But I like it here....

Dan over at [redacted] recently wrote a post about moving back to New York City after living in Miami for a few years. I left the following comment about my fear one day moving back home:

Glad you're back. However I must say, being a born-and-bred New Yorker who moved to warmer climates myself, this worries me. Does this mean I'll end up moving back to the snow and sleet, too? Is every New Yorker's inevitable plight to move someplace awesome and warm, only to realize how much they miss the En Why See? Because I really, REALLY like it here in San Diego. :-/

Here is his response:

Put it this way, Danielle. If New York and San Diego were people, New York would be Jon Hamm and San Diego would be a Jonas Brother, and when the Jonas Brother saw Jon Hamm hanging out all nonchalantly on the street corner he'd be like, "What are you doing, Jon Hamm?" and Jon Hamm would be like, "Just waiting for you to fuck it up, Jonas Brother."

All I have to say is this: if San Diego somehow stops being awesome, or if I ever tire of wearing flip-flops to work (whichever comes first), and this results in me moving back to New York, Don Draper better have an affair with me.

Choosing my words carefully

I live in San Diego where the weather is warm and the sun is out and I can wear flip-flops 300 days out of the year. Most all of my friends and family are on the East coast, where they were just hit with feet of snow and will likely suffer through at least 2 more months of below-freezing temperatures. This makes for awkward conversation when my mom calls and asks me what I'm doing. Because I don't want to lie to her, but at the same time, I don't want to tell her that I'm sitting outside sipping champagne and enjoying brunch on the patio of a nice restaurant.... that would just be mean. So how do I handle this situation? By downplaying it:

Mom: Hi babe, how are you? What are you doing?
Me: I'm good. We're... uh... sitting outside, nothing special.
Mom: How is the weather? Is it nice out?
Me: Uh, yeah. It's in the 70's. Which is a nice change, because it rained here all last week.
Mom: The 70's? Really? Ugh. It's 34 and snowing here. AGAIN.
Me: Aw man, that sucks. But at least the snow is pretty, right?
Mom: Yeah, until I have to dig my car out of it.
Me: Uh... well....
Mom: So what's the temperature there?
Me: Um.. 72 I think?
Mom: Aaahh!! Are you wearing a t-shirt and flip-flops?
Me: Yeah, but it's the first time I've gone out without a sweater in weeks.
Mom: A sweater?! I've been wearing my winter coat for 3 months already! I am so jealous.

And so it goes. No matter how much I downplay it, my mother will always assert that I have it better out here than she has it back home. Until I remind her that she gets to snuggle up with this every night:

Why he's so rad

Six months ago, right when we started dating, I mentioned in passing that I'd never had flowers sent to my office before. Thursday afternoon I came back from lunch and found this on my desk.




He is awesome =)

It's been a long, long time

For those of you who still have me in your "blogs I'm following" list, hi! And welcome back! For those of you who have taken me off your list, well you're probably not reading this anyway. So =P

It's been a while, I know. I promised (twice) to start writing this blog thing again, and both times I broke my promise. It's just that things got so busy so fast, I barely had time to sleep let alone update a website. I know, I suck. So how's about no more promises? Much like starting a new relationship, let's just see where things go from here.

I think I mentioned in some previous posts that I finally made my life-long dream of moving to California come true. Too much time has passed to get into an in-depth discussion about the past six months, so let's pick up where we should've left off....



....with this season of LOST. I am not loving it. Maybe I need to watch each episode twice like I did last season. Maybe I need to sit back and just let it happen without reading too much into it. (HA!) Or maybe I've just grown out of the show.

My main complaint is that after 5 years of messing with our heads and constantly adding new characters and storylines without reconciling previous ones, they've yet again added a whole new twist. IN THE LAST SEASON. Aren't they supposed to be tying up loose ends at this point? Who is this Asian leader and what does he want with the Losties? How long have he and his people (and the temple) been there? How does this plot line tie in with the history of the show and the island? How does it tie in with the whole parallel universe thing they've got going on?

