Enganging News

My little brother, the kid I used to pick on in the back seat of my parents' car on those painfully long, crosscountry drives from Minnesota to Disney World... just got engaged. Honestly!

I watched him blossom over the years from:

...the slightly awkward elementary school kid with a little bit of a strange tick and a sticky, orange koolaid moustache.


...to the pretty cool middle school kid, who started a trend of wearing a sticker in the middle of one's forehead and later scored the much-coveted student PA announcer position.


...to the coolest kid in a high school ska band who wore really funky, obscure T-shirts.


...to a college student, government-questioning, all around liberal, know-it-all activist.


Now, he's getting married.
To reiterate, this guy...

...found someone who wants to marry him.

It makes sense when you meet her.


Congratulations to them both!

License to Be an Idiot

Monday morning, I woke up bright and early to run a special errand. The DMV had sent me a postcard declaring that my personalized license plates had arrived and awaited my pick up! Rather than wait a whole week for an appointment time, I decided to just get there early to beat the crowds. So, there I was, standing in the DMV parking lot at the crack of dawn with my screwdriver, removing my old license plate. When they opened the doors, I was close to the front of the line, still rubbing the sleep out of my puffy eyes.

By 8:35am, I was back out in the parking lot with my new SPR BERT license plates in hand! I carefully applied the JUN sticker and the 2005 sticker. All lined up and ready to be screwed on! But wait... somewhere between the door and my car, I lost one of the screws! Since I only had a rear license plate before, that left me with only one screw. Drat! I decided to put the license plate in the back window, like a law abiding citizen, and drive home to get another screw.

I got in my car, slapped the license plate up in the back window, and watched in horror as it slid down into the depths of the interior of my car... far beyond my reach. Frantically, I opened the trunk and stared at where I assumed it was... trapped between the two halves of my car, beyond the metal inner workings of my rear automatic window mechanism. I closed the trunk. I stood there some more with my hands on my hips... looking pensive and purposeful. I opened the trunk again. Nope. I closed the trunk.

I decided to drive home to get a better look at it without people driving by and asking me if they could take my parking spot every three minutes. Once I was home, I let myself into the house and rummaged through the kitchen utensil drawer, from which I pulled out some long salad tongs... just in case.

Back outside, I put the back window down and was disappointed to find out that the space it left was only a few millimeters wide. So much for salad tongs. I resorted to plan B and began removing all of the seemingly unrelated screws in the interior of my car. When I had many of them in my car's ashtray and not a single interior panel would budge, I gave up and called the nearest Honda dealership. They said to bring it in.

Good gravy. So, I went to Honda. The guy there took one look at it and said it would take all day and cost hundreds of dollars in labor. Crap. I stared dejectedly at the salad tongs on my passenger seat. But then he leaned in closer and said in a low voice, I'll tell you what... there's an upholstery place across the street. They'll likely do it right away and much cheaper. Ask for Wally. Tell him Juan sent you. And come back and we'll install the plates when you get it out of there. And then he was gone. I'm a sucker for intrigue, so I went to see Wally.

Wally was no help at all. He poked around the back window a bit, shook his head, and said it would take at least an hour... at $75 a pop. He suggested that perhaps another license plate would be cheaper. I had no intention of going back to the DMV to explain my ineptitude, so I just stood there. He stood there. We stood there together. Both looking at my car and shaking our heads. He leaned over a bit and tried to pop off one of the inside panels. Tsk tsk, he shook his head again.

Just about then, one of Wally's technicians came by. I never got his name, but he was very helpful. He saw us standing there, shaking our heads and inquired about the problem. Wally, who was reticent to get involved, explained. The technician pulled out a tiny crow bar and a little flashlight. He pried the back interior panel of my car away from the automatic window. Mmmmm... he said. Wally went back to his office and closed the door, satisfied that it was no longer his problem. The technician walked away too... I stood there wondering what to do. I put my hand in the small opening the technician had created by the window. NO! he yelled from across the garage. His thick Russian accent made him sound very scary... like a villan from an old B-movie. I jumped back and put my hands in my pockets.

He soon returned with a much larger crowbar and a little winchy magnety thing. He pried the back window again and stuck the winchy magnety thing in the space he had provided. And the moment of truth... he fished my license plate right out! Yea! When I asked how much I owed for his labor, he shook his head and waved me away. Hooray for nice people.

Now, to get them installed. I crossed the street again and found the same Honda service man. He assigned some teenage kid to 'install' my license plates for me. I said I just needed the screws, but he insisted on doing it for me. So, I stood there like some dumb girl while a teenager 'installed' my license plate for me.

