Dear Somalia: Ur Doin It Wrong

September 19th may be Talk Like a Pirate Day, but in the last hour, two pirate-related things have made today my own personal Pirate appreciation day.

First was this video, in which Empire magazine (I've never heard of it, either) has arranged for a Goonies reunion.

This was one of my favorite movies growing up, and since I'll still watch it anytime it comes on basic cable, it's fair to say is one my favorite movies ever. I had a huge crush on Josh Brolin (well before he was Josh Brolin) and wanted to BE Kerri Green. I didn't want to be Andi, per se, rather some amalgamation of Andi and Kerri Green's character, Maggie, in Lucas. I have always wondered what happened to her, as she was one of the few stars in the movie that didn't go on to bigger things, but I can kind of appreciate the fact that she didn't work as an adult and I can therefore then always think of her as a charming teenager, someone whom I aspired to be.

Not five minutes after I finished watching the video, I decided to waste more time on Facebook, and discovered the new option of browsing like a Pirate.

Have you seen this, yet? Go down to the lower left hand corner on the homepage, and you'll see the language you are currently operating in. Click on that, then change it to English (Pirate). Arrgh! Now my homepage welcomes me with "Ahoy, there!", encourages me to "be mateys" with people I may know, and counts the time since I've updated my status in "shots of rum". As in, I updated my status 31 shots of rum ago.

That's MUCH more fun than the former option, and has given me faith in Facebook once again.

Hot, or not?

About three years ago, I bought what I thought was a really nice cardigan sweater from Armani Exchange. Made of a cream-colored cotton/wool/alpaca blend with leather piping, it was fairly expensive but super warm, and flattered much of my wardrobe. I've worn it dozens of times during the winters of 2007 and 2008.

This year, however, when I went to put it on, something looked different, off. I don't know if it was the length, the color, or the butterfly collar that had never bothered me before, but my former favorite suddenly looked less like a sweater and more like, well... more like a bathrobe.

Regretfully, it hasn't left my closet all this year, until today, when I decided to give it one final try. And while I don't know that it looks like I just rolled out of bed, something gave me pause enough to take a picture before I left the house.

Will you be the judge? Is this sweater stylish or schlumpy? Would you wear it out of the house? Or does it look like I've given up on life and should hide my face in a pint of Ben & Jerry's?

It's okay if you're leaning more towards "bathrobe." At least I'll have a costume for next Halloween. I think I'd make a decent Big Lebowski.

Like the Hamptons, for hipsters

The thermostat tells me that my apartment is currently hovering around 85 degrees, the air is thick and heavy and still, and I couldn't be more comfortable. I know that these temperatures and my lack of an air conditioner will annoy me in a month or so, but for now, after months of chillier temperatures (what? 60 is cold here), I'm welcoming this heavenly heat bath with wide open, sun-kissed arms.

This, of course, is nothing compared to the near 100 degree temperatures I enjoyed in Palm Springs this weekend, but that house was air conditioned, and should I schvitz anyway, it conveniently had a pool. Should the pool be too chilly for my delicate disposition, there was also a hot tub whose water was only slightly cooler than the delightful desert air.

I should clarify something from my last post. While I had said that I was going to Palm Springs for Coachella, I never actually made it to the music festival. The people we were staying with had tickets, and I had assumed we'd get some once we were there, but the draw of the house and the ease of the Palm Springs lifestyle overruled any desire to fight thousands of serious music fans for overpriced beer and portapotties. Don't get me wrong - I really would love to have gone. I think it's an experience worth having, if only for the bragging rights. But truthfully, my music tastes are much less sophisticated than that of the festival's many followers, and I was much happier dancing to Britney and Lady Gaga on repeat on the iPod back at home.

I'm sorry - did I call that house "home"?

To give you some background, I went with my friend Miya, this guy she has been seeing, and one of this guy's friends who was visiting from out of town. This was extremely convenient for me, as the guy I had been dating ended things a week earlier, so the only thing I was looking forward to more than a weekend away in the sun was a little male attention from someone who lived 2000 miles away. It was the perfect built-in date with no responsibilities or expectations.

Except that the guy turned out to be the definition of "dud". I don't know if his Wisconsin roots were too intimidated by the LA crowd partying up in Palm Springs, but he's the first person I ever met who actually got MORE awkward the more time went on. I only mention it here because he was the sole damper on my otherwise perfect weekend, and not just because he didn't humor my ego - he was a bit of a buzzkill all around. He didn't have any desire to get to know the group, and kept to himself for much of the trip. Literally. We went out for a few hours and he stared down at his lap the entire time. I don't know how anyone could have a bad time in such a beautiful setting, but I guess some people are more resourceful than others.

Fortunately for me, I packed my personality along with enough clothes and shoes to last me a week (still I get excited about being able to pack up my trunk and not being confined to what I can lug through Penn Station), so I made other friends and just soaked up the sun. My favorite pool float had a pillow and a cup holder, so I spent two hours Sunday morning/afternoon reclining in the water with a magazine and a bloody Mary, and when that ran out, a margarita.


My personality needed a break, by that point.

Exercising my options

His feet were bigger than my head.

I can say that with certainty since said feet were, for a large part of the class, less than two inches away from my face. While my triceps usually appreciate the challenge of holding a chaturanga, I've never taken such an excessively crowded yoga class until tonight. It's a credit to the instructor that I was centered enough not to feel claustrophobic, though it didn't hurt that the rest of Bigfoot was more than good-looking.

