Temping: I'd take it.

I've been reading quite a bit of Postsecret lately and my internal dialogue has become one of pithy*, scrapbooky confessions.

A few moments ago I thought something very much like this:

I am enrolled in a highly-ranked PhD program in my field. I spent over 7 hours reading and re-reading really boring articles and had to use Google to figure out what they were talking about. I typed 452 words of total bullshit in response to these articles, which I will have to read to my peers in two days. None of them will call me on it.

This isn't a secret but I wish there was a webcam in the produce section of the supermarket so I could tell when the bananas were ripe.


*okay, so mine isn't so pithy, but I'd edit it.

Gobble.

Last week tens of thousands of young, hippish folk all throughout the land left behind the creature comforts of their lives as almost-full-on-adults for destinations near and far boasting twin beds* and dial up internet connections.

My Thanksgiving holiday was splendid with a night in Phoenix, where I stayed at Krista and Scott's all-grown-up townhouse before heading to Tucson to be with my aunt and uncle from Alaska and some family friends for the rest of the break. Our meal was prepared with careful foodie attention to recipes culled from years of Bon Appetit back issues.

Yesterday I found a car to replace the one in the accident - and I had a very fun first date. I've done lots of productive closet organizing in the resulting hangover time as I'm avoiding working on my part of a class presentation for tomorrow. So few class days left - so much work to do. A nap is in order.


*Mine had dolphin sheets.

You could say it was a mixed bag.

Sunday I went hiking with some friends in Ruyon Canyon in Hollywood. It was a nice time.


Saturday? Not so nice. . . This is how it started at 7:30 AM:

Sucks. Absolutely, positively sucks. And it was all my fault. No traffic, no talking on my cell phone, no loud music. I just didn't stop at a red light. I wasn't trying to make a yellow light; I wasn't even in a hurry. Damnit.

In regard to this I'm a little grumpy, a little depressed, a little stiff, a lot mad at myself, and a lot sad.

Other things I'd like to share with you:

1. I won free tickets to see Spoon on Thursday. Hurrah.

2. No big sparks with the French rocket scientist, but he's still emailing me, so maybe he just wants to be friends or is confused about the dearth of sparks.

3. I did meet someone cool later in the week who was really enthusiastic about getting my number and whatnot. Only that was Thursday and this is Tuesday and I keep forgetting where I stand on the "He's just not that into you" versus "Empowered woman who calls first" continuum.

It was a little drafty.

Halloween was a whole week ago.

Donning my ringmaster's assistant togs in my own apartment, I prepared for a party so densely packed with drunken revellers that forgoing the usual custom of pants-wearing would be, for the most part, overlooked . I did not count on the fact that the plurality of parties on the appropriated "Halloween" night (Saturday) would mean that at any one time at any given party, it might not be that crowded - especially if said party becomes one of those amorphous indoor/outdoor affairs. Thus, the sans pantalon status was duly noted.


Tonight I'm having drinks with a French rocket scientist! Details to follow if it's wretched.

It's 9PM on a Sunday night. Do you know where your "other" is?

The Saturday running group makes for lots and lots of time for small talk. Last weekend I asked this girl about her commute to UCLA (she's a PhD student in the math department) from West Hollywood. She asks where I live. I give her my pretty generic cross streets on the westside and she says, "Oh yeah, I used to live over there, too. I lived on Amherst." "Me too!" I say. "I lived at 1151." "No, way," she says, "What number?" "8" . . . . . . . . . "YOU LIVED WITH AMY!!" we shout at the same time.

Let's review:
Number of major, for real, training groups for the LA Marthon: 2
Number of members in the "LA Leggers": > 1500
Number of different pace groups: 18
Number of people in my pace group: 40

So the relevation that this person you've been running with for the last 4 months has also lived with your same old roommate, in your same old crappy apartment, who also hated that stupid parking spot between the pole and the fence is a pretty big deal. It easily took up 6 or 7 miles worth of conversation that day.

Tonight I met some friends at Davy Rothbart's (founder of FOUND magazine) promotional tour for his new book, The Lone Surfer of Montana, Kansas. I join the back of the line while I waited for them to arrive and who is way closer to the front of the line but my new doppleganger. IT WAS SO WEIRD!! But also cool. But weird too.

So anyway, I want to plug Found magazine and how awesome it is some more. The tour is on it's way to Phoenix, Dallas, Austin, and Houston, so those of you who live in those cities should definitely go. And if you don't live there, Found #4 is out - as is Dirty Found #2. Buy them. Laugh. Read aloud to your friends. Cackle. Guffaw. Be merry.

That was a close one.

Last night I came home to find a letter from UCLA in my pile of bills, credit card offers, and fan mail. A memo explained that the enclosed card was to help me be better prepared for emergencies (in the wake of Hurricane Katrina). Also, if I'm confused about my card or want more of them, I can email or call someone who can set me up with a brain transplant.

The card includes complicated, little known disaster-coping strategies such as:

1. dial 911 for emergencies

2. go to www.ucla.edu for information about UCLA




Seriously. UCLA graduate students don't need the number for 911. We'd prefer to talk the person who keeps causing midday power outages throughout the city or whoever decided that it was a good idea to charge $8 a day to park on campus.