I was all prepared to spend 16 episodes being shocked and amazed and saying stuff like, "Ooohh NOW I get it!" But instead, I've spend the last 3 (has it been three? I've lost count already) being annoyed and bored. Don't get me wrong, I will still watch every episode and analyze the crap out of it with Red as we sit on the couch sipping wine. But the less interesting it gets, the more wine I will drink. And considering the amount of wine I already drink, more is definitely not good.

LOST: Please go back to be interesting. My Tuesday nights (and ability to function on Wednesday morning) depend on it.

Pros and cons of living in a gay neighborhood

Pro: Everything is better. The food and service in restaurants, the quality and selection in grocery stores, the friendliness of merchants, EVERYTHING.
Con: The staff constantly hits on your boyfriend.

Pro: Houses and lawns are well-maintained, and the trash is always taken out and sorted properly.
Con: The bums know this and go through all the trash cans in your alley.

Pro: Small children are few and far between, as are loud football parties.
Con: Brunch establishments are packed on the weekends.

Pro: Everyone has a dog.
Con: They're usually small and yappy and poop on your grass.

Pro: Cars are kept clean and with minimal obnoxious flair.
Con: Cars are washed by flamboyant shirtless men (not so much a con) who blast techno music at 8am on Sunday morning (definitely a con).

Pro: Everyone is super nice and friendly.
Con: They Constantly. Hit on. Your boyfriend.

The Wedding, Part 2

Last we heard about The Wedding, the girls were on their way into the church to meet the boys for some aisle-walkin'. That part went off without a hitch; even the 3-year old ring bearer and his little flower girlfriend did their parts and walked hand-in-hand down the aisle. And it was just as adorable as you might think.

Aside from one minor trip over a chair at the alter, the reading I gave at the church (from my iPhone) went well. The groom kissed the bride and we all cheered and clapped and took a thousand and one pictures. Including this one:

Told you they were as adorable as you thought they were ;-)

The limo ride to the reception was.... well, I'm not allowed to talk about the limo ride to the reception. Just know that there was a lot of drinking and personal picture-taking involved. And that it was F-U-N!!!

So we get to the reception hall and we're all nice and toasty, ready for some more boozin' and dancin' and actin' a fool. We hover outside of the hall while all the guests file in, and stop every single server on his or her way out that has even the slightest bit of food left on their serving tray. (We were HUN-GOR-AY!!) As we're milling about aimlessly, Cousin Dee (not to be confused with Me Dee) ushers a very frantic looking woman into the hallway. This woman is clearly upset and begins to talk a bit of smack about another family member, something about someone's husband and who has to stay away from him and some how someone told someone else to keep her hands of him, whoever "him" is. Very confusing. Very agitated. I thank God the bride is not around to witness it. This woman eventually calms down, and someone finally tells us to just go inside and eat, that it'll be at least an hour before the DJ introduces us. So we do.

Then we go back out and dance our way inside. Every couple does a funny dance on their way in, except that the best man and I have decided that he's going to carry me in. Which actually turns out to be pretty funny, because the best man is a 300-pound black man that looks sort of like the Notorious B.I.G., and I am a 125-pound (shut up, I'm estimating) white girl dressed in an elaborate bridesmaid gown and holding flowers. Oh, and he carries me out to Don't Stop Believin'. True story!!

