I'm really decoding their babble and sending it back to headquarters! Naturally, they'd issue me an official "textbook," and I'd take "notes," all to help me blend in. And I'd be wearing my sweats and glasses to try to be as nondescript as possible.

And this is what I go through for the first ten minutes of every study session, every day.

I had a random thought this morning, before 5am, as I struggled to wake up for good. I kept hitting snooze, and I realized I was screwing myself over by taking away my precious getting-ready time in nine minute portions. Each snooze-unit of sleep was making it more and more likely that I would show up late to my first briefing as a medical student (which I did, by about four minutes). It occurred to me that by hitting snooze I was playing a kind of solo "Name that Tune." I was betting myself that I could get ready in 45 minutes... then in 36... then in 27. It's like the guy on N.T.T. who bids the lowest number of notes, maybe two, and then when the game show host says "Okay, name that tune in two notes!" he has this look on his face that can only mean he's thinking, "I'm fucked."

That was me this morning.

I'm reading a fantastic novel called "Like the Red Panda," by Andrea Siegel. The main character, Stella, shares my outlook on life, save two small differences. Basically, both Stella and I admit that we are solitary warriors in this life, alone in our heads even amongst the people we care about. We both save our true feelings for when we're in the company of a select few who understand us (and who feel similarly marginalized and alone); otherwise we're very pleasant people, and we try hard. The differences, though, are: 1. She has found peace with her solitude and actually seems to prefer being misunderstood; I, on the other hand, can't shake the feeling that there's something wrong with me for not needing to reach out all the time. 2. I am optimistic that things will change one day, whereas Stella is suicidal. And not in a tragic way, just more of a matter-of-fact way.

Interestingly, in the book Stella's stage is characterized as one which you need to move through to get to where I am. Stella uses the old riddle of the creature who has four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening, to describe her grandfather. She is depressed by his failing body and mind. At one point he says to her, "Why don't you try rising above being a woman? You're so hurt by everything you can't separate your duty from your emotions." I take this to mean that she needs to get beyond her callused world view and not let the disconnectedness of everything bother her. She is so comfortable being alone that it actually makes her uncomfortable to be around others-- kind of like Charlotte in the bunny vibrator episode of Sex and the City. Let's go back to the riddle, then, but with a new interpretation. Stella is the two legged man at noon, and I am the three legged man who has gained back one of the childhood legs of optimism and innocence. I really don't think Stella is going to commit suicide at the end of the book, because now she sees what she is lacking. For me, this has always been the first step in successfully resolving a problem.

---

My cell phone automatically deletes text messages that are oldish. I think it takes about five or six days. It's like stuff before then never even happened. Tabula rasa. Interesting.

I've been sitting here for the last few hours scouring iTunes for songs that express exactly how I'm feeling right now. I'd feel really satisfied if I could compile a playlist of no less than nine songs that adequately sum up my current emotional state, so I could avoid having to express my feelings in actual words. Here's what I'd do: I'd make a CD, put my walkman on antiskip, and go drive. Except I don't have my car yet... so I'd thrash around my new living room. I don't know where all this energy is coming from. I'm sorry to start out this way... too intense and erratic. Drama-queenish. I should have made a sandwich. Here, I'll make an open-faced sandwich.

Alabama clouds are amazing. My first thought when I saw them was: Magritte must have lived here. Yes, they're that perfect. I'm talking primo cumulus specimens. The best part was late in the afternoon when the clouds lined up as a team and threw lightning back and forth. It freaked me out at first... lightning isn't something I saw very frequently in California. In fact, the only time in recent memory that lightning did any real damage was when the power went out in the middle of watching "The Passion of the Christ." That was some crazy business. It's a good story, but it's better when Andy tells it, so I'll leave that to him.

It just hit me that today is my last day as a San Franciscan. I'm gonna miss the hell out of this place. I know I complain and bitch about it sometimes, but I feel like I've put a lot of myself into my time here. I'm leaving behind friends that, in all honesty, I won't see for a long time (if ever again). It's like ending a relationship... it has to happen, but at the same time, you're like, goddamnit, all that was for nothing.