When he asked the other guy standing nearby to go get him a screwdriver, I did get to reach into my pocket and hand him mine... which surprised him. I think that made me look a little cooler, anyway.

Mouths of Babes

I know this 7 year old kid who is obsessed with war and violence. At first, I blamed his parents for not supervising him well enough. Then, I blamed the video games he plays for making drive-by shootings the object of the game. Next, I blamed the media for teaching boys that agression is the only emotion that it's okay to have.

Upon thinking about it more, I've decided that it doesn't matter where he gets it because I'm certainly not likely to change the circumstances of his life. Today, though... he said something interesting. It went like this.

Kid: I love guns!
Me: You love guns?
Kid: Yeah! I make them out of everything!
Me: What do you love about them?
Kid: Well, you can shoot people!
Me: Why would you want to do that?
Kid: You know... like a war or something. Like in Iraq!
Me: So you want to shoot people in a war in Iraq?
Kid: It's safest to be in the Navy because if you're on a boat, no one can shoot you on the land!
Me: So, the Navy is safest?
Kid: Yeah. Not like the Marines. You know all those dead people on the beach in World War II? They were Marines.
Me: Ah. I see.
Kid: I want to start my own army!
Me: What would you do with your army?
Kid: Ask people to sign up!
Me: And then what?
Kid: I'd say, "Sign up or I'll kill you!" Like a threat.
Me: Uh-huh. Then once all those people were signed up, what would your army do?
Kid: Oh... (thinks hard) We'd go to the sand dunes and hide and shoot guys!
Me: So you would hide and shoot people?
Kid: Yeah! I would shoot the guy!
Me: What if he shot you?
Kid: He wouldn't see me, so he couldn't shoot me!
Me: Oh, I wonder how that guy's mom would feel if you shot him.
Kid: What?
Me: The guy you want to shoot... I wonder how his mom would feel when she found out he was dead.
Kid: Huh? (long pause) Oh, she wouldn't know.
Me: She wouldn't miss him?
Kid: No. No one would know.
Me: So, no one would miss him or know that he was dead?
Kid: No way! No one knows what happens in a war!

sigh

Straight out of the mouth of the most violence-smitten kid I know. "No one knows what happens in a war." He might as well have said, "The media is skewed and the government is censoring the news."

He might be obsessed with guns, but he's a smart cookie.

Melancholy Poster Girl

Something that always makes me feel a little sad are those faded hairdo posters hanging in the windows of small, neighborhood barbershops. Some woman from the 80s with her feathered 'do is smiling and tossing her well-coifed head, but you can't tell what color her hair used to be because 20 years in a south-facing window has drained her of any human color. Now, she's a weird combination of unnatural pastels and weak accents where shadows used to be. Her teeth are often nearly invisible.

And, second only to the faded hairdo poster is the faded beer poster in the window of the corner quickie-mart. Equally as sad, but in an appeal to a wider target demographic.

Different Paths

Today in Golden Gate Park, I ran into a friend of mine. She is recently married, and she and her husband were going to a barbeque together. In the process of catching up after not seeing each other for months, I learned that she and Hubbie just put in an offer on a house in the foothills of the Sierras. It's on three acres of land. They're both doctors and starting out on their burgeoning career paths together.

Then, while procrastinating in my mad-dash, last-minute paper-writing this evening, I got nostalgic for my other friends whom I haven't seen in ages. I emailed a friend who will be moving to Vienna this summer to join her beau. And then there's yet another friend getting married in France this summer (and likely moving there soon, I'm sure). This isn't even taking into account my friends whose lives are changing due to tiny new members joining them in their journeys.

Every one of my friends seems to have bigger and better and... well, exciting places to go, these days. Whether it's Swaziland or Babyland, things are changing fast. It works for me, though... because now I have a free place to stay in all of these new locals! Minus Babyland, of course... it's too loud to sleep there, and you end up with puke on your shirt... Hey, that also sounds like Amsterdam!

Bootylicious

Forgive me as I have a little rant about something dear to my heart. The female behind is a lovely thing to behold. There, I've said it.

Furthermore, I don't understand the media's fascination with tits. Mammaries are mostly fat... in a culture that abhors the substance, it doesn't make any sense that we practically worship large breasts.

Don't get me wrong. Women with huge knockers are lovely, as well. I just don't see why we cherish them over the booty.

