That's Almost 25 and That's Almost My Mid-Twenties

I've been thinking. But a few years ago, I used to live in Allston across from condemned houses, sharing an apartment with four other people that would make any Real World household pale in a diversity comparison. I wore felt clogs, (men's) thrift store clothing, had my roommate cut my hair with blunt scissors at midnight, and drove a rusty Subaru. I owned one tube of mascara, no tubes of lipstick and ate some form of cheese, bread, or pasta for 85% of my meals. To be fair, this last part hasn't changed much, but as I approach my 25th birthday (February 17th for all you eager shoppers), I've been taking stock of some of the ch-ch-ch-changes that have transpired over the past few years.

1) Except for some underwear that I've been begged to part with, most of my clothes are hole-free and were bought new, by me, worn only by me.

2.) I now have an entire (small) drawer of makeup. I don't really wear most of it unless I happen to wake up more than 15 minutes before it's time to leave, but it just makes me feel like such a girl to open that drawer and see all those blushes and brushes and glosses. Sometimes I just stand and stare.

3.) I own designer denim. Anyone who has taken the first bite of this forbidden and delicious fruit knows what a slippery slope this is. Don't get me going on this or I will never stop.

4.) I pay attention to cleaning product commercials. Especially dusting products. I love dusting products.

5.) I read the Wall Street Journal.

6.) I live in Pacific Heights. Before this I lived in Beacon Hill. The word "preppy"? A staggering understatement.

7.) Layers, lowlights, highlights. I'm not even sure what my real hair looks like anymore.

8.) I wear sunscreen.

9.) Sometimes I make porkchops. Yesterday I bought a whole chicken.

10.) And finally, but most significantly. Today I co-signed (with a heterosexual boy) for a new (new) Volkswagen. Granted, it's a GTI and superfast and two-door and tiny, but I'm a little worried for when my Yankee family finds out that it has...heated leather seats?! A moonroof?! A navigation system?! Just throw in a yappy accessory dog and some Marc sunglasses and the transformation is complete.

But. My dream date is still Peter Parker, I eat Toaster Strudels for breakfast, and use 30 nickels to ride the bus. Which I'm about to sprint to in $12 cowboy boots. Not all is lost.

Bye Bye Beddy

I can't figure how people functioned before Craigslist. Clearly, I remember the days before its existence, but these weren't the days when I was looking for apartments, jobs, subletters, or missed connections. (Shush. You know you look, too.) If I had to find any of these things without CL's help I'm just not sure how I'd succeed. Flyers? Door to door inquiries? Telegrams? Without CL, I would never have sold my bed the way I just did. Here's how it went down.

I'm moving tomorrow and need my bed gone yesterday. I'm sort of sad to see it go since I definitely dig it, but convenience first, my friends. The thought of taking it apart, walking it down all my stairs, strapping it to the roof...on and on and on? Nope. So I posted on CL, naming an insane price if someone picked it up tomorrow. Immediately my inbox started to flood. But one especially caught my eye.

I'M IN LOVE WITH YOUR BED. I WANT IT. ASAP.

Now, I'd have been frightened by this if it weren't signed LOVE ANDREW AND JOEY and I didn't live in West Hollywood, a predominantly gay neighborhood. Call me crazy, but I was pretty sure these guys weren't coming over to jump me. I wrote back asking if they had some help and a truck.

YES. WE WILL COME OVER RIGHT NOW.

My roommate and I looked at the clock (1:05 am) and then at each other and shrugged. I wrote back and told him to head over.

OH MY GOD. WE'RE ON OUR WAY. THANK YOU SO SO MUCH. I LOVE YOU AMY.

This was gonna be good.

Two gay boys cruise into my garage, and immediately hand me their baby chihuahua. My roommate and I sit on the floor and start to take pictures of us playing with the puppy; we put him in our sweatshirts and under our blankets and let him bite our hands while we make frightening giggly squeals. All while our new friends (who paid me largely with quarters) stomp up and down our stairs with my dissembled bed. By the time they leave ("Lock your doors, ladies! If I weren't gay, I'd be in your pants"), it's 2 am; we know their gritty relationship details, we want a chihuahua, and I'm one step closer to SF.

I just don't think this would have gone down with a newspaper ad.

Headed for the Frisco Bay

Good morning, faithful readers.