So at this point in the festivities, the bride and groom have danced their first dance and my BFF Caila (hi Caila!!) take this opportunity to go use the ladies room. We walk out into the hallway and are confronted by 6 or 7 servers, 2 managers with headsets, and a flurry of wedding guests. We see 2 children crying in a coat closet and someone trying to console them. The entrance to the patio is being blocked by a member of the catering staff, and we have no idea what the frack is going on. We look out onto the patio and see two females, one of which is the agitated lady from earlier, being held back by a dude, while another lady is being held back by someone else. They are clearly involved in some sort of altercation. Just as we begin to understand the situation, I see blue and red flashing lights. In what probably took all of 10 seconds, the following happened: a manager in a headset pushed his way through the crowd gathering in the hallway yelled at everyone to clear out and refuses to let anyone in from or out to the patio; a wedding guest claiming to he a police officer (who actually is) tries unsuccessfully to push his way outside to help, and become increasingly angry when no one lets him through--they eventually let him through; the bride's brother and his girlfriend try to exit the hall and are frantically pushed back inside by Caila and myself, but when the girlfriend insists she has to pee (poor girl, she'd been holding it for hours!), we have to let her through and explain that there is a fight taking place on the patio outside, and please don't tell the bride or groom. At this point, 6 uniformed police officers and 2 undercover cops have congregated on the patio of this restaurant. The uniformed officers try to enter the building and are politely asked not to, with pleadings of, "Come on guys, this is a wedding. We don't need the bride to find out about this. They're inside having a good time, they just danced their first dance. Let's not make this worse. Can we keep it outside?" (I fully admit to being one of the first people to say those words.) At first, the officers get all "who the fuck do you think you are, I'm a cop and there's been an altercation, I can do whatever I want," but then an undercover agent comes over and makes the same argument that this is a wedding, let's keep it down, and the police take care of the situation outside.

Phew. It seems to be over.

But it's not. Before we can say, "Oh good, let's not tell the bride or groom about this," the groom comes flying around the other side of the patio, clearly upset. And I'm using that term very lightly. He was mad. Fuming, in fact. And rightly so. He has a few choice words for the ladies involved in the fight (who, let's just say, should've been acting with the utmost class and respect considering their relation to the bride and groom), throws his jacket on the floor, and storms out of the restaurant. Both his father and I chase him down the street until I realize I'm the one in 4 inch heels. So I stop running and go back inside to do damage control. Caila and I are both very hush-hush about the situation, downplaying it as much as we can, giving as little detail as possible. The groom comes back inside smiling, and it seems as though his father has calmed him down. The party continues. The bride at some point comes over to my table and casually asks, "Soooo.... how many people saw the fight? Who else knows the cops were called? Come on, you can tell me. I can take it. I've been drinking since this morning."

Aaah, what a wedding. The rest of it went off without a hitch. I gave my speech, we all danced and ate, I nearly suffocated in my dress, my cousin got naked in the bathroom because of a Spanks malfunction, and we all agreed that it was a night to remember.

Winter

I think I was born with thin blood. Or at least some sort of condition that renders me incapable of ever getting warm. Because even when it's 72 degrees outside, the slightest breeze will make me shiver.

It's been about 65-70 degrees during the day here in San Diego, and that's perfectly fine with me. But it goes down to around 57 at night and holy crap, am I freezing. Last night I slept in pajama pants, a t-shirt and sweatshirt, and under a "level 4" down comforter and I was STILL COLD. I wear a sweater and a pea coat to work every day, and still bring a scarf or wrap to drape around my shoulders. Even though I can wear flip flops to my office, I've opted for boots the past two weeks. Because once my feet start getting cold, then my hands start to feel it, and before I know it, I'm curled up in a ball under my desk basking in the warm air coming from my computer.

And the funny thing is that I've always been this way. San Diego didn't "get to me" or "thin my blood" as some like to joke. I was always the first one to wear my winter coat and the last one to ever leave the house without a sweater, even in the dead of summer. Because you know how cold it gets in those air conditioned stores......

So I ask you, Internet: WTF? Why am I so damn cold? I moved from the frigid home of the Nor'easter that is New York, to a desert on the ocean where the temperature is a constant 60-80, and I still can't shake the cold. Are there others like me? Do YOU turn the heat on in October like I do? Some support would be nice here.

As per your requests

Mrs. Mia Wallace.

I can't argue with that

Boss's wife: So what were you for Halloween?
Me: Uma Thurman from Pulp Fiction. I had a syringe sticking out of chest and blood coming out of my nose and a black wig. It was pretty cool.
Other attorney in office: I love it!! Did you carry around bags of heroin too?
Me: Nah. I thought that given the profession I've chosen to embark upon, that might not be appropriate.
Other attorney: Oh, so.... coke?