I want to make a senior will for San Francisco. I'm leaving behind special places, so take care of them well.

To C. I leave the cable car. May you never have to pay with money, and instead flirt your way to 1400 Washington.
To M. and B. I leave the entire Sunset district. What the hell, it was never mine to begin with, except maybe Parnassus... you can have that whole cloudy foggy place, no problem.
To L. I leave Gorilla Sports. You're shameless in your pursuit of hot bodies, so you will fit in there perfectly.
To D. I leave my cramped, diseased, stale little hole. I mean bedroom. I can't ditch that thing fast enough. :O)
To A. I leave Berkeley, UC and surrounding. Try not to cause too much trouble there now... you're a senior citizen. S. can take over custody once he turns 21.
To the other A. I leave the SF hot spots. I'm too old and tired to be a socialite, so find yourself another G. and party like it's 1999. I also leave you all the trendy boutiques in Union Square... say hi to the shopgirls for me, would you?
To Z. I leave I-680. We've been up and down that entire goddamn thing more times than I can count. In terms of mileage, you have the best bestowment by far. Just try not to go 150 mph again, for my own peace of mind.
To R. and the MZ crew I leave my Starbucks. They will be going out of business without me, but try to be good patrons for the week or so they stay afloat before boarding the doors shut forever.
To M. I leave Hamilton Pool, and the middle lane with the slow dude. Good luck on Wildflower, bro.

Alli out.

Why not try some new songs? My most recent playlist:

1. In Our Darkest Hour/Phantom Planet
2. Stockholm Syndrome/Muse
3. Spitting Games/Snow Patrol
4. Honestly/Zwan
5. Stuck In America/Sugarcult
6. Somebody Told Me/The Killers
7. Home/Zero 7
8. The Nurse Who Loved Me/A Perfect Circle
9. Martyr Me/The Get Up Kids

I think it's interesting how all these alt Christian bands are making it big in the mainstream. Witness MXPX, Switchfoot, Further Seems Forever. Has Further Seems Forever made it big or do I just like them a lot? No matter. Check them out.

I've become quite a music junkie over the last year. I remember being 14 in Costa Rica and listening to everyone pontificate on how awesome our Sactown alternative station was, and this DJ and that song... and I was totally out of it. I didn't know who Alanis Morrisette was (although that's hardly the mark of coolness these days), but at the time it was embarrassing to be the only one who didn't know that "Ironic" wasn't ironic and that her last name didn't have s'mores in it. Maybe I'm making up for that now with my incessant iTunes downloading and mix-CD making. Anyway, music is so powerful to me. It helps me through a lot.

JOIE DE VIVRE

I'm in love with my life! I'm perfect. There's nothing about my life I would change!

Barf, right? For the record, I did not and do not say these things. My roommate did, though. Honestly. She's the kind of person who has probably read about fifteen self-help books, and has convinced herself that she is the most amazing creature on Earth and that men should fall at hear feet. I'm sure the insecure ones do, too.

So, this morning she's making herself tea to take back to bed on a little breakfast-in-bed tray she has. (Again, barf.) We talk about her tea, which is English Breakfast, and I kind of muse, "Wouldn't you rather be in London right now, than getting ready for work? Maybe staying in someone's flat, having tea and crumpets..." Only I don't finish the word crumpets because she interrupts.

"No!" she says, very serious. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere but where I am right here, right now. I love my life and my apartment! It's a beautiful day outside. I wouldn't want to change a thing!" I looked at her and blinked.

I felt like she was admonishing me for dreaming, or trying to coax me into "loving life." I find this especially insulting, because I am by nature an optimist. In fact, I've often thought (to myself) that life is pretty effing amazing. I wanted to tell her, look, it's one thing to wish you were someone else, and to hate your life. It's quite another to entertain daydreams and aspirations, because 1) they're fun and 2) it helps you reach for better and greater things. Instead, I politely laughed and left to get dressed.

She was too insecure to accept that there may have been better things out there than what she was doing that second... admitting that would make her feel like a failure or something. When she's taking a crap, does she think, "There's nowhere I'd rather be right now than taking this rose-scented crap!"

