Archive for July, 2008

Odd Sentimentality

July 27, 2008

I am a member of the Walnut Creek Concert Band (WCCB), which is a really nice name for a group of instrumentally-challenged old folks who play really shitty music for even older folks. I always wonder why the retirement communities love our 4th of July concert so much…probably because they’re more deaf than blind, and if our band’s got one thing going for it, we all look sharp rockin’ the american flag polo. But I digress.

I’ve been a member of this heinous organization for a little over a year. And strangely, for a little over a year, my life has for some reason seemed a little gloomier than it previously had. I’m beginning to see a connection. My band director basically guilted me into playing in this band, which is understandable because I’m a doormat and I can’t say no to anything, even if saying yes tempts me to drink three gallons of bleach.

We usually play really shitty arrangements of disgusting old american tunes. Occasionally they aren’t patriotic, only shitty. Occasionally, they’re shitty arrangements of operas, or shitty arrangements that tragically destroy music that was once decent (“A Copeland Portrait?” What did you use, fingerpaint? Shit. “The Magic of Andrew Lloyd Weber?” Nice try. I can almost hear Weber projectile vomiting in his grave.) The only two constants of WCCB are these: We play shit, and we play shit really suckily. I mean this. We suck. It’s kind of like watching a person falling into a puddle and laughing, then shutting up because, in fact, the person who fell in the puddle was you. But I still laugh at us when we humiliate ourselves in public, because hey, I’m 18, and I’m kind of an ass.

We had a concert tonight. We played a bunch of shitty arrangements of operas that probably sounded nice at one point, and I don’t remember a second of it. Why? Because I was not listening, only playing along mindlessly. Why?

BECAUSE IT WAS MY LAST WCCB CONCERT EVER. That’s right. I’m going to college in a month. So naturally, I spent the duration of the hellish hour-and-a-half concert daydreaming about never having to go to WCCB ever again.

And then my dream came true.

Then, I got to hand in my folder to the music librarian, who I believe hates me with every fiber of her being.

I got to say goodbye to my stand partner, who was glad to see me go, because she’s a kindergarten teacher and talking to me during rehearsal is probably just like an extension of the work day for her.

I took a last look at the man who looks upon me as one would look upon satan or a convicted serial rapist, and all because I occasionally play Dots during rehearsal. And make fun of his bird-like qualities, but only behind his back, I swear.

Then I hugged the lead director goodbye, which was incredibly uncomfortable.

I looked around the room at all the people who will not miss me or my flute playing, either because they find me obnoxious or because they do not know I exist.

And I realized, shit, I’m really going to miss this. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I’m totally going to go to WCCB rehearsals when I am back in town during breaks. I am going to dream about WCCB. I am going to idealize it, and wish I could once again be part of such a fine organization.

Thanks brain, I really appreciate the extra gush of estrogen. As if I ever needed to be more emotional.


Almost Time

July 26, 2008

I leave for college a month from today. It’s so weird to think about…I’ll be leaving my house for good. I’ve flown to Ohio before, but this time, it’s a one-way ticket. How odd. I’m so excited, occasionally frightened, but mostly just psyched. I’m sure I’ll get homesick, but for my home, not my house. My home is going to be in fragments as well, but I have no doubt that those who matter are going to remain in my life because, well, it’s where they’re supposed to be. I can’t ever see myself calling the house if I feel homesick. It wouldn’t make any sense to me. But I’m not worried about that right now, I’m just psyched to get there and bake a Snickers cake for my hallmates. It’s really all I want to think about, for now. That and packing my winter clothes. Brr.

Oh, a lot of that was pretty confusing to read. Oh well, I don’t really have anything to complain about!


When I went to, it had two sections: a sign-up and a log-in box that said “Already hip?” That’s dumb. Oh, you don’t need to sign up for a blog, because you’re hip, so you already have one? You blogged before blogging was cool? Hip. Log-in here. Sorry, but that’s just stupid. Really. Blogging doesn’t make you hip. It makes me THINK I’m hip, but unless I’m wearing an H&M dress and leggings, I know it’s not true.

(Just kidding, H&M. I love your bras. I apologize for the slander.)

This entry is fucked up. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t blog unless I’m pissed, but I’m working tomorrow, so something should come up.

Mmm, Turkey Leg

July 23, 2008

I just got back last night from a trip to Southern California with Meliza and her family. We had a fabulous time! We left her house Sunday at 3 am and drove to Hollywood to see a taping of the Price is Right. Three hours in line was worth it, because it was basically an awesome, retro party with a bunch of really geeky strangers wearing “I LOVE DREW CAREY” t-shirts. And a few “MY DOGS AND I LOVE DREW CAREY- EVERYONE PLEASE SPAY AND NEUTER YOUR PETS IT’S THE RIGHT THING TO DO” t-shirts, because there’s really no better way to preach than from the back of a t-shirt worn on an early-morning game show. But I digress. We didn’t get called to be contestants, because apparently none of us have any personality whatsoever. But that’s okay. So, I chose to spend the hour revelling in my hatred for Drew Carey. He’s so un-funny. Worse game show host ever. Hating is one of my favorite pastimes, so I really enjoyed it.

Then, on Monday, we went to Disneyland! We got there at 8 am and didn’t leave until about 1 am…that’s like, 17 hours? My legs were unhappy with me, but I had a great time. I’d never been on a roller coaster before, so that was kinda cool. Except the reason why I’d never been on one was because I was scared shitless of them. But I went anyway, and just ended up screaming the whole time. Each scream was trying to be “FUCK!” but I never made it to the C, so they all just kind of blended into one indecipherable “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH”.