I've still been taking time off from running, but as of today, I'm faced with a small gym emergency. I'm taking a last-minute trip to Palm Springs this weekend for Coachella, which for most people is a music festival but for me is a chance to soak up the 100 degree desert sun in a bikini. People tell me that even I, sun worshipper that I am, will tire of the intense heat that's to come. I, however, know that I will be armed with supple Mediterranean skin and an endless supply of cocktail umbrellas, so I'm more worried about how I will look in the pool. Hence the new ticker to the right, which gives me four days to do 400 sit-ups. I did 100 tonight with no problem, and wonder if I underestimated my abilities. Then again, I haven't done a crunch in more than two weeks, so we'll see if I can even stand by Saturday.

Random Wednesday Goodness

Yep, still here! Not too much going on at the moment, but here's a brief update:

As you can see by the (expired) ticker in the upper right hand corner, I met my 40 mile cardio goal in March. To celebrate, I decided to take April off. Not from exercising completely, of course - do you not know me at all? - but from making cardio/running my main goal and reporting the progress here.

I have been setting these goals for myself since October, and, to be perfectly honest, I am thoroughly sick of the gym. I've been doing mad yoga (that's not like hot yoga or anything, just an enthusiastic way of saying I've been doing a lot of it), but otherwise, I can't bring myself to walk through the door. Now that it's getting nicer out, anyway, I'd rather bring my workouts outside, and I don't know if they make a ticker that would track my laps up and down the Santa Monica Stairs.

Despite my slacking, I'm not that worried about gaining weight, since, at three weeks into Invisalign, I've already seemed to have lost some. Only 2-3 pounds or so, but that's enough to keep me guilt-free until I consider re-starting the mileage goals in May. Of course, every time I stop working out I tend to lose a little weight, because muscle weighs more than fat. Unfortunately, muscle looks much better in a bathing suit.

Having nothing to do (well, having little to do) with the Ghost Cat, I decided to burn some sage throughout the apartment last week. It's supposed to be a spiritual cleanser, and, truthfully, I felt like my spirit could use some cleansing. So I bought a bundle of sage leaves, read up on how to burn them, and did so last Thursday night. Everyone always talks about burning sage to get rid of spirits and cleanse the soul. You know what no one tells you? That burning sage smells exactly like marijuana. Which I suppose wouldn't be a big deal to some people, but I don't like pot, and more than I don't like pot, I HATE the smell of smoke.

I don't like smoke or the smell of smoke coming within any discernible distance of me. My mom, who is a smoker, mailed me a book last week. It was a great book but I had to read the whole thing in the living room because I didn't want the pages - which still smelled of her Barclay 100's - within breathing distance of my sheets. And, now, here I was spreading what smelled like marijuana smoke all over my comforter, every item in my closet, and every nook and cranny of the house. Wearing my favorite dress that I had just brought back from the dry cleaners. I opened the windows as far as they would go, at which point I realized I was giving my neighbors totally the wrong impression. I'm not nearly that fun.

In any case, the whole time I burned the sage, I mentally told the Ghost Cat he could stay. I really kind of appreciated his presence.

The book, by the way, that my mom mailed me was Carrie Fisher's Wishful Drinking. It was cute, funny - all about her experiences growing up, living, and drinking in Hollywood. It was also a quick read - I read it in three hours one night - so it wasn't that big of a deal to have to read it on my couch.

After I finished that, I immediately started the Dooce book. Hilarious. Awesome. I highly recommend it. It's written in the same witty tone as her blog, but, as a story, is much more thorough and satisfying. I read a little bit each night, the whole time dreading the night it would be done. That night was Monday, so if you have any recommendations, please feel free to make them.

Finally, in case you were wondering, I decided not to take another class this quarter. The Humor Writing class that I wanted turned out not to be closed, but was canceled due to a personal issue with the instructor. None of the other writing classes really grabbed me, and, when I really thought about it, I didn't want to shell out money for tennis lessons -- I already know how to play. So, instead, I am actually attempting to enjoy this down time, reveling in the self-imposed slackdom from the gym, trying to reconnect with my friends and with myself. Doing a little spring cleaning for the soul.

Which, let's be honest, is much more fun than cleaning my apartment.

Blogger book tour, round two

One of the best things about living in Los Angeles - or any major city, for that matter - is that you have the chance to meet a lot of interesting people. Never mind the diversity of the city's inhabitants; talented people from all over consider LA a worthwhile stop on their publicity tour. And if you have the tenacity for sitting in rush hour traffic and paying by the meter on Sunset Boulevard, you, too, could be rubbing shoulders with your icons.

(I don't have either of the above, by the way. I'm guessing the economy is responsible for the recent lack of traffic, and the bookstore had a lot for free parking.)

But I would have sat through gridlock and risked a parking ticket tonight, if those were the hoops I had to jump through to meet Dooce. More than one of my favorite bloggers/writers, she is the person who (unwittingly) inspired this thing four years ago, and who I have held my own blogging/writing standards to ever since.

While traffic and parking were (relatively) easy, the actual set-up of the book signing was kind of a nightmare. When I went to Stephanie Klein's book signing last year, it was in a vast upstairs area roped off specifically for the guests; chairs and a large table were set up, and while I think there were so many guests that it became standing room only, even those standing guests could see the speaker.

Tonight's event was at a little nook of a store, with no common space for the reading, and, really, not a lot of space at all. I was claustrophobic just looking around. There was a podium set up in the corner, with six chairs in front of it. Six. For one of the biggest stars on the Internet. People started filling in the aisles, and ultimately had to crane their necks around the maze of bookshelves and tables just to catch a glimpse of the speaker. Which, for an hour, I would think would be annoying.

Because I was early (I'm ALWAYS early) I did get a good spot, right up front. If there was a fire in the building, I'd never have made it out of alive. The store manager actually introduced Heather by saying that they were pleased to disregard fire codes. But as soon as she started, the room filled with energy, and I was exactly where I wanted to be.