One criticism of Buddhism that I've heard is that to be a perfect Buddha, you don't need anyone in the world to exist at all-- all you need is your mind and a place to meditate. This notion deeply bothers Westerners. Christianity teaches us the virtues of altruism and kindness, and our happiness is directly correlated with our positive relationships with others. This disparity used to bother me, too, but I've been thinking a lot about the nature of love, happiness, and what's really going in in our heads. I have come to believe that happiness is a state of mind that can be created and controlled by the individual, without help from anyone else.

Why do we fall in love? Our traditional Western notion is that when you meet the perfect person, you'll fall in love, and be happy. It's all very nebulous. But what's really going on? You might say that everyone in your life is pushing buttons in your head. Some people really piss you off; they're pushing bad buttons. The neural pathways that are activated when you're around your annoying coworker are ones that make you, well, annoyed. You learn to avoid this person and to shorten any contact with them. Inversely, when you're around someone who pushes good buttons, your brain positively reinforces your interactions with them. Same goes for good friends and close family members. People we like make us happy, and people who make us happy we like.

But why? Well, take me for example. My parents make me feel capable, valuable, and smart. They love me unconditionally. I really grew to need them and rely on those feelings of adequacy for the first sixteen years of my life. I didn't realize it at first, but when I went away to college, the positive influence their support had on my brain was lacking, and I filled it in various other ways. The same thing can happen when a relationship ends. You find a way to give your brain the happiness it used to get from the other person pushing your buttons the right way. Most people just jump into another relationship. One thing I'd like to explore is finding a way to short circuit the loop: push those brain buttons without the other person.

Buddhism is all about this. In fact, it says that relationships with others are nice, but you should really work to free yourself from needing anything from this world-- possessions, people-- and concentrate on using your mind to set you free. I'm not 100% for this viewpoint, because it would mean nothing would get done. Everyone would walk out of their desk jobs, sit under a bodhi tree, and be happy and peaceful... until after a day or two when all the produce would rot and we'd starve to death. That's why Zen Buddhism probably incorporated that whole thing about getting enlightened while doing the dishes.

But think about it-- if you could find a way to feel the ecstasy of love without the object, wouldn't you? All we have is ourselves, and no relationship with another person is everlasting or static. People die or change all the time, and it usually gets us hurt.

One last thought. Modern Christianity has been reduced to getting married and loving your spouse and family, but Christ Himself was alone, and was sustained by His relationship with God. This is what Buddhists strive for-- a meaningful relationship with the divine. Of course, Christ also found meaning in His good works for others, but then, so do Buddhists. I think that love as defined by Christ would have more to do with the way things you do make you feel, and less with the way another person makes you feel. The former is what I think Buddhism is getting at; the latter is what Americans are looking for today. Both are effective ways of pushing those brain buttons, but you don't have the control in the second instance.

SIX DEGREES OF RANDY NEWMAN

Today, a patient came in with orders from Dr. Newman, an oncologist here in SF. One of our doctors, Dr. Miller, chatted a little with the patient about Dr. Newman, and the patient offered his glowing opinion of the same. Dr. Miller said, "You know, Dr. Newman comes from a famous family. His brother is Randy Newman." The patient went "Ohh!" in a way that could only mean he had no idea who Randy Newman was.

So... Alli to the rescue! I googled him while the patient and Dr. Miller were still conversing, and discovered that he is an Oscar-winning songwriter. I volunteered that my favorite song of his was Three Dog Night's "Mama Told Me Not to Come" (the truth... that song is me). The patient's lightbulb went on (Oh, THAT Randy Newman!) and the world was okay.

Then, ten minutes ago, I was googling a random disease, and a page on Ben Folds Five came up. Love love love them! So I followed the link and read the article, and who should Ben Folds claim as his idol as a child but Randy Newman himself. Caraazy. Reminds me of Aviva.