It may appear that I've up and disappeared on you, but I'm simply on a blogging sabbatical while I wrap up my internship, search for a new job, drink eggnog and gingerbread lattes, drop my jaw at Britney's underwear-free antics, and pack up my room for my move to San Francisco. Yes, Blue Jean Amy LA Lady will no longer be come Friday. So speaking of which, I guess I need to change my name. Any suggestions? Something about...flowers in my hair? Heading for the Frisco Bay? Leaving my heart behind? I'm stumped. Please help. Thank you.

He Do Voodoo

It's a shame my internship at the magazine is coming to an end; I am really gonna miss the spooky people I get to meet on a daily basis. For example:

Today, my editor invited me to her meeting with a fellow pedaling his magical oil wares. Son of a Voodoo priestess who "inherited the spiritual gifts" of his family, this guy has created a line of oils and sprays that correspond to the needs of your aura. I mean, finally!

In the beginning, I kept my hand over my mouth and my eyes down to stop laughing while he chanted and told me his soul didn't need a glass of water when I offered one. In the middle, when he was diagnosing my health problems ("You know what asthma really is, right? The symptom of an oppressed childhood" and "Your jaw's aura is sending out dangerous sparks") I wasn't smiling no more. And by the end, when he was watching my every move ("Oh oh see! You wanted to take a breath right there, but the affluvia wasn't letting you - so you cleared your throat instead") I wanted him dead.

Fortunately, he had a happy little mohawked, European sidekick who gave me a cute, overly priced tshirt "celebrating my skin color" ("peachy" apparently) to make amends. And free stuff, like a rock to scissors, trumps spooky any day.

FedEX

She's free, people, she's free! Not from parking lot hypodermic needles in her bare foot or an addiction to fake cheese products or scrunchies and banana clips or a sister that's a wee bit cuter than she or two very tiny babies looking to her for normal booster seat usage, but from Kevin Federline, the world's most vom-inducing gold digger.

People often question my undying support for Brit, and some of it really can't be explained; it's just this unique chemistry we share. I can't articulate the reasons behind our love, in the same way I can't articulate my love for Ryan Seacrest, Jerry Orbach, or Donny Osmond.

And so her emancipation from The Fed has made today somewhat of a holiday for me. I urge you to grab a Frappucino and feel the love, too.

Your Waffle, Madame

There's something about room service meals that taste 10 to 15 times better than any food made by me (well, clearly) or even food from a get-there-yourself restaurant. It feels almost dirty to sit there in your bathrobe, surrounded by copious amounts of pillows, panning the menu, when you know you could be using this time to put on clothes and procure food like a normal human being, hunting or fishing or gathering or Carl's Jr-ing. But I just can't do it. If the menu's there, it's gonna get used.

My shame deepens when the room service dude arrives, The View
blaring in the background, and me tripping over my bathrobe strings to kick my stuff out of the way so he can place my tray down, theatrically removing the silver cover to reveal a waffle, a huge bowl of whipped cream, and orange juice in a delicate little glass. "Your waffle and orange juice, ma'am." Um. Please don't announce my food choices. I'd rather we just pretend this didn't happen. I'd rather not be reminded that I just spent $28 on a waffle and will soon leave my underwear on the ground for others to pick up while I drive away and read Nickle and Dimed during my lunch break. But wait - shhh - Rosie's making fun of Elisabeth and my whipped cream is losing those little peaks. Gotta jet.

Spoiler: Don't Read If You Haven't Read Harry Potter Numero 6

This isn't so much a full post - my computer is missing in action - as a quick question: What's the deal with Snape in #6?! I don't think this was what J.K. had in mind, but I was more upset with his backstabbing than Dumbledore's death.

So I'd appreciate any and all comments regarding this pressing, timely issue: Is Snape really bad? Thanks.

(You too, Anonymous. Golly, I almost forgot you!)

Make It Work

Most people at the magazine wouldn't stoop to watch a PBS special let alone reality television, so I just need to get this out of my system:

Who's gonna win Project Runway tonight?

If you had asked me a few weeks ago, I would have said Michael all the way. His designs are fresh and bright and sassy and he knows how to fit clothes for curves. I also think he's got some serious star quality. There's that gold tooth (although now he has braces - wha?) and can pull off an all white outfit without looking ridiculous. I also like how he talks about his Mama. But. He started drinking some crazy juice right around the time he made that "sensual, sexy" purple dress and it's all been a world of no from there. I fear that all has been lost.