5 new reasons why San Diego is awesome

1. I can wear jeans and flip-flops to work every day. (At least at this job.)
2. Bringing your dog into work is not uncommon.
3. Saying you work "downtown" here is not the same as saying you work downtown in New York in that your commute isn't 2 hours long.
4. Burritos.
5. Beer. San Diego was recently voted the #1 city in America for beer.

Wedding, Part I

My best friend got married a few weeks ago and I was the maid of honor. It was an awesome weekend filled with car towing, scotch drinking, falling, fighting, dancing, and police intervention. Let's recap that weekend, shall we?

Wednesday morning, 8am: Rad Boyfriend and I walk out of my house in San Diego and realize my car is not where I left it. I call the police and they inform me that it's been towed. After 2 hours of phone calls, emails, faxes and tears, RB drives me to work, picks me up later, then drives me to the airport. And all without complaint.

Wednesday night, 11pm: My red-eye to NY is full, RB comes back to the airport to pick me up.

Thursday morning, 4:45am: Cab comes to pick me up and drive me to the airport, where I am told the chances of getting on a flight are slim. I somehow get to Atlanta, and then to NY.

Thursday afternoon: Exhausted and hungry, I arrive at what used to be my childhood home, but is now virtually a brand new house--new kitchen, new bathroom, new floors, new windows, new cabinets, new everything. I am immediately put to work cleaning.

Friday morning: I walk downstairs in my robe and nearly give our contractor a heart attack as he looks awkwardly at my mother, then back to me, then decides the best thing to do is to turn his body completely away from me. Laughter ensues. More cleaning. I spend 3 hours at the DMV. I come home, eat, and resume cleaning the house in preparation for the 20 people we will have over before the wedding the next day. Meanwhile, back in San Diego, Extremely Rad Boyfriend is at the tow yard with the million documents I've sent him, getting my car back for me. (Have I mentioned how awesome he is?)

Friday evening, 9:30pm: Exhausted and filthy, I go get my nails done and practically fall asleep in the pedicure chair. Chinese food at my house with the bridesmaids, all of whom are sleeping over, makes me so tired that I can't keep my eyes open. We finally all get to bed at midnight.

Saturday morning, the big day: I wake up to find that everyone else has been up for over an hour and a half. I take a shower and rush to the salon where everyone is getting their hair and makeup done. We spend 3 hours getting washed, blown, straightened, curled, sprayed, brushed, lined, and photographed. Back at the house, the bride's family arrives as the 7 girls try to get ready in 2 bedrooms. It is a veritable mess of safety pins, hair spray, tears, mascara, tape, heels, bags, bobby pins, and people. People everywhere: photographer people, bridesmaid people, family people, little people (as in children, I wasn't that lucky!!) and more People.

Saturday afternoon: It's pouring rain. The bride is surprisingly calm about all the People and photographers and big wet drops falling from the sky. As the 3pm hour of the ceremony draws near, the People start to leave. We receive multiple phone calls from the groom telling us that the wedding before theirs is running super late, and not to leave yet. Learning that we have at least another 20 minutes, the bride hitches up her skirt and goes upstairs to collect her belongings. She returns with 3 bags on each arm and a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue, which she proceeds to drink straight from the bottle. We look around nervously for the photographer. The limo driver is waiting patiently under an umbrella in the pouring rain. We get the call that it's ok to leave, and we get on our way. The limo driver takes us one by one from the front door in the pouring rain and into the waiting limo--the limo that has marble floors. As everyone steps in with their heels, one by one we trip and fall. Hilarity ensues. The limo driver begins to pull away when I remember I've forgotten my speech, the reading I'm supposed to do in church, on the kitchen table. In a series of awkward turns that sends all of us flying around the back of the limo, we get back to my house.... only to find that someone has locked both doors (to which I have keys) and the screen door (to which I do not have a key.) "FUCK!" is the only thing I can say. Someone suggests I read the passage from my iPhone. "FUCK!" turns into "Fuck it." And that's what I end up doing.

In the next installment of this story, I will introduce to you the groomsmen, the priest, the catering staff at the reception hall, and the police.

To be continued.....