Don't you just love those little flashy buzzy coasters restaurants give you while you're waiting for a table? I do. In fact, I wish their use was more prevalent. For example, I wish my clinic had them. Instead of the patients waiting in the depressing lounge, they could go outside, wander around in the gift shop, or check out the band downstairs.

Other places those little buzzy things would be useful:
-The California Lottery. If your little buzzy thing goes off, you won! (Restaurants would be prohibited from using the buzzies on Wednesday and Saturday nights though, which is somewhat inconvenient.)
-Game show buzzers for classrooms. Instead of the teacher asking you questions, and you raising your hand, or slinking into your chair... the teacher just makes some student buzz! This is especially convenient, because the flashy buzzy action of the coaster also serves to wake the student up, avoiding potential embarrassment.
-A high tech, square, flat, flashy potato to be used for the game "Hot Potato."

The only think I think these coasters AREN'T good for is their intended purpose: coasters. I've never put my drink on one, for fear that it would go vibrating off the end of the bar and crash. Doesn't it seem?

I feed my sense of self-importance sometimes with random seizures of authority. I'm not sure why, but having a job to do and doing it makes me feel like a better person. A pretty American way to feel, I think. :o) This past weekend I was the RIDE LEADER for the Velo Girls' 30 miler. Woo hoo. I was thinking about this, and I asked myself, why did I volunteer? Considering how lazy I often am, why would I want to commit to this ride ahead of time, and assume responsibility for the safety and whereabouts of other riders? Well, I get a point on my membership for one. A point! And a cookie and a pat on the head. (Just kidding about the last two.)

Do any of you know what I mean about this? Just being in charge gives me some sicko high. And not even really the active part of being in charge-- just the part where I tell myself, "Okay! Yeah! I'm a RIDE LEADER."

--

My favorite people in the whole world are confusing, complex, and dynamic... people who have a lot going on inside. But I realized yesterday, I have to like boring people, too. I think the world would cease to function if "normal" people didn't stagnate. I don't like them for who they are in and of themselves, though.

--

I have a favorite saying. It goes, "When you assume, you make an ASS out of U and ME." It's so true... you can never know what another person is thinking (or almost never... depends on the person) so don't even bother speculating. Of course, I am scenario girl, so taking my own advice is something I have to work hard at.

What would you do if you were 12 weeks pregnant (work with me here, fellas) and you discovered you had cancer? Let's say it was breast cancer. You can either undergo treatment for cancer, probably including chemotherapy and/or radiation, which would kill your baby. Or you could keep the child and hope that once your baby is born it's not too late to save your life.

I'm sure some people will say, it depends on how serious the cancer is, or whether it's your first child, how old you are, et cetera. So you have my permission to simplify it to this: would you die for your child to live?

It's not just an emotional thing. We're subject to a strong evolutionary drive to keep our DNA propagating. This drive influences altruistic behavior among groups, which is kind of the same thing. Only in this case, you're not only giving up your life for kin, you're sacrificing yourself for DNA that is at least 50% identical to your own.

I know it's a little early for me and my peers to be thinking about the "what ifs" of parenthood. Anyway, it's an interesting little thought experiment for y'all on a Friday morning. Go ahead and email or IM me with your thoughts. Personally, I'd bite the bullet and bear the kid.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate my innocence? 1 being not at all innocent, and 10 being minister's daughter. I ask because I feel like I have seen some of the worst of humanity over the past 24 hours... but I might just be sheltered.

Last night I took the 19 Navy Yard to 8th and Brannan and saw a new cross section of San Francisco's inhabitants. Normally I stick to the 1 California, which ferries mostly Chinatown residents and downtown professionals, and the cable car (always a nice homogenous mix of moneyed tourists). This bus went through the Tenderloin to the Deep South of Market (think 8th street). I think I actually frowned the whole way to REI. Something about the blend of old, thin, sickly people and younger, sicker women with needle tracks on their arms just depressed me. There was one woman in particular who unsettled me... she was fidgeting more than a three year old told to sit still. She had huge circles under her eyes, and her bleached hair was rattily tied into a bun at the back of her thin head. She wore tight jeans and a tank top that looked bad on her, not because of her weight-- she was actually deathly thin-- but because she was obviously an ill woman underneath the clothing. She was the first crack whore I had spent any prolonged amount of time with.