We were standing in line for some Fantasyland ride, and I decided to be all bitchy and opinionated:

“I hate when adults put those harnesses and leashes on their kids. They’re children, not dogs! It’s not right to drag a human being around on a leash, and if your kid is stupid enough to run around like an idiot and get lost, or you’re too lazy to chase them, DON’T GO TO DISNEYLAND.”

I really do hate that. It makes me mad. I felt Meliza needed to know. Then, of course, I turn around, and right next to me in the cue line is some dude dragging a kid on a leash. He looked at me and kind of laughed, then said this:

“Haha, I guess it’s only teenagers that need to be on leashes?”

I shrugged. “It’s debatable.”

Then I kept on moving, feeling kind of bad for offending him but feeling more pissed than guilty because he had his kid on a fucking leash. So. Tough love time, Lazydad.

Maybe parents have good reasons for keeping kids on leashes. Maybe it’s because the children are seriously wicked and would chew off my leg if they weren’t tethered. But unless they come up to me and explain their situation, I don’t care, I’m going to judge those parents anyway.

Meliza and I bought a turkey leg at Disneyland. Not because either of us were hungry or had a hankerin’ for turkey, but because “TURKEY LEG” was proudly displayed on the menu, and for some reason, it was hilarious. So we gnawed at the turkey leg for about an hour. This thing should have been sold to us as a Dinosaur Leg, because it was huge. We named it Phillip; it came on rides with us. And Phillip was delicious.

#1 Disease I’d Rather Not Contract At Work

July 20, 2008

I work at a vet clinic as an assistant/occasional technician. Usually, my job is working the kennels and cleaning the building. Occasionally, I get to do the interesting stuff. And that can be fun.

The downside is that there are lots of things you can contract from animals. Worms, mites, skin problems…whatever, curable. And then there’s rabies. Totally rare, though. EXCEPT…

Today, I was changing cat’s kennels. This involves picking them up off the pee-soaked newspaper and moving them into a new cage with clean newspaper. Simple, right? Unless the cat is a total bizznasty. Then you have a problem. It’s a pretty common one, too.

So, I picked up a cat to move it (its name was Kitty. I love when people are creative), when to my surprise, the little shit turned around and bit my thumb. Naturally, I threw it into the nearest kennel, swearing profusely while wiping the blood onto my scrubs. I go to check out the cat’s kennel card (where it’s name and medical issues are listed) to see why it was in the clinic in the first place. And there it was: RABIES QUARANTINE.


Right? Yeah.

So I dragged my boss over. Our conversation was pretty one-sided:


I get to swear at work. It’s basically the only perk of working there, unless you’re into minimum wage cleaning gigs. He replies:

“Oh, you’re toast.”

Then he laughed at me, and pulled the cat’s file. He showed me proof that it had been vaccinated.

“Just kidding. You aren’t going to die, at least not from rabies.”

Then there was some relief swearing, and the conversation ended.

Apparently, it was there for “rabies quarantine” because it bit a dude that was stupidly trying to pick it up, and that dude automatically suspected rabies. Way to go. Psh, vaccines be damned. The cat’s a biter, must be rabid. Take it in to the backyard and shoot it, that’s what we did in the old days, and we never had a problem.

So, long story short, I don’t have rabies. And I get to wear Hannah Montana band-aids on my finger. Happy ending.

HGTV is wrong.

July 19, 2008

I have an irrational hatred for HGTV. Mostly just the design shows. My mom watches them almost nonstop, so I’ve seen my fair share. They’re all the same. They’ve all got the couple, mid-thirties, looking for that perfect home to complete their perfect life together. They’ve all got the designers, trying so hard to out-funny all the other designers by monkeying around in front of the camera. They’ve all got the same fake reaction in the end:

1. Mouth gaping; look around.

2. Hands over mouth.


But this isn’t my problem with design shows. My problem is the content. I watch people so desperately trying to create the perfect space for themselves- no, they aren’t even doing the creating. They’re desperate to have the perfect space created for them. Why? All I see when I watch these shows are people unhappy with their lives who try to fix it with furniture. I can see what’s going on in these people’s heads. “If I find the perfect chair to match my living room, it will make the room beautiful, which will subsequently fill my life with unrelenting joy and happiness.”

A new coat of paint won’t fix a broken household, a broken family, or a broken life. The perfect chair will not bring you happiness, because eventually, the chair will become dirty and you’ll cease to see the beauty in it. Then you’ll need another perfect chair to replace your shitty old perfect chair. Or, weeks into perfect chair ownership, you’ll realize that your chair isn’t the perfect chair, because the REAL perfect chair is sitting on display in the Pier 1 across town.

Isn’t a beautiful, happy life what everyone really wants? Do they think finding the perfect window treatment is going to make their home beautiful? I believe that people bring beauty to the home; it’s the way you live, the experiences, the memories. I don’t remember the texture of the couch I sat on during a heart-to-heart with my best friend. I don’t remember the color or material of the counter tops on which I sliced onions while cooking for my boyfriend at midnight. And I don’t give a shit. I could have been cutting onions on the ugliest rubber ducky-patterned Formica, and it wouldn’t have changed a thing.

My point is, I suppose, that a house with perfect furniture and the perfect design is still just a house. Stellar design doesn’t make it a home- you do. I think it’s important for a home to reflect the way you live, but you can’t see the beauty unless you actually live it.

HGTV doesn’t care about my opinions. They shouldn’t. They’re making good money selling crap to people, and I applaud that. But I still have the unrelenting desire to shove my opinions down their throats.

Since that’s hard to do, I’ll just shove my opinion down YOUR throat. I feel better already.

God, I love the internet.