So, I was watching this VH1 thing... yes, yes. Bored on a Friday night. It was a show about VH1's Top 10 Most Wanted Bodies. This is what my social life has come to. Anyway, one of the people in the top 10 was Cameron Diaz. I was puzzled because, although she is lovely in a Beach Boys, pop American culture kind of way, I don't find her body to be that striking. But, what really bothered me about this, was the show's spin on why she made the great body countdown. The announcer said something to the matter of although she's a toned, hard-bodied, California girl, Cameron Diaz lacks something... two things to be exact. The camera zoomed in on her breasts and circled area. Granted, they are slightly smaller than your average startlet's, but they are nothing to sneeze at. The worst part is, because of her lack of jugs, the VH1 announcer went on to say that she uses her other assets. The camera zoomed in on her rear end. Thing is... Cameron Diaz has a boy body. She is pretty, but she does not have back.


Cameron Diaz
Does this look bootylicious to you?

Further down the countdown was Beyonce. Now she's got back!

Bootylicious
She sang the song... and for good reason.

But something that disturbed me further when I was searching for a Beyonce booty photo to put here, was that there weren't many that weren't cropped. In many of the photos, Beyonce, who is obviously proud of her round and wonderful rear, has her back to the camera, looking over her shoulder. However, the media has cropped these photos at her lower back! No doubt thinking her huge ass is unflattering to her starlet image.


Where's the booty?
Well, I'm no Beyonce, but my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, if you know what I mean. More power to the girls with back. Contrary to the media hype, men (and ladies alike) love our behinds.


Baby Got Back

Spring is on a Mission

During my dinner break from school this evening, I wandered over to Walgreens. As I traversed the gum-stained, trash-laden sidewalks of the Mission District, I noticed an incongruent smell wafting about. Not the usual fried food or feces or bus exhaust.

The little white flowers on all of the trees have started blooming in San Francisco this past week. In fact, all of the flowers in the city seem to be blooming right now. At night, the fragrance of flowers is everywhere... even as the crack whores and pimps and gang members mill about the corner.

It made me smile that something so lovely was overpowering something so depressing. It smelled like hope.

M-I-C... See Ya Real Soon!

K-E-Y... Why? Because we like you. M-O-U-S-E.

I love mice. Fuzzy and cute. With twitchy, pink noses and sweet, little tiny hands that shove food into their adorable, bulging cheeks.

I do not love mice in my house. Mostly because it generally involves rendering their sweet, little tiny hands and adorable, bulging cheeks cold and lifeless and, in this case, flat.

My roommate and I had those squish-them-as-they-come-in-for-the-bait traps out from the last time we had mice. I believe it was last summer. Today, I noticed a rather rank smell coming from the back storage area. I was filled with dread as I leaned over a bit to check the old traps. All three were tripped. Two of them had little tails hanging out of them.

shudder

Being a stellar roommate, I promptly packed up my dinner and headed of to class. I called my roommate while I was in my car, safely away from the stench, to tell her about my findings. I left a voicemail. She did not call back.

When I got home from class today at 10:00pm, the traps were where I had left them... with little tails still protruding. I took a deep breath and remembered that this is what it means to be single and 30 years old. I always get to eat the last cookie, I always get to be in charge of the remote control, and I always have to clean out my own mouse traps. D'oh!

I donned some latex gloves and shook the traps until the cold, lifeless, flat mice came out. One was really stuck in there.

gag

Then, I went to work resetting the traps. Keep in mind, I don't even kill ants. I step gingerly over their organized, little trains and sometimes stop to watch them travel. I take even the most offensive spiders out of my friends' houses in tupperwear bowls and set them free (much to the chagrin of many of my friends, who then think they have to throw said tupperwear bowl away, as the spider cooties could never be fully cleaned from its surface).

So, there I was, setting traps to flatten more of god's cutest creatures. The thing is, I had no idea how to set the traps because my lovely and generous roommate did it last time. The directions on the plastic exterior said to pull the lever down until it locked. I tried this several times to no avail. When I finally did get it to lock, I had no idea how to get the peanut I was using as bait onto the little platform. I tried dropping it in, but that triggered the trap mechanism, and I ended up launching the peanut at my forehead at about 20 mph. Who knew a peanut could hurt so much? After crawling around looking for the lost peanut for some time, I gave up and used a different one. This time, I placed it gently with a plastic spoon. Success!

I, then, repeated the process with each trap, packed up all of the loose food items around the kitchen, and washed my hands until they bled.

After a calm and relaxing evening at home, I'm now off to bed to dream of mooshed mice and projectile peanuts.

Under the Mosquito Net

I've just started a new blog to tell different stories than the random musings I write here.

All of this going through my Peace Corps photos has made me nostalgic. I have plenty of memories to tell and figured I should have a more organized venue for doing it. If you're interested in reading about huge bugs, peeing on oneself by accident, and intercultural weirdness, check out Under the Mosquito Net.