One of those rare moments when it makes perfect sense after the fact

Regarding the neighbors' cat

Me: What color was it?
Rad Boyfriend: I dunno, cat-colored.
Me: Like orange?
RB: No. Like.... dark.
Me: Black?
RB: Eehhhh... no, not exactly.
Me: So brown?
RB: Ya sure, it had brown it in.

The next day, said cat walks past us on the walkway.

RB: See? Cat-colored!
Me: Oooohh... yeah, I see what you mean now.

How to annoy me, alley edition

The alleyway is a new concept for me. Aside from college, I've never lived on a block that had an alley in (on?) it. And even in college, the alley was 10 floors down and on the other side of the building. So moving into a house that is not only directly on the alley, but having my bed mere feet from it, is a bit disconcerting. I'm not used to hearing the whispered conversations of couples that walk past my window at all hours of the night, or the loud cell phone conversations, or the barking dogs, or loud diesel truck engines at 4am, or the bums with shopping carts that troll the garbage cans on trash day. No, I'm not used to all that noise. And I don't like it. Some might even say it annoys me.

That front corner of the house right there, that's where my bed is. See how long that alleyway is? Do you know how many cars drive up and down that alley every day? Many.

String of bad luck

So I mentioned yesterday that my car got towed a little while back. While I'd like to say that it was a freak, one-time incident, and that my bad luck ended right there, I can't say that. Because it's not true. Oh so ever not true.

Let's backtrack to around the end of September. I knew I was flying home on September 30th for my best friend's wedding, the wedding in which I was the maid of honor, the wedding for which the entire bridal party was getting ready at my family's newly-renovated house. (By the way, a contractor who stays until 11 o'clock at night the day before the wedding to finish the job is an awesome contractor.) I knew I would be crazy-busy before and after the big weekend, so I set up some automated online bill payments so that I wouldn't have to worry about them. But instead of withdrawing the money from my account 2 days after payday like it was supposed to, the bill processing website withdrew the funds my account that day--leaving me with a negative balance for over a week. Awesome.

The wedding weekend was a lot of fun, but that's a story in itself. It involves rain, getting locked out of my house, tripping on marble floors in the limo, reading a speech in church off an iPhone, the bride downing Johnny Walker Blue mere minutes before walking down the aisle, and 10 police officers showing up to the reception. Again, awesome. But let's move in to the next bit of bad luck....

The day I was supposed to leave for the wedding weekend, Rad Boyfriend and I step out of my house and stop short, both wondering the same thing: where is my car? "I parked right in front of you last night," Rad Boyfriend says. "I thought so, too," I reply. In short, my car-- with New York license plates, registered to my father, and with a registration that expired THAT DAY--was towed to a lot that wouldn't release it to me without a) a notarized letter from my dad releasing it to me, b) a current registration, and c) $470. Yeah. More awesomeness. Luckily, Rad Boyfriend stepped in and helped with that situation BIG TIME. But still... not a great experience.

I won't regal you the tales of my stand-by travel nightmares, as you can read about them here and here. I'll just tell you that I didn't make it on a total of 7 flights that weekend.

So I finally get back to The Diego on Sunday night after the wedding. I go to work the next day, and all is well. And then Tuesday morning I'm driving to work when all of a sudden, my car just turns off in the middle of the freeway. The RPM's go all the way to zero, and just as I start to pull over, all the lights on the dashboard come on, the steering wheel locks, and the car just shuts off. In the middle of 6 lanes of traffic going 80 miles per hour. Talk about scary. I manage to pull over to the shoulder, then get the car started while on the phone with AAA. I bring it to the shop the next morning, and luckily it's nothing major--but it's still gonna cost me $200. Awesome, right?

So amidst all the drama, I'm on the phone with my mom, crying about all this money I've had to spend, sobbing that I can't afford all these unexpected expenses, when I suddenly remember: my car insurance (paid biannually, not monthly) is due next month. ANOTHER $370 down the toilet. Fuck me.

Luckily nothing terrible has happened since realizing that over $1,000 will be debited from my bank account in the first two days of November (ah, how I love paying rent).... but I'm keeping my guard up. With my luck lately, I wouldn't be at all surprised if I broke a mirror while walking under a ladder and watching a black cat cross my path.