Uli has shown some promise in recent weeks but lawd, she bores me, and her fabric choices are no good. (Paisley? Tie dye? Stop.) I'm sure she's a lovely person, but I don't want her to win and I don't really want to hear her talk anymore.

Laura's craftsmanship is impeccable and I'd definitely wear some of her pieces (to a Cotillion) but she's gotta jazz it up or she'll lose me. Serious golf clap to her, though, for juggling 5 kids and one in the oven while pulling together a full line. I also applaud a good tattle tale.

Which leads us to...Jeffrey. Man, did I spend some serious time hating on him and his fugly, fugly neck tattoo. (Which I recently softened up on when I realized was his son's name. Still.) But suddenly he's gone from an evil goblin designing heinous outfits with leather straps and buckles and other nonsense to a friendly father making soft jersey halter dresses with colorful stripes? Wha happened? It might just be her hormones, but Laura definitely had just cause for accusing him of using extra help. His amazing line (sadly, my current favorite) just doesn't make any sense. I guarantee he won't get kicked off, though. That trailer showing him crying is just playing with our lil' fashionista hearts.

Okay. Whew. I feel better. Even if you don't usually watch this show, friends, I highly recommend tuning in tonight for the finale. Make it work, guys, make it work.

A Jack of All Trades

I fully admit to being the dangerous combination of theater nerd meets "Days of Our Lives" addict. Which made my Saturday night somewhat heavenly and delicious. When I told my brother about it over the phone, trying to sound nonchalant in front of my roommate, he said, "Excuse me...?! I don't understand why you're not laughing manically and couch jumping right now." Quickly escaping behind closed doors, I did just that.

Enough of the build-up. I realize this will only be exciting for my fellow "Days" fans (and I know you're out there), but Saturday night I went to see the show Urinetown (the musical for people who hate musicals but really it's for everyone, because who doesn't love songs about pee?) and the Narrator was played by...Jack Devereaux! As in Jennifer's husband, Patch's brother, Abby's father, almost-as-good-as-John-Black-at-making-a-furrowed-brow, Jack Devereaux! Wha-bam ka-chow! He would probably like for me to call him "Matthew Ashford" since that is his chosen, real-person name, but sorry friend - you'll always be JD to me.

So...seriously. Who knew this was the reason he keeps asking to be killed off? He's secretly doing regional theater, busting a gut dancing jazz squares and singing his lil' heart out before crawling back to Salem when the money runs out. I mean this guy seriously gave it his all - and he was pretty damn good. The whole thing reminded me of my break-out performance in kindergarten when I sang the "Sesame Street" theme song in front of the whole school, and I told my mom I wished I were a boy because I wanted to dress like Ernie, and she said I could wear a striped shirt even if I were a girl and I said...okay. Man, did I belt that number out.

Yup. It was just like that. Minus the fact that Bo Brady was not in the audience to cheer on his buddy, it was a pretty perfect night for me. Don't be jealous.

Solid Goldie

I've been in LA a couple months now and have yet to have a legit celebrity sighting. I used to think Britney was around every corner, ready to drop her Frappucino on my foot, but those days are gone. I still scan the crowd for a familiar face, but at this point it's just more of a casual habit. I thought I was doomed to seeing only D-list stars and I'd started to accept it.

That is, until Sunday night when my boyfriend and I were stuck in traffic, trying to get out of Hollywood. The streets were jammed because of a concert at the Hollywood Bowl; Pink Floyd was playing and people wanted in. As we sat amongst the stoners, bumper-to-bumper, my bf looked to his left, at the car facing opposite us. "Hello, Goldie," he said, kidding. I swung my head to the left and leaned over. He didn't realize it, but the blonde, lippy chick staring forward really was Goldie Hawn, and you know who was sitting next to her? Good ol' Captain Ron (or Kurt Russell, but he prefers I call him Cap'n), cute little horn-rimmed glasses and all. Before we could soak them in any longer, they drove away in their big, gold Mercedes, off to the dark side of the moon.

Columbus Would Be Sad

I can't believe there's no such thing as Columbus Day out here. When I asked my work friends what they were planning for their day off, they gave me the same look I got when I first moved out here and asked where I could walk (no!) to get some good sushi or called the freeway "405" instead of "the 405." My work friends repeated "Columbus Day" a couple times, letting the crazy and foreign words play upon their tongues.

