California Summers: A Photo Essay

Yes, I'm posting pictures. Because I've finally realized just how odd it is that one as self-absorbed as I rarely engages in the obnoxious over-illustrating of her blog page.

Well, I'm turning over a new leaf. At least long enough to disburse the following pseudo-glamorous happenings in and about Southern California.

Mexico - nothin' says third world like a sombrero, a poncho and a Via Spiga bag.


Graduation - he's smart, handsome, funny . . . AND now - a master.


Sorry, I can't remember the month of July. But I DO know it involved Utah, painkillers and some much-needed (24/7) time with my BFF. Sadly (and fortunately), there are no pictures to post.

But back in California, I spent some time hanging out with wallabies (I know, I'm such a cliche).

Not to mention BOTH of my surfer boyfriends:

Bring us something good, August.

"Changing" their Oil

What couldn’t come sooner for most Gulf-coast residents (not to mention millions of sea creatures), British Petroleum today announced that the now infamous, record-breaking oil leak in the Gulf has stopped.

Whew.

While this might be an obvious relief to the world’s population and (no doubt) BP executives, it’s quite obvious to the world that this situation’s timetable was . . . less than ideal.

Well, not to play the devil’s advocate, but I’d like to take a moment to defend the oil-lords of British Petroleum and assume that the company wasn’t irresponsible, just misinformed. I’d rather suppose that while the blue-green waters of the gulf were (horrifically) polluted for nearly 90 days, BP was just under the impression that they had to “change” their oil at the same intervals as the rest of us: Three months or 5,000 miles.

Well, it’s too bad (or good?) the oil only made it 600 miles. I propose that instead of demanding reparation and responsibility, we simply advise BP to revise their oil-change stickers. After all, we don’t want to buy a new engine –er—ocean, do we?

Textual Peeves

As much as I hate to talk about me, I find it necessary to address an unignorable trend that I’ve overlooked much too long: one that exasperates me at least twice daily and sends my grammatical sensibilities absolutely raging on the rare occasion.

I am, of course, referring to text message shortcuts.

“How r u?”
“Gr8. U?
“Want 2 meet up?”
“Y? Ur hungry?”

I can’t hide the fact that it drives me absolutely haywire. And with text messaging becoming an official and accepted form of communication, this is one peeve that shows little sign of abatement.

A word to the wise:

If you use “2” in a non-numeral sense, I’ll presume you’re TOO dimwitted to know the difference between one “o” and two.

If your message contains “r,” used as a singular word, I will take after the Motion Picture Rating System and consider you restricted.

“BTW” in my mind means “bring the weapon,” and assume you are in fact asking me to kill you.

And WTF? I still consider this cursing and will forward the message to your mother.

And while we’re on the subject, “x” does not stand as its own word or make up for a “ks” sound, capish?

Thanks for your time. (Thanx 4 ur time, if translation was needed.)

Undesignated Drivers

Memorial Day motorists beware: American drivers are slacking. And as we gear up for a long weekend (let’s breathe a mutual sigh of relief), I found this CNN.com article of particular interest.

According to article, one in five American drivers can’t pass a written driving test.

At first this shocked me (and, as a self-proclaimed terrible driver, I am not easily-shocked), but the more I got to thinking about it, the more I realized, this is the perfect excuse to spend this Memorial Day doing nothing.

So, if you’re one of the elite 80 percent with the courage of your motor-skill convictions, why not let those other 20 endanger someone else this holiday weekend? After all, three free days in a row are the perfect opportunity to:

• Watch all six seasons of Lost once more in a vain attempt at comprehension.
• Write those long-overdue letters to those political leaders who have showed unsatisfactory performance (wait.. we only have three days?).
• Send that 2010 Census back (or at least answer the door this time).
• Meet your neighbors, so you don’t look like a hermit when the Census guy comes around asking about them.
• Gather your “papers” into one convenient, mobile container (this applies only to Arizonans).
• Try not to spill any oil.
• Buy a new hot tub with the money you saved on gas for the weekend.
• Quietly judge the crowds of women lined up to see yet another Sex in the City movie.
• Become enraged with the men judging the women lined up to see yet another Sex in the City movie.
• Lose a bunch of money in the stock market. Wait. . . .
• Formulate and promote a new, ill-conceived stimulus plan to sink the nation into greater debt (this is applicable only if your first name is Barrack).
• Practice driving tests online for the self-fulfillment of being among America’s (80 percent) elite.

Happy Memorials, friends.

The Language Barrier (a/k/a Fear and Loathing on the Jersey Shore)

I’ve made a point thus far to avoid talking about Jersey Shores. I’ll confess, it’s not due to any elitist attitude that excludes the mentally-repressed or the culturally-tactless. Rather, it has more to do with the general sense of unease that the MTV series invokes in me. I feel much like the scientist stumbling upon an undiscovered species: I’m intrigued. I’m fascinated. I’m curious. But I haven’t come close to understanding these beings.

The bouffant, the juice, the tans and laundry. The fist-fights and drunken benders. The blatant disregard for self-awareness. Yes, Jersey Shore has introduced us to a whole new kind of animal. And while, as a shamed watcher of The Hills, I am not unaccustomed to the mindless banter and useless existence of the vapid and venomous 20-somethings that infect LA, I am still freshly taken aback by the vermin inhabiting Seaside Heights, New Jersey.

And since Jersey Shore shows no merciful sign of collapse, I have pledged to give this minute, vacuous segment of the American populace the benefit of the doubt by assuming their despicableness is due entirely to a language barrier: I speak the vernacular American English; They speak Jersey Shore. It is in this spirit of humanity and understanding that I offer the following translations:

“We’re beatin’-up-the-beat, that’s what we say when we’re doing our fist pump. First, we start off by banging the ground, we’re banging it as the beat builds ‘cause that beat’s hittin’ us so we’re fightin’ back, it’s like we beat up that beat.”

Translation: I received poor grades in English.

“That's why I don't eat lobster or anything like that cause they're alive when you kill it.”

Translation: I’m not stupid. I’m anorexic.

“G.T.L. baby. Gym, Tanning, Laundry.”

Translation: As you'll see on my resume, I'm a productive multitasker specializing in cleanliness, illegal performance-enhancing drugs, and extreme skin pigmentation.

“I'm not trashy, unless I drink too much.”

Translation: I don’t mind being trashy, if that's what you're into.

“Everybody at the Shore definitely knows The Situation. As far as I know, everybody loves The Situation, and if you don't love The Situation, I'm gonna make you love The Situation.”

Translation: RUN.

"Your bank account can be low, but you always gotta look good — always have to get a new haircut, always gotta wear new sneakers, always gotta look fresh."

Translation: I used to work for AIG.

“Don’t fall in love at the Jersey Shore.”

Translation: Wait, finally they're speaking our language.