I'm back

So I know it's been a while, and that I promised to be back sooner than now. But dammit, life got in the way!!

For those of you who still follow what I'm up to, I moved to the City of Awesome (aka San Diego) about 3 and a half months ago. And life has been been pretty fantastic ever since. I moved into a cute little craftsman bungalow with the famous Red, but not after living with the famous Liz for about a month. (A million public thanks to Lizard and her man Nick. Without them, I would've had to share space with strangers. And who wants that?) In summary, here's what I've been doing for the past few months:

• I went and found myself a man of the Rad variety (rather, he found me);
• I kicked some ass at Monday Night Trivia;
• My car got towed and I had to pay a buttload of money to get it out;
• I've flown to New York and/or the British Virgin Islands for various wedding commitments once a month since I moved;
• I've spent many hours at various establishments that serve alcohol all over San Diego, including Petco Park and the homes of many friends;
• I've generally enjoyed the good life.

In closing, I'd just like to say that happiness is definitely not overrated. You just can't stop believin'.

More to follow....

Mea Cupla

I know, I know. It's been way too long. My sincerest apologies for the extended hiatus in posting. I swear there's a good reason for it. Well several, actually--the biggest of which is that I moved across the country and needed some time to adjust.

.............

Adjustment period over! Expect regular posting to commence after this weekend. In the meantime, here's a picture of Lady Gaga. With Kermit The Frog all over her.

Creepster.

The hands-down absolute worst travel experience of my entire life ever

WARNING! Contains expletives, harsh language, and the angry rantings of a lifetime airport dweller!

So by now, you all know that my mom works for Delta Airlines and I usually fly standby. Remember last Christmas when I was whining about some past travel nightmares? Well it was all a lie. Every single last detail. I redact, recant, and re-remove everything I ever said about any of this nonsense being my worst travel experience ever. This weekend was hands-down my favorite worst time traveling on standby ever. I know my mom has worked for them for 25 years, but I have to say: Delta Airlines can kiss my shockingly white ass.

FRIDAY

6:30AM: Set out for JFK Airport with every intention of getting on overbooked 8:30 flight to San Diego.

8:30: I don't get on the flight, but my luggage does.

9:00: Mom says to try 9:30 flight to Salt Lake City and make connection there.

9:30: Flight to Salt Lake City is overbooked--the Mormons don't want me, either.

9:35: Set out for La Guardia Airport with every intention of getting on overbooked flight(s) to Atlanta.

10:50: 10:55 Flight to Atlanta is oversold by 20, I am number 33 on the standby list.

10:55: I am now number 34 on the standby list.

10:56: I give up and walk to the next gate for the 11:55 flight.

11:50: Flight is oversold by 19, I am number 37 on the standby list.

11:55: Flight leaves with all standby passengers still standing by. I walk to the next gate for the 12:55 flight.

12:15PM: Wait with 200 people in a hot, overcrowded terminal with God knows how many other passengers trying to get on the 12:55 flight to Atlanta.

12:30: Mom suggests I keep waiting to get on a flight to Atlanta. I ask mom how the flights out of Atlanta to San Diego look. Mom says "not good." I ask what my chances are of even getting to Atlanta today. Mom says "not good." I ask mom how the 7:30 flight to San Diego out of JFK looks tonight. Mom says, "Overbooked by 20 with 19 standby's."

12:35: I make the executive decision that it's time to quit this bitch and go home.

1:00: Awesome Cousin picks me up at airport and we spend the day shopping and eating Chinese food.

8:30pm: Receive frantic phone call from mom that the 7:30 flight to San Diego out of JFK has been delayed to 10pm because of thunderstorms, that there are 14 seats open, and that if I rush, I can make it.

9:00: Arrive at airport and attempt to check in, only to have the kiosk tell me to see an agent. Line to see agent is 100-deep. I use Delta lingo to get agent to help me and cut line. I get dirty looks from other passengers. I don't give a damn.