How can the otherwise sunny state of California drop this little raincloud over me? I've been planning my day off for the past month, hemming and hawing over whether I'll watch "Matlock" or "Magnum P.I." come 2:00, whether I'll eat a grilled cheese or a milkshake for lunch, whether I'll take a nap or do a little thrift store shopping in the late afternoon. But Abracadabra - the dream is gone and I'll be plugging away at my computer while you light-hearted East Coasters are watching The Hallmark Channel in my place. Next thing I know they'll be telling me I don't get Patriot's Day off.

Nah.

Oreoh!

I've discovered a new food product that everyone needs to try: Oreo Thin Crisps. In the words of everyone's favorite television personality Rachael Ray: "Yum-o." (Has anyone seen her new show? Is she just shotgunning Cocaine to maintain that level of insanity?) Don't be put off by its somewhat oxymoronic name, my friends; what's inside is delicious.

I think the point behind the marketing of these packets is their "100 Calorie" goodness, but I couldn't care less about that. Although, I must admit I do enjoy anything that comes in cute little bags I can grab and run/drive with. I wish everything edible came in a grab bag: pizzas, hamburgers, spaghetti. Anywho. It's the little bites inside that really matter. At first glance, they look like crackers, and have sprinkes on top that look like salt but - gasp - the "crackers" are actually chocolatey cookies (kinda like Teddy Grahams, but lighter and crunchier) and the sprinkles are actually sugar. De-lish.

To reach maximum enjoyment, I recommend placing the sugary part on your tongue and letting it sit for a bit, before washing it all down with 1% milk. But maybe that's just me. I also eat Junior Mints by splitting each one apart vertically, before eating each half separately. So - proceed with caution. But either way, I think you'll dig 'em.

The Sophisticated Nose Knows

The last time I took the magazine up on an offer to do something "fun" outside the office it resulted in that horrid French/Indian/Hugging debacle with my roommate. I've been reluctant to accept anything since, but my boss had an invite to this product promotion at The Hotel Bel-Air and I figured why not? It'd be worth it if only to see where the Fresh Prince did his thing.

When we stumbled our way onto the (gorgeous) grounds, this crazy hotel manager chick found us and led us to the right room. Along the way, she would periodically stop, stare at us, and squeal: "Look at how much you love it here!" Excuse me? I was walking silently, looking at the flowers, and smiling a small, little Mona Lisa smile. But apparently, I was bouncing off the ceiling. Okey doke.

She finally let us go, and we walked into this (gorgeous) room leading out to a courtyard. There was a fire going and champagne on the table and bottles of perfume everywhere. Romantic? Creepy? I wasn't sure.

The two chicks who run the company were super chatty/perky, running around grabbing bottles and spouting iterations of the word "luxurious" at roughly 85 times per minute. Their luxury logic, though, tended to create contradictory statements. For example. First, they talked about vanilla and how usually it's a cheap, one-note fragrance, created for the untrained nose. But they solved all that by adding "hints" of magnolia blossom and citrus because the urbane nose appreciates a multi-toned scent. On the other hand, their lavender scent is "medicinal" and "pure", not "cluttered with any superfluous falsities" (I sort of made that up, but you get the idea). In other words, the educated sniffer turns up his nose (ha) at both simple and complex smells. Makes sense, makes sense (scents?).

I had to work hard to keep my eyebrows down, but was pleasantly surprised when - after promising them we'd feature their stuff in two of our issues - they gave us each a big bottle of our favorite scent (I picked Orange Blossom, one of those single-note things or complex ones or - whateva it's delicious) and a bag full of smaller bottles. I've already set them up in my apartment, letting the crazy reed sticks diffuse the Orange Blossom-ness into the air. And you know what? Whabam. My room suddenly smells, well, luxurious.

The Real Ladies of Layering

I've been feeling annoyed with Marc Jacobs these days. Taking all this credit for hip, "new" layering - dresses over pants, shorts over tights - that clearly was discovered long ago by some of the most important ladies in fashion: Punky Brewster and Clarissa Darling. That's right, my friends. These chicks had this technique down to a science long before it made the fashion runway.

Punky rocked vest over short tee-shirt over long tee-shirt over jeans (bandana around one leg, of course) while Clarissa sported overall shorts over patterned tights, some sort of shrug, and a pair of Doc Martens to finish it all off. They were fashion pioneers and I worshipped every belt, knee sock, and cardigan they somehow fit together. Can they please get a little credit? And, for that matter, can I?

The looks I fashioned together in 5th grade were nothing short of spectacular. Let me tell you about my favorite one. It started with a long tee-shirt - complete with Earth Day theme - worn on top of white shorts folded two times each side, worn over capri-style, royal blue tights with detailed lace around the ankles. I liked to finish it all off with black ballet flats (still rockin' 'em today) and a long necklace, made of little, clay Earths. Hot, right? Yesterday I wore a tank top over a tee-shirt and the day before that, a dress over jeans, but I'd like Marc to know this is nothing new. I will never give credit to any modern-day movement for these choices. And now, neither should you.

Up in the Air

Flying: I don't like it. I put up with it, because I'd never get anywhere and because I'd still be stuck in India if I didn't, but it's a legit phobia of mine. I immeditately fall into this state of intense awareness, where I notice every minute dip, every subtle noise; I honestly feel that if I notice something wrong happening then I'll be able to do something about it. I find it very difficult to believe they could handle the problem without me.

My dad - a mechanical engineer, mind you - once told me that flying kind of freaks him out, too, and really, there's no exact explanation for what keeps that huge thing off the ground. Oh, okay. So, that's now my mantra as we take off. "There's no reason this is staying in the air, there's no reason this is staying in the air..." etc. etc. I usually combine this with a montage of movie and tv scenes depicting plane crashes and I'm good to go.

It doesn't help that I'm always seated next to a ridiculous person. I've been flying quite a bit lately and I'm starting to think someone is playing a joke on me. Two weeks ago I sat next to a man who cried the whole time. Cried. He wasn't sobbing, exactly, but there was a steady stream of tears and lots of sniffling. Fun. Then, last night, my seating partners were a Chinese woman and her husband who did not speak English, but somehow, with a complicated dance of nods and finger wagging, assured the clueless flight attendant they could operate the emergency exit. I quickly added pushing them out of my way into my montage. As soon as the engines started, the woman covered her nose and mouth with both hands, and began to sing opera. Opera. I turned and faced her, fixing her with my best angry/judgmental/crazy woman stare, but she didn't budge. In fact, she just got louder. I eventually gave up and continued my vigilant watch until we landed.

I'm sure there's some sort of book or pill that could help me with this problem, so anyone who has any tips or prescriptions I would greatly welcome the donation. I've got a lot of places to go.

Foxy, Roxy...Simpson?

Man. At moments like this, it really sucks that I can't teleport to wherever I want to go. Okay, that always sucks. But... Ashlee Simpson in a professional theatrical production? If I were in London (which damn, I just was), I'd hightail it to the West End and gawk at Chicago ASAP. How did this possibly come about? I know that last year there were rumors about Britney making an appearance in Sweet Charity, but that girl can dance if nothing else. Ashlee, on the other hand, has no redeeming performance qualities. I approve of her new nose, and am impressed by the Olympic stylistic team that reworked her into the hotter Simpson, but no matter what they do to the outer package, she will never, ever be a Broadway star.

I don't think.

Just Call Me PicassNo

I'm sitting here watching Miami Ink, that reality show on TLC about tattoo artists and their clients, and I simply cannot imagine what it takes to be able to do that. Not getting the tattoo - I won't do it, but can picture why you would - but drawing it.

I can't draw. I mean - really. My friend Caroline told me the same thing at our sophomore year art class, before she promptly whipped out her pencil, drew this perfect representation of her hand, looked at me, and said: "See? I told you I can't draw." Shut up.

This has happened many times since. People claim they can't draw, and okay, maybe they're no Picasso, but they can draw a horse and make it look like a horse. Me? I draw a horse and it looks like a hot dog. Actually, everything I draw sort of looks like a hot dog, and sometimes a peanut. Maybe I'm just hungry? When I was little, I used to ask my mom what I should draw and - I swear to God - she'd always answer: "A sailboat." I was infuriated, because I couldn't draw a sailboat, and why couldn't she ever come up with something else? I quickly realized, though, that the problem did not lie in her lack of brainstorming capabilities, but with me, myself, and I. People try to give me little tips, thinking they'll be the ones to crack the code, but nope; there's nothing to be done.

I've accepted this means certain professions are closed to me. Namely, anything that requires me to stand before people and try to get across a message pictorially. Art teacher, teacher in general, Win, Lose, or Draw contestant. I used to get kind of depressed about this, but I'm slowly geting used to it. Especially since tonight my meditation teacher (yes, I know, how very LA of me) told me I'm a spiritual healer. Hmm. I think that trumps art teacher?

Chips and a Cocaine With That?

Have you heard of this?