Then today, at work, one of my doctors got an email from her family far away. Her niece, who had been in a hospital recovering from illness, had been stabbed repeatedly overnight by her caretaker. Apparently the caretaker had killed two other women before moving on to my boss' niece. The girl is still alive, but barely. I felt like someone had slapped me when I heard the news. What kind of world is this?

I think I've answered my own question-- don't bother emailing me with my innocence rating. I guess I knew people got murdered, did drugs, and basically live in ways I can't imagine. I've seen it all on TV. I'm just wondering... will seeing it get any easier with age, or will it hurt every time I notice someone in a bad place?

I can't stand how provincial and self-absorbed the SF Chronicle is. Last Friday, the front page of every other newspaper on the country had coverage of the Spain bombings... as they should have. The Comical's big story? Gays right to marry halted by California's Supreme court. That would have been an okay front page story... if a worldwide disater hadn't occurred that requires our attention. I'm sorry, but an Al Qaida bombing is a little more important than gay marriage.

--

Another quirky SF rambling...

In SF the cool thing to do is have a dog as an accessory. Apparently people are feeling too guilty (or emburdened) by the baby accessory trend of a few years back. So now you get yourself a pricey purebred pooch, name him something clever, keep him in your apartment all week, and bring the poor mutt out on the weekends to a highly visible park to impress other people.

That's kind of what I do with Misty. She stays in my room all week long, serving no other purpose besides looking attractive. She was expensive, and she has an award winning pedigree. On Sundays I take her to the South Bay and play all day, and when it's all over I clean her up and put her back in my room for another week. I don't really feel to guilty about this though, because she's aluminum.

The really cool thing to do is to take your puppy for walks in the middle of the day, wearing a Juicy Couture sweatsuit, which advertises your lack of a job (most likely because you have a rich boyfriend/husband and don't need to work anymore). Bonus points if you do this in Pac Heights. Obviously, I can't take Misty out on weekday afternoons... and probably never will. Damn my work ethic!

A hallmark of immaturity is throwing the concept of love around like a frisbee. For example, telling somebody you may or may not like, "I love you!!" Yesterday, a friend of mine (20 years old, male) tacked this onto the end of a conversation with me. I wanted to be like, shut up, no you don't. a) You have a girlfriend. b) We barely know each other. c) You just don't, okay? Not even close. And you're insulting Love when you say that!

Maybe young adults do it because they don't know any better: they've never been in love (or many haven't... I'm not trying to condescend here). Or maybe they DO understand what love is, and by mocking it are trying, in Peter-Pan style, to advertise their childishness. "I won't grow up, and I certainly won't fall in love! Look, I don't even know what love is yet." Once upon a time I was guilty of this offense. Some of you may have been part of my group marriage senior year in high school. What can I say?

I bore witness to another interesting display of love and immaturity yesterday. I was at the 1 California bus stop, wolfing down a sandwich post-swim, and listening in on the conversation of three young college students. One boy, two girls. When I walked up to the stop, the boy and girl A were seated. Girl B was standing. I was surprised to see this arrangement, but I nabbed the seat without question since I prefer to sit while eating (although my post swim meal is more of a scarf than a dine).

I figured out that girl B hadn't wanted to sit because then they would have been seated in a line, and the boy was on the other side, and she would have been isolated from him. The drama persisted on the bus... girl A and the boy were sitting together, and girl B sat on another bench, alone, sullen. It was plainly obvious that both girls liked the boy, but he was, of course, clueless. I wanted to call a timeout. I would have told the guy, "I know this is going to blow your mind, but both of these girls like you." I would have told Girl B, "Grow some balls and sit next to him if you want to. He's just going to think you're mad at him if you sit in the corner and sulk. He has no clue you like him, or why you're sad." And I would have told Girl A, "You're going to lose your friend Girl B over there if you keep going after the guys she likes. Stop being a bitch and tell her how you feel about this boy, and decide whether he's worth it."