9:30: Get to gate. Flight is delayed until 10:15. Look for outlet to charge my dying phone; find none.

10:15: Flight is now delayed until 11:00.

11:00: Flight is now delayed until 11:15.

11:15: Departure gate is changed to an entirely different terminal and delayed until midnight.

FUCK. MY. LIFE.

11:45: A/C is on full blast at new gate, tired children are crying, creepy air marshal is giving me the side-eye because I keep opening my suitcase to put more clothes on. I am hungry, aggravated, frustrated, and exhausted beyond words. Look for outlet to charge my dying phone; all are taken.

12 midnight: Flight is canceled.

12:01AM: I lose my shit and start to cry.

12:02-12:15: I desperately call my mother to come pick me up, but she doesn't hear the phone.

12:30: I take a $35 cab ride home.

1:00: I walk into my house and scare my mother half to death. I tell her that I'll go to work with her tomorrow at 6am and try again to get on that day's Atlanta flight(s). She says not to bother, as 3 Atlanta flights were canceled that night due to weather and all those bitches would be on the AM flights. I secretly thank God that I get to sleep for more than 5 hours and go to bed.

SATURDAY

6:22AM: I receive a frantic call from my mother that they've added a second morning flight to San Diego that has 45 empty seats, and that if I rush, I can make the 8:30am flight.

6:24: I cautiously call my awesome cousin and beg her to drive me to JFK. Because she's so awesome, she not only agrees, but gets us there in less than 20 minutes.

7:30: Arrive at JFK and warn Awesome Cousin that even though there are 45 empty seats on the extra 8:30 flight, not to leave the airport.

7:40: Attempt to check in and have the stupid kiosk tell me to see an agent AGAIN.

7:45: Call mom in a panic.

7:50: Mom tells me extra 8:30am flight to San Diego is canceled.

7:51: REALLY lose my shit and start to sob.

7:55: Mom tries in vain to calm me down and tells me to get to LaGuardia in time to try and get on 11am flight.

8:00-9:00: Awesome Cousin and I get breakfast and watch Michael Jackson videos on MTV.

9:30: Arrive at LaGuardia and have kiosk tell me to see an agent.

9:31: I smack the kiosk.

9:35: I call mom and she gets an agent to check me in manually and bring me my boarding pass. More dirty looks from other passengers. Still don't give a damn.

10:30: After waiting in the security line for an hour, I get to gate and see that I am number 42 on the standby list. Mom tells me to come upstairs to the control tower where she works and wait with her.

View from control tower

10:45-2pm: Watch flight after flight take off (literally) without the same 20-30 standby passengers still waiting to get on a flight, any flight.

2:05: Mom suggests I find another airline and buy a ticket.

2:10: Non-stop flight from JFK to San Diego on Jet Blue at 6:35 this evening is booked, hassle-free.

2:30-4:00: Go home, shower, relax, go back to airport.

4:30: Arrive at JFK, check in at the kiosk hassle-free, wait 10 hassle-free minutes in a short security line, and proceed to Jet Blue terminal, otherwise known as Heaven on Earth.

5:00: I purchase a turkey sandwich on whole wheat bread and caramel popcorn, walk 20 feet to gate, and sit at internet depot where I am currently enjoying free Wi-Fi and a plethora of outlets for my electronics.

Number of failed flights: 12
Number of hours attempting to travel: 36
Number of suitcases that left without me: 2
Number of times I will ever consider flying standby if I can afford a real ticket: ZERO.

Words cannot express...

...how much you girls mean to me. For seventeen years we've cried on each other's shoulders, made each other laugh, and have been there for each other in more ways than I can count. I have never in my life met another group of women who have the history, the bond, and the love that we have for each other. Don't for a second think that I can ever forget how much you guys mean to me. Without you, I wouldn't be me.

My girls, I will love you forever!!