I was watching some primetime show or other a couple nights ago, when the news began its promos to lure me in. Their big tag for the night was "Would you drink Cocaine?" Um - wha? As previously blogged, I have this huge fear of all things sniffed up my nose/cocaine-related, so I was immediately suspect of this "legal alternative" to the stuff.

I tracked down their website and seriously - what a hilarious/disturbing concept. It's an energy drink with something like 3 or 4 times the amount of caffeine found in a cup of coffee, holds a warning for pregnant chicks, and features a numbing (?!) substance that coats the back of your throat to simulate the drug's effects. Okay - really? True, I was fascinated by those Cool Caplets that Tylenol sold (sells?) that created an "instant cooling sensation" down my throat. But - it wasn't trying to simulate the effects of an illegal substance and it wasn't trying to numb me for God's sake.

I also love how there's a link on the website to "Charities", listing AA etc. as if this product is really helping the cause. Get out of rehab and pick up a Cocaine; maybe rehabs will even distribute them upon discharge! Why not? The sad imitation probably won't leave you wanting the real stuff or anything.

Oh, and that letter newly posted on the site by the founder is something to behold. I realize that I, too, added to the "overloading of the server", but isn't there something ridiculous about posting a letter to clamoring fans of an energy drink? All that being said, will someone please try this and let me know how it goes? I don't do the whole numbing thing, but it sounds like lots of other people will...? Thanks.

Hugs and Milkshakes

You know those defining moments with a new friend when you know it's either thumbs up or all down hill from here? I had one of those with my new roommate last night when I invited her to a movie premiere event the magazine hooked me up with. It was for a documentary about this crazy Indian woman (okay, and saint) named Ammah, who hugs everyone. The movie was made by these French dudes who barely spoke English, but found it appropriate to stand before us all and give a big speech about the film. My roommate and I sat in stony silence. The movie began, and at first it was sort of interesting. Disturbing, but interesting. But after an hour and a half of the same fugging hugging scene, all I could think about was finding a bathroom, a cheeseburger, and my bed, in that order. She and I kept sneaking looks at each other to see what the other thought, but no one was giving it up. What if the other one was all about India (like I used to be), all about the hugs?

It wasn't until the very end, when we were forced to sit through 20 minutes of French credits in complete darkness, when we gripped each other's arms in shared despair, that we knew we were on the same page. When we started giggling it was all over; we couldn't stop. People stared, people judged, but the dam had been broken.

We finally escaped the whole affair and ran down Hollywood Boulevard to her car and our freedom. We agreed this had been a crucial test and we had both passed. The deal was further sealed when we shouted "Milkshake!" in almost perfect unison as we spotted McDonald's. Ah, bliss.

(Broken Down) Streetcar

I am not Blanche DuBois, and I do not like to depend on the kindness of strangers.

Last night in a parking garage, upon returning from San Francisco, I found my battery dead. This was clearly my fault, since I'd left the lights on for three straight days, but I still felt very sorry for myself. I was alone, it was late, I was on the open, abandoned roof of a garage, and my car was broken. And I really had to pee. Just as the lip started to quiver, I saw a car drive past me, and down the ramp towards the exit. Without thinking, I sprinted after it. (Sidenote. Me running = not a pretty sight.) Like that creepy dude from the one ghost story my mom knew, the one with the hook who stalks couples making out, I frantically rapped on the side of their car. After they recovered, they turned the car around and helped me jump the battery. It was nice of them and I was grateful, but being friendly and thankful at 11:30 p.m. is not my idea of a good time.

Then came this morning. I packed my little lunch, picked out my cute little outfit, and bounced down the street to my car. Some days I actually look forward to work, and today was one of them. Until I turned the key and nothing happened. Had I left the lights on again?! Nope. It was just dead and dead. Who'd I get to jump it this time? I jogged down to a group of construction workers (cuz who doesn't want to stop and chat with them, really?) and pouted my lip in a way I hoped was pitiful/alluring. My luck had run out. No, they didn't have the cables, no they couldn't help me. Ugh. Even worse than putting myself out there is putting myself out there and getting rejected. It was time to surrender; I shuffled back to my car and called Triple A.

After a couple fun rides there and back, jam packed with awkward small talk, riding high in the tow truck, I'm at home and my car is in the shop. It'd been nagging me with a couple of other problems too, so it's getting a full makeover. I won't get into the office today, but I'll try to get as much done as I can from here. Just as soon as Ellen is over...