Packing can kiss my ass

I hate packing. From hauling the suitcase up from the basement to sitting on it to close the zipper (and inevitably having to remove stuff), I despite every part of it. I know things are little different this time, since I'm packing EVERYTHING I OWN. But still I've done it enough time to know that I can't stand:

1. Choosing a suitcase size. One would assume that factors like length of trip and weather at destination would determine what size suitcase to pack, but you know what they say about assuming. Suitcase size is actually determined by gender of traveler, how many activities (read: outfit changes) will be required, and how many shoes she has. And just when you think you can get away with nothing but your bathing suit and some flip-flops, someone mentions a boat cruise and a volcano and you've broken out the closet on wheels.
   
2. Planning what to pack. This essentially requires that you plan out all of your outfits in advance--you can't just throw a bunch of random stuff together and hope some of it matches. When I think about what to pack, my inner dialogue usually goes something like this: "I want that red top, but I need pants to match, and those shoes would go really great, but then I need something else that matches the shoes because it's silly to bring shoes that only go with one outfit, so what about that brown top, and then which pants go with it...." Repeat seventeen times.
   
3. The laundry. How many times have I put a load in the machine, continued packing, and forgotten all about the mound of clothes coming out of the dryer? Too many. Just when I think to myself, "This suitcase isn't spilling over! Score!," a ding comes from the basement and I want to throw everything out the window.
4. Leaving out what you need until the day you go. This is how I manage to forget either my glasses, my pajamas, my hair dryer, or my toothbrush one out of every five times I travel. Did you know hotels charge $6 for toothbrushes? Word to the wise: leave a spare one in your toiletry bag.
   
5. The mess is creates. There is nothing more annoying than tripping over an open suitcases in the middle of your bedroom floor. Or looking for something that you've already packed. Or wearing something you haven't worn since 2002 to run errands because all your "good" clothes are already packed.
   
6. Forgetting something and trying to shove it in at the last minute. I am famous for forgetting to put my toiletry bag in my suitcase until the very end, until I've arranged everything perfectly and created minimal wrinklage. And then comes this gigantic bag the size of a milk carton looking to make its way into my luggage and I have to move everything around and leave a pair of shoes behind to make room. And of course those are the ONE pair of shoes that match that red top.....
7. Unpacking. Be honest: how long do you usually leave your suitcase full of dirty laundry sitting in your hallway before you unpack it? Two days? Three? My stuff usually sits around so long that every article of clothing goes straight into the washing machine. Just be careful not to wash your souvenirs... broken seashells and satin nightgowns don't mix very well. Trust me.

I leave for the City of Awesome tomorrow evening and I can't wait!! I hear San Diego is German for... [5 points to the first person who answers that question correctly].

7 things I'm glad I didn't do before turning 27

See #6 for explanation

1. Get a real job. Sure, I've been a manager at a retail store, but that was only part time. Yes I've argued in front of judges and interviewed convicted felons behind bars, but I wasn't getting paid for it. I start my first real (read: actually means something to me) job in a little over a week and I'm actually excited. I'm not sure I could've said the same three years ago.
2. Get married*. Or engaged. Or settle down. Or really do anything that would involve having to check someone else's social calendar before making plans, or require me to share the remote with them. There's time for that, people.
3. Have a kid. Boy would that put a damper on my plans to drive all over California and drink wine every weekend for the next 3 years.
   
4. Travel abroad alone. I know that for some people this a cathartic, soul-freeing experience. But I think I'd just be really lonely and upset that I didn't have anyone to share it with. I mean, when you see a hooker dressed like Cher proposition a priest on the streets of Berlin, what do you do? Take a picture? Call your best friend even though it's 4am at home? I'd much rather turn to my travel companion and make a witty remark about believing in life after love...and death.
   
5. Make a purchase more significant than my car. Who needs that kind of debt? Oh wait, I forgot that I already owe close to $100K in student loans...
6. Die. If I have to go early, I want to at least join the 27 Club. And definitely not from death-by-fake-ceiling-collapse.
   
7. Be preoccupied with not having done the preceding things and mope about being too old**. Life is too dang short to whine about what you haven't accomplished or where you thought you'd be. As the cliche goes: life is what happens when you're busy making other plans. TRUTH!!!

*I own this t-shirt. Not kidding.
**This picture has nothing to do with anything